PLATFORM: FACEBOOK (GROUP: THE SURVIVORS' LOG)
USER: TYLER JORDAN (Administrator)
STATUS: ONLINE (Reading History)
BATTERY: 98% (Main Grid)
DATE: ONE YEAR POST-EVENT.
LOCATION: THE TECH HUB, NEW ARUSHA (FORMERLY POST OFFICE).
[Entry 7]
I start every morning the same way. Before I check the water levels in the aqueduct, before I inspect the bamboo walls, and before I drink my coffee, I check The Feed.
The "Survivors' Log" has grown. We have 500 members now. We have farmers in the Rift Valley, engineers in Nairobi bunkers, and fishermen on the untouched lakes of the interior. The network Baraka built—the "Arusha Mesh"—is holding. It's a thin web of radio waves bouncing off the ionosphere, connecting a broken continent.
But there is one user I read first.
Juma The Lion.
He is our ghost. He is the only active user in the Red Zone—the coastal region of Tanzania. He is trapped in Dar es Salaam, a city of five million ghosts. He hasn't left. He refuses to leave.
He posts once a day, usually at midnight when the atmospheric interference is low and the "Purple Tide" recedes. His posts aren't just status updates. They are horror stories. They are the only intelligence we have on the enemy that is growing in the East.
Today, I asked him the big question. The question everyone on the network has been afraid to ask.
Tyler Jordan:
Juma, we see the purple clouds rising over the Usambara Mountains. We see the birds dying mid-flight when they cross the eastern border. You have to tell us how it started. We need to know the symptoms. What happened on Day Zero?
He didn't reply for six hours. The cursor blinked on my screen, mocking me.
Then, the notification pinged. A long, continuous stream of data.
It wasn't a short message. It was a manifesto. A broken, terrified stream of consciousness typed on a cracked screen in a city that is literally dissolving.
I sat back in my chair, the hum of Baraka's servers filling the room, and I began to read the death of the coast.
[FACEBOOK THREAD: "THE SALT DAY"]
USER: Juma The Lion
LOCATION: Dar es Salaam (Kigamboni District)
TIME: 03:14 AM
YOU WANT TO KNOW. YOU SIT IN YOUR GREEN TREE HOUSE WITH YOUR COFFEE AND YOUR WALLS AND YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY THE OCEAN IS PURPLE.
OKAY. I TELL YOU.
IT WAS TUESDAY.
I WAS WORKING. DALADALA (BUS) CONDUCTOR. ROUTE GONGO LA MBOTO TO POSTA. THE BUS WAS FULL. SWEAT. CHICKENS. MAMA NTILIE SELLING NUTS THROUGH THE WINDOW. MUSIC LOUD. BONGO FLAVA BLASTING THE SPEAKERS.
WE WERE ON THE FERRY. THE KIGAMBONI FERRY.
YOU KNOW THE FERRY, TYLER? IT IS A METAL BOX FLOATING ON SHIT WATER. TWO THOUSAND PEOPLE. CARS BUMPER TO BUMPER. NO ROOM TO MOVE. NO ROOM TO BREATHE.
IT WAS HOT. NOT SUN HOT. OVEN HOT. THE AIR SMELLED LIKE BATTERIES. LIKE ACID.
THEN THE WATER LEFT.
IT DIDNT GO OUT LIKE A TIDE. IT FELL.
THE OCEAN FLOOR OPENED UP. THE WATER SUCKED DOWN. FOOOM.
THE FERRY DROPPED. IT DIDNT FLOAT DOWN. IT FELL 30 FEET INTO THE MUD.
THE SOUND WAS LIKE A BOMB. CARS SMASHED INTO EACH OTHER. THE BUS TIPPED OVER. PEOPLE SCREAMED. I HEARD BONES BREAKING.
I CRAWLED OUT THE WINDOW. I WAS CUT. BLOOD IN MY EYES.
I STOOD ON THE SIDE OF THE OVERTURNED BUS. I LOOKED AT THE MUD.
IT WASNT MUD. IT WAS MOVING. CRABS. MILLIONS OF CRABS. RUNNING AWAY FROM THE SEA. THEY KNEW.
THEN THE FOG CAME.
[Comment by Sarah_M (Nairobi)]: Fog? Like the spores? Is it biological?
Juma The Lion:
NO. NOT SPORES. SPORES ARE LIFE. SPORES GROW TREES. THIS WAS DEATH.
IT WAS PURPLE. THICK. HEAVY. IT CRAWLED OVER THE HARBOR WALLS. IT POURED INTO THE PIT WHERE WE WERE TRAPPED.
IT SMELLED LIKE IODINE. LIKE ROTTEN EGGS AND OLD BLOOD.
IT TOUCHED THE PEOPLE ON THE GROUND FIRST.
I WATCHED MY DRIVER. ABDI. GOOD MAN. HAD THREE KIDS. HE WAS STUCK IN THE STEERING WHEEL.
THE FOG TOUCHED HIS FACE.
HE DIDNT COUGH. HE BOILED.
WHITE CRYSTALS. FAST. SO FAST. THEY POPPED OUT OF HIS SKIN LIKE GLASS SHARDS. HIS EYES TURNED WHITE. HIS SKIN TURNED GREY. HARD. LIKE STONE.
HE SCREAMED. BUT THE SCREAM TURNED INTO A CRUNCH.
THE SALT CALCIFIED HIS THROAT.
HE FROZE. A STATUE OF SALT.
BUT HE WASNT DEAD.
HIS EYES MOVED. PURPLE LIGHT IN THEM.
THEN HE BROKE.
HIS LEGS SNAPPED TOGETHER. FUSED. HIS FINGERS GREW LONG. SHARP. LIKE KNIVES MADE OF DIAMOND. GILLS RIPPED OPEN ON HIS NECK.
HE LOOKED AT ME.
HE WASNT ABDI ANYMORE. HE WAS A SALT WALKER.
HE CLIMBED UP THE BUS. HE WANTED MY WATER. HE WANTED MY BLOOD. THE SALT MAKES THEM THIRSTY. SO THIRSTY.
I KICKED HIM IN THE FACE. IT WAS LIKE KICKING A BRICK WALL. I BROKE MY TOES.
HE GRABBED MY ANKLE. HIS HAND BURNED. CHEMICAL BURN. THE SALT EATS FLESH.
I HAD A LIGHTER. AND A BOTTLE OF KONYAGI (GIN) I STOLE FROM A PASSENGER.
I DIDNT DRINK IT. I SMASHED IT ON HIS HEAD. I LIT HIM.
FIRE.
THE SALT HATES FIRE.
IT POPPED. BANG BANG BANG. LIKE POPCORN.
ABDI EXPLODED. SHATTERED INTO PURPLE GRAVEL.
I RAN.
USER: Juma The Lion
TIME: 03:45 AM
I RAN ON THE ROOFS OF THE CARS. THE MUD WAS FULL OF THEM. THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE TURNING INTO MONSTERS.
THEY WERE DRAGGING THE OTHERS DOWN. DROWNING THEM IN THE PURPLE SLUDGE POOLS.
IF YOU GET DRAGGED DOWN, YOU DONT DIE. YOU CHANGE. YOU JOIN THE HIVE.
I CLIMBED THE FERRY TOWER. THE CONTROL ROOM.
I LOCKED THE DOOR. I TAPED THE WINDOWS WITH DUCK TAPE I FOUND.
I SAT THERE FOR A WEEK.
I WATCHED THE CITY DIE.
THE SKYSCRAPERS IN POSTA... THE SALT ATE THE CONCRETE. THEY CRUMBLED. DUST. THE CITY FELL DOWN LIKE SAND CASTLES. THE PURPLE TIDE ROSE AND COVERED THE RUBBLE.
NOW I LIVE ON THE ROOFS.
I JUMP FROM ROOF TO ROOF. I SLEEP IN WATER TANKS (PLASTIC ONES, THE SALT DOESNT EAT PLASTIC FAST, ONLY CONCRETE AND WOOD).
I EAT RATS. I EAT CANNED BEANS IF I FIND THEM.
BUT MOSTLY I HUNT.
I HUNT THE WALKERS. I BURN THEM.
TYLER. YOU ASKED WHAT HAPPENED.
THE OCEAN IS ALIVE. AND IT HATES US.
[Comment by Tyler Jordan]:
Juma, listen to me. You can't stay there. The structural integrity of the remaining buildings is zero. If the salt eats the rebar, the roofs will collapse. Come inland. Come to Arusha. We have walls. We can fight this.
Juma The Lion:
NO.
IF I LEAVE, WHO WATCHES THEM?
WHO COUNTS THEM?
THEY ARE MARCHING, TYLER.
YESTERDAY I SAW A LEVIATHAN.
IT WAS BIGGER THAN THE FERRY. IT WAS A WHALE, BUT ARMOR PLATED. IT HAD LEGS. SPIDER LEGS. IT WALKED OUT OF THE OCEAN AND CRUSHED THE NATIONAL STADIUM.
IT IS LAYING EGGS.
PURPLE EGGS THE SIZE OF CARS.
THEY ARE HATCHING.
AND THE NEW ONES... THEY DONT JUST WALK. THEY FLY.
WINGED SALT. LIKE LOCUSTS MADE OF GLASS.
THEY ARE HEADING WEST. TOWARD THE MOUNTAINS. TOWARD THE GREEN.
THEY HATE THE GREEN. THE GREEN IS WET. THE SALT WANTS DRY.
THEY ARE COMING FOR YOUR TREE, ENGINEER.
[Comment by Farm_Boy_88]:
Is this real? Flying glass locusts? That sounds impossible. Physics doesn't allow silicon life to fly.
Juma The Lion:
COME TO DAR. I WILL SHOW YOU PHYSICS. BRING AN UMBRELLA. BECAUSE IT RAINS ACID HERE.
THE ANALYSIS
I stopped reading. My hands were shaking. I pushed the laptop away.
I looked up at the map on the wall of the Tech Hub. Baraka had drawn the "Safe Zones" in green marker.
Dar es Salaam was circled in red. A 600-kilometer exclusion zone.
If Juma is right... if there is a Leviathan laying eggs... and if they have airborne units...
"Baraka," I said quietly.
Baraka was sleeping in his hammock in the corner. He woke up instantly.
"Yeah, Boss?"
"Calculate the wind speed from the coast," I said. "If a swarm of locusts launched from Dar es Salaam, traveling at... let's say 30 miles per hour... when do they hit the Kilimanjaro region?"
Baraka rubbed his eyes and typed into his wooden console.
"With the current Trade Winds? The Monsoon is starting. The wind is pushing West hard. Two days. Maybe three."
"And what happens if Salt hits the Green Spores?"
"Chemical reaction," Baraka said. "We tested it with the sample Juma sent last month. It's exothermic. Violent. Like throwing sodium in water."
I looked at the window.
The lush, green vines of New Arusha were hanging heavy over the street. The Great Baobab was a massive umbrella of leaves. Our entire civilization is built on Wood and Cellulose.
Our defense is biology.
If the Salt comes... we don't just lose the walls. We burn. The spores will react with the salt and turn the city into a fireball.
"We need to help him," I said.
"Help who? Juma?"
"He's trapped," I said. "He's sitting on ground zero spotting targets for us. He's the only reason we know this is coming. He's sending us the weather report from hell."
I sat back down at the keyboard.
Tyler Jordan:
Juma. We are not leaving you there. I am sending a team. We have the iron rail-trolley. We can get to Morogoro in a day. Can you make it to Morogoro?
The three dots danced.
Juma The Lion:
MOROGORO IS GONE. THE SALT ATE IT.
BUT I CAN GET TO THE TRAIN STATION AT PUGU.
IT IS HIGH GROUND.
BUT TYLER.
DONT COME WITH WOOD.
IF YOU COME WITH WOODEN WEAPONS, YOU DIE.
THE SALT EATS WOOD IN SECONDS. IT TURNS IT TO DUST.
YOU NEED PLASTIC. YOU NEED RUBBER. YOU NEED GLASS.
BRING THE OLD WORLD TRASH.
THE PREPARATION
I stood up. My mind was racing.
"Baraka, sound the alarm. Condition Yellow."
"We're going to war?"
"No," I said. "We're going on a rescue mission. And we are going to look ridiculous doing it."
I walked out of the Tech Hub. It was night. The string lights were buzzing, reflecting in the canal.
I found Mama K at the gate, playing cards with the guards.
"Gather the scavengers," I ordered. "I need you to open the Dead Shed."
Mama K dropped her cards. "The Dead Shed? Tyler, that place is full of poison."
"It's full of plastic," I corrected. "PVC pipes. Old Tupperware. Polyester tarps. Rubber tires. The stuff we banned because the Spores eat it."
"Why do we want it?"
"Because we are going into the Salt Zone," I said. "The spores can't survive there. But plastic... plastic is immune to salt."
I looked at the pile of "trash" we had collected over the year. We had buried it to keep the city clean. Now, it was our armor.
"We need suits," I said. "Make armor out of trash bags and duct tape. Make shields out of plastic barrel lids. Make spears out of sharpened PVC piping."
"We're going to look like garbage men," Mama K noted, raising an eyebrow.
"In the Salt Zone," I said, "Garbage is gold."
I looked at my phone. Juma was still online.
Tyler Jordan:
Hold tight, Lion. We are coming. ETA 48 hours. Pugu Station. Keep your head down.
Juma The Lion:
BRING FIRE.
AND TYLER?
Tyler Jordan:
Yeah?
Juma The Lion:
BRING A CAMERA.
NOBODY WILL BELIEVE THIS IF WE DONT TAKE PICTURES.
[Juma The Lion went Offline]
I put the phone down.
I looked to the East. The sky over the coast wasn't black. It was glowing with a faint, sickly purple light.
The Salt was rising. The Locusts were hatching.
And our scout was waiting on a rooftop, holding a lighter and a machete.
"Baraka," I yelled. "Get the maps. We are going to the coast."