It was a gloriously bright, sunny day in Nineveh. The sky had just enough clouds in it to provide a bit of shade and keep the temperature cool. This far south and west of Lake Ontario, the snow and winter had not been as rough, the city shielded by the Catskills. The flowers had begun to blossom, and a riot of color adorned the planters, matched in brilliance if not organization by the wildflowers growing by the lakeside, on the other side of the road.
Cassandra Hirosata frowned into the mirror. The expression was a good one. She was starting to learn her mother’s secret. The hard eyes, the expression that said she knew exactly what was wrong with someone’s soul, all of their darkest secrets. She didn’t need to actually know the secrets. They just had to believe she did.
“Again? You stupid bitch! You burn the food again?! What, you were too busy shooting up to pay attention to the smell of smoke? I spend all day working my ass off, and you fucking burn dinner?! Can’t you do anything right?!”
Cold rain splashed across my face. I gasped, opening my eyes, and tried to sit up. I was pinned down against a cot, rope drawn painfully tight around my wrists, my ankles, my waist, my neck. I could shift around a little bit, and that was all. I blinked in the low light. I looked to the side, and saw Mannfred in a similar situation, pinned to what looked, for all the world, like an operating table. Stacy stood over him. I thought it was Mannfred, at any rate. All of his clothes had been removed, leaving the disturbingly sexless white plastic mannequin there, a bullet hole through its head. She sighed as she studied me.
“At first, I thought it was some kind of biological weapon. 28 Days Later style. My dad built the bunker back in the 60s, and ever since that whole dream bullshit back in September, I’ve been refurbishing it. Went to sleep in it one night, woke up, and, pfft. Everyone gone. Whole world gone silent.” Stacy sighed. “But there were no traces of biological contaminants, nothing that showed up in the bunker’s filters. Then, I figured, maybe it was some kind of cosmological phenomenon. Like in that movie, Night of the Comet? Something gets introduced to Earth from space, some kind of chemical, bam, turns people into mannequins.”
Dolly stared daggers at my back.
Zombie apocalypses are not about the end of the world. So often, the world does not end in that apocalypse. Certainly, countless billions die. There is tragedy, and glory, and a thousand beautiful moments, but life continues. People survive. Humans are born survivors, and the end always leaves survivors. The zombie apocalypse is different, because things are so often unchanged. You find yourself trying to survive, amid a vast tide of mindless, thoughtless creatures who live only to consume, to feed, ravenously filling their maws with whatever they can get their hands on.
USEF Report Dagon, section D (Divinity), Paragraph 16-21, Rank HEL-6
This is the big one. The thing that makes the Atlanteans a true game-changer for us. The thing that justifies all the risks and all the dangers of taking the Atlanteans in.
USEF Report Dagon, section C (Culture), Paragraph 5-11, Rank HEL-6
Almost all of the ‘threat’ posed by the Atlanteans is, fundamentally, cultural. It is also largely unintentional. While the Atlantean capacity to develop gods is formidable compared to individual humans, their population is .001% that of humanity, and their rate of population increase is hovering at just shy of 0%. They cannot meaningfully invade us, and they sacrificed the element of surprise that could- conceivably- have let them conquer us. They are not a threat directly, and any genocidal actions on our part would not change that- The damage the Atlanteans can do has already been done.
USEF Report Dagon, section L (Linguistics), Paragraph 1-3, Rank HEL-6
The Atlantean language is surprisingly familiar, and offers great insight into the spread of language across the world, and a common origin to many languages. Proto-Indo-European is well known as one of the most common ‘base’ languages, and its influence can be seen everywhere from Portugal to Persia. (also, technically, nearly a thousand miles east of Persia, but leave me my wordplay to enjoy.)