This revelation sent the world into a frenzy. Crime rates skyrocketed as people succumbed to despair, lashing out at one another in the chaos.
Even before governments could make head or tail of the situation, the world shifted again.
Just days before a scheduled mass cremation, a handful of the deceased miraculously regained consciousness.
They returned wielding powers straight out of fiction, preaching of realms far beyond the scope of humanity.
But the miracle was selective. While some rose, others remained cold— and then they began to change.
Their corpses swelled, bloating until they reached a breaking point. When they finally detonated, they left behind "corpse rings" from which nightmarish, otherworldly creatures emerged in droves.
Overnight, the global population plummeted as entire nations were toppled. Hope rested solely with the "Risen" those who returned with supernatural powers to combat the alien threat.
Due to the nature of their powers, They were dubbed the Authors. However, the creatures evolved at a terrifying pace by consuming the living. The initial resistance was crushed, forcing the remnants of humanity to flee underground.
Humans are resilient, however. Over generations of struggle, those below ground grew stronger, eventually launching a campaign that recaptured the surface.
But peace was short-lived. In an act of predictable greed, the victors ruined it.
Following the war, only the Authors, their families, and the influential individuals who managed to hold onto their influence, were permitted to return to the surface.
The underground, once a sanctuary for all, was abandoned and transformed into a sprawling slum for orphans and the forgotten.
---
Recalling this information, Alistair wanted nothing more than to curse every parent in existence.
It wasn't a lack of respect. It was simply that, given the choice, he would never have brought a child into a world like this.
Perhaps it was the coward in him speaking, but surely it was kinder to never exist than to be forced to survive in this hell.
'They died and left me alone'. That was the core of his bitterness. They hadn't just birthed him into a nightmare; they had abandoned him to fend for himself within it.
It was world-class bad parenting, though he knew logically they'd had no choice. In this world, choice was a luxury his
Mandune parents didn't possess.
Alistair looked at the half-eaten fruit in his hand. He couldn't bear the sharp, metallic sourness a second longer.
With a swift motion, he hurled the remainder away. He sat dazed for a moment, watching as fellow slum dwellers trampled the scrap into the dirt without a second thought.
As he remembered the credit he'd wasted on it, he felt a phantom ache in his chest, as if his heart were being crushed.
He stood and strode toward the station, a grimace stretching across his dust-caked face. The acid kick of the fruit was fading, replaced by a cold, hollow weight in his gut.
Inside, the station was a hive of frantic movement. Sheriffs in reinforced plating moved with purpose, clutching assault rifles and specialized gear, scanning devices, power packs, and heavy-duty restraints. The air crackled with a sterile, hostile energy.
Alistair tilted his head, staring longingly at a door in the far corner. It wasn't just a door; it was the gateway to a miracle of ancient technology: the "Elevator." It was the only umbilical cord connecting the dark belly of the world to the "Upside."
'Crazy'. He thought. 'My ticket out of here, so near, yet so far'.
"Are you going to state your purpose, or just keep smiling like a freak?".
Alistair snapped his attention to the speaker, a female sheriff with a bored expression that suggested she found his presence physically offensive.
"Uh, sorry". Alistair said, wiping the daze from his face. He'd forgotten for a moment what he was here for.
"Well?". She pressed, her annoyance sharpening. She looked at his grime-streaked skin as if his poverty were contagious. It probably was.
Alistair rubbed the back of his neck and gave a sheepish, lopsided smile. He cleared his throat. "I'm here to self-report. I'm Infested."
The sheriff's boredom vanished instantly. "How much time?".
Alistair shrugged casually. "Twenty-six minutes."
Her eyes went wide. She bolted backward, her boots thudding against the metal floor as she screamed into her radio. "Code Red! We have an Infested with twenty-six minutes! Code Red!"
---
Minutes later, Alistair watched with detached curiosity as officers strapped him into a heavy rig, a surgical table designed for restraining monsters.
Steel cuffs snapped around his wrists and ankles, locking him to the cold slab. The walls around him were pockmarked with scorched holes, the scars left behind by jets of fire.
They were in the deepest gut of the station, a concrete vault far below the mining pits.
Armed guards ringed the reinforced blast door, their knuckles white against their rifles.
Despite their armor, Alistair could see the sweat beading on their brows and the tell-tale tremor in their hands.
They weren't afraid of Alistair. They were afraid of what would happen after he died. He felt a sudden, defiant urge to twist the knife.
"So..." Alistair's voice was eerily clear, slicing through the heavy silence of the vault. "...what happens if I die?"
The officers paled. Alistair strained against the metal cuffs, a soft clink that made the nearest guard flinch a full step back.
Alistair let out a dry, raspy chuckle. Now that he was staring at the end, he had never felt more powerful.
"You'd become a corpse ring". A new voice answered.
Alistair turned his head toward the door. An officer walked in, wearing the same uniform as the others, yet he was fundamentally different. His presence felt... 'cleaner'. It wasn't just the lack of dust; it was an aura of predatory stillness.
"What, never seen an Author before?". The man's tone carried a teasing, arrogant edge.
'An Author'. Alistair heart raced as he studied him.
'A head, two hands, two eyes'. The man looked human enough. 'Why, then, was Alistair condemned to rot in the dark while this man enjoyed the sun and the pleasures of the surface?'.
"Because we're better". The officer stated, as if he'd plucked the thought straight from Alistair's mind.
"Better?".
Alistair didn't understand that word. He always asked himself, was anyone better than their neighbor? Really.
During those days he barely ate. He always comforted himself, saying that he was better than those people who were missing a limb and couldn't scavenge for food.
Then he would always wonder if those incapacitated also comforted themselves, saying they were better than those who starved to death.
But then he would wonder about the dead. They were undoubtedly better than the living, who could barely afford to survive.
But then again, were the dead really better than the living? Because no matter how life sucks, he, Alistair, still wanted to live.
So was anyone really better then the other?