Chapter 2: Quiet

If only life could give you a second chance. The Documentors always say that The Collapse was a time that each human faced a test - and if anyone was watching as I took mine, I failed it miserably. How I ended up in Marathon still perplexes me; maybe I slipped through the cracks, maybe they saw something that would help them in the future. I suppose my ‘skills’ came in handy during their domination, but I still don’t feel like I belong. I’d leave; how I’d love to leave - but after being out there alone for so long, it’s a miracle I’m still alive now. Most of the townsfolk call me Quiet - and I am in no doubt that they don’t really trust me. And after my past, I can’t blame them.

I have no idea how many of them know my past - although I know the those who decide know. If they all found out, though... I’d probably be dead.

I came from Rice Lake, Wisconsin - I was an insurance claims investigator - a job that hardens you to verbal abuse; no matter what you’re investigating, people hate you. Just before the collapse, I was busy as hell. With people being forced out of their homes, and out of their jobs, there was a ton of bogus claims coming in - people trying to cash in before they lost everything. My insurance company took a no-holds-barred approach - we denied approximately 90% of claims, and were frequently in court when people sued us.

I was in my late 20's, investigating a claim, when my life changed. I entered a run down house just off of East Coleman street. I was summoned there to make a house call on an apparent back injury. I met the wife, a middle aged woman, and she took me to her husband, who was sitting on his couch, beer in one hand. He turned to me and grunted, while the wife offered me a drink of water. I politely refused, and addressed the man.

“Hello Mr. Bell,” I started.

“Not so fast, Mister.” He cut back. I saw him shift his weight, and made a mental note of how he didn’t cringe. I maintained a straight face and continued on.

“My report indicates you made a claim with us on July 3rd for a back injury.”

“That’s right!” He interjected again. “I was hurt laying bricks! Yous got a file with my name, and I got coverage!”

“I’m not disputing that, Mr. Bell.” I always referred to them by their last name, to avoid any kind of friendly banter that would sway my emotions. “However, on the claim you filled out, the date in question was June 29th when the injury occurred - however, when I checked with your supervisor he states that you were not on Brick duties that day. You were on cleanup.”

He swallowed, his face contorting and going slightly red. “Of course! Buts I helped with my co-workers to lay a few of the last bricks so’s we could go home on time!”

I glanced down at the file again. “Then why didn’t you state that in your claim?”

“I’s don’t got to state every little decision I makes!”

“Mr. Bell, your supervisor did not request for you to assist your co-workers in laying the bricks. From this report, filed by both you and the supervisor, I can make the conclusion that you acted on your own to lay the bricks.”

“What’s that got to do with anythings?”

“Because your supervisor did not hand you with the task of laying bricks, you acted outside of your duties. As a result, the company did not condone your actions, nor were they responsible for your actions. You acted on your own, without any consent from your supervisor, and thus waived the company’s responsibility to ensure you did not get injured. As it was a back injury, it’s a health issue, not safety, as the company maintained their responsibility to provide a safe workplace for those performing their requested tasks.”

“Hey!” He screeched, his voice half gargled with flem. “I’s was hurt on my job, and nows I can’t lay bricks for awhile! That’s workplace injuries if I’s ever heard them!”

“But you acted without consent of your supervisor.” I retorted.

I saw him lift his weight off the chair, pushing his hips out to balance his large beer gut. It was at that moment I knew he wasn’t even injured. I immediately sprung into action.

“Mr. Bell, the mere fact that you can stand without the assistance of crutches or a back brace indicates your back was not severely injured as you claim, if at all. These revelations only confirm what the report already reveals, and I am authorized to reject your claim for compensation.”

He strode forward, opening his mouth to shout behind me. I turned around just in time to see the wife swinging a glass at my head. I raised my hand to defend, but the glass shattered on the right side of my skull, passing my hand with swiftness. I felt the shards of glass dig deep into my skin, followed by an immediate burning pain across my cheek, forehead, ear, nose, and near my right eye. I collapsed to the ratty carpet, reaching to clutch my face, but only having the glass cut my palm. I felt the wetness of blood streak across my face, but quickly regained myself, realizing that another swing was coming my way. I rolled over just in time to see Bell dropping his fist on my head with speed I didn’t expect such a fat guy could have. I turned my neck away, avoiding the blow by less than an inch. I heard his fist thud into the floor while I rolled over, springing to my feet and striding towards what I assumed was their kitchen. Bell’s wife strode in after, with her husband in tow, but I had gained the upper hand. I grabbed one of the knives on the cutting board - at least a 7 inch blade - and grabbed Bell’s wife.

With a lighting quickness, I wrapped my arm around her body, and took the knife to her throat. Bell stopped in his tracks, his expression changing from rage to fear. His wife squirmed, but I pressed the knife a little closer, and she froze. I felt her muscles tense up all around her body, and I couldn’t help but let out a small, bloody-teethed smile

“Get the fuck back, Mr. Bell!” I said.

He took one step back.

“Make one move, and I swear to god, I’ll slit this bitch’s throat!”

He gave me a concerned stare back. I had even surprised myself with my actions, but I was so overcome by fear, aguish, the burning pain half my face felt, that I was in a totally different place mentally. I was well aware that the world was quickly falling apart; my work had assured me of it - but I had never expected things would have gone this far.

While my thoughts ran through my head, the three of us stood in the small kitchen, complete with the 1970's decor, sharing a tense silence. Finally, I snapped back to reality. “I don’t give a shit why you’re attacking me, but you’re letting me the fuck out of here!”

“We have our reasons.” Bell squeaked out.

“Shut up!” I screamed, pointing the knife at him.

It was that action that proved to be costly. In an instant, Bell reached behind himself, pulling out a handgun from his pants. How I hadn’t seen that I’ll never know, but I immediately ducked as he pointed the gun at me. I kept the mind to hold on to Bell’s wife, who was jerked down with me.

We were once again in a stalemate. I had Bell’s wife by the throat, Bell had a gun pointed at my head. “Let her go now, or I’ll shoot,” he proclaimed.

I blinked. “You’d have to be a good shot to get me and not her.”

“Trust me, the bullet’s got your name on it if it comes out of this gun.” He retorted.

I had to think fast - Bell’s wife wasn’t much of a threat to me, but I knew I had to take Bell out if I was ever going to get out of the house. However, it was Bell that triggered, so to speak, the outcome.

“Time’s up.” He said, and leaned forward to shoot. I ducked behind his wife and pushed her towards Bell at the same time. The gun went off, and I felt the blade cut through soft skin. There was a brief screech that was quickly gargled out; the bullet missed me and pegged the wall behind - Bell lunged forward to catch his falling wife - I regained my balance - and pulled the knife above my head, jumping for Bell.

The moment happened in slow motion. Bell looked up, wife still falling through his arms, and tried to quickly point his gun at me. He was too late, as I swung the knife down on his head, driving it into his forehead as the gun fired again, poking a hole through my suit’s jacket, but missing my skin. The knife didn’t dig far into his skull - I suppose the knife wasn’t strong enough - but Bell fell to the tiled floor on his back, knife dug into his head, his body convulsing on the floor. His wife, lying in a pool of blood, undoubtedly a combination of all three of ours, let out her last breath and ceased to move. I picked up the gun off the floor, right by Bell’s hand, and calmly leaned over him, blood still dripping off my face.

“Goodbye, Mr. Bell.” I said, and walked out as he struggled to keep himself alive.


I didn’t go back to work from that day on until the start of the collapse. Instead, rattled by what had happened, I started to fortify my house. I picked up tons of canned food, storing it in my basement, let my lawn grow, and started to think of how to stay alive. I didn’t answer my phone; my work fired me after three missed weeks - I didn’t hear anything from the police, who I assumed would eventually catch on to the murders I’d committed. I reinforced my windows with furniture - I started to build traps on my lawn at night - trip wires, mostly - and I started to collect whatever I could that I could use as a weapon. I didn’t have the best equipment - sharpened sticks, mostly - but I still had Bell’s handgun, and I had arranged some of the acids and cleaning products I owned and had bought into traps for anyone intruding.

There is no question in my mind that I was paranoid. I had convinced myself the Collapse was going to be hell on earth, and I was going to be damned if I was going to be taken down in the chaos. As the Collapse neared in early August, I stopped leaving the house, just watching the television and setting up more defence around my house. It was on August 7th - a day I remember very, very well - that the so-called ‘resistance’ entered into Rice Lake in full force. First, a gas station was blown up, followed by rioting - a building downtown was set on fire - houses were destroyed, people were shooting on the streets, looting was rampant, and the relatively small police force was overrun, the police station gutted. When the police went down, there was an outpouring of guns and riot gear. I stayed in my house the entire time, traps set, grass overgrown, car in my booby-trapped garage, TV on. I waited for the first person to try and break in. For the first week, nobody bothered me. However, while Rice Lake was quickly falling into chaos, some young punk tried to cash in. Too bad he picked my house.

I saw him the entire time - it was approximately 2AM, and he had snuck around my yard, back by the road. I perched myself near my upstairs window, out of sight. He crept past my first tripwire, likely by luck, as he didn’t look like the brightest kid. He didn’t get by my second wire, tripping over it and hitting the ground. For the most part, the trip wires were just to alert me people were there, as they were attached to bells. It worked perfectly, as the bell rang. The kid looked around, and then stood up and continued on. He reached my front door with no resistance - something that angered me, because I knew I had to set up better defence on my lawn. He tried the door, which was locked, and then worked his way to the side window.

I waited as he unlatched the window quite skilfully. The kid was probably getting really used to looting houses by now, and I hadn’t done anything with my windows to prevent them from getting picked. The window slid open, and I saw him take one last look around before starting to go inside. It was at this time I acted. I hustled from my spot upstairs, grasping my home-made club in the process. I slid down the banister of my staircase to avoid being loud until the end - and when I landed, he had just squeezed his whole body through the window. His eyes darted in my direction as I strode towards him - and I saw his surprise turn into fear - the club I wielded was covered with nails sticking outwards - and within three strides, I was beside him. He tried to duck out of the way, successfully avoiding my first swing. I rose my knee up immediately, feeling the crunch as it connected with his ribs. His body collapsed to the floor, and I swung the club over my head, and brought it down towards his.

He threw his hand up in defence. The nails dug deep into his hand, and the force of my attack still pushed his arm down. The club wrenched free from my hand as I heard him scream in agony. The nails were dug so deep into his hand, they’d pierced right through it, and now pulled the rest of the club along with it.

Not wasting any time, the passion of anger in my heart, I delivered a blow to his cheek with my fist. And another. And another. On and on I punched as hard as I could, until his face was a bloody pile of flesh and bone, and his body ceased to move. At this point, I pulled the club out from his hand, and gave it a pound into his chest - just to ensure that if he was unconscious, the nails would pierce his heart.

It was a brutal death - and I found myself absolutely covered in the kid’s blood, my eyes burning with intensity, my body sweating from adrenaline. It was a messy kill - but certainly, not the messiest.

For two months I stayed holed up in my house - resetting traps every time someone tried to overrun me - tossing bodies in my cellar - eventually killing everyone that even walked by my house in the day. The only time I didn’t attack was when it was daytime and there were clusters of people - those times, I stayed and waited. 99% of the time, they ran by my house, down the street, without even stopping to look. The army even rolled by at one point, but they were forced out of town when people waged massive attacks on them. I wasn’t sure for the longest of time, but I thought the resistance even managed to get the tank.

That fact became abundantly clear one day, approximately one year into my own hermitism - leaving the house only to get food and more weaponry - mostly from people I’d killed outside, and during the freezing winter when nobody went outside except me. It was the next summer; I was exhausted from no electricity, limited information about the outside world, and very unclean. My car still sat in my garage, unharmed - and very, very armed. When I picked up extra ammunition, I always put it in my car, so if I ever had to make a quick escape, I wouldn’t be defenceless. I awoke as I always did, gun by my side, to a loud rumbling noise. I crept to the window silently to look outside - and my face immediately dropped. Outside was some of the resistance, some in combat gear, others in plain clothes - but most importantly, the tank was staring right at my house. I wasted no time - I hurried out of the room, hearing the tank’s engine roar and the tracks start to move forward.

I don’t know how it happened, exactly, but someone must have tipped them off that I was there, and I was dangerous. But that tank was about to roll right through my front door, and if I didn’t act fast and time everything right, I was about to die. I was down the stairs and into my garage in a flash, right into my car. I had everything I needed to survive for about a month - canned food, fuel, and weapons. I heard the thundering crash and my house shake as the tank collided with the front door - things rattled and fell all around my garage, and I turned the engine on and prepared for the drive of my life. I revved the engine hard, and floored it - with no power, the garage door wasn’t going to open, but I was going to go through it. I sped into the door, smashing through it and definitely running over someone. I looked out the passenger window to see the tank buried in my house - and surprised faces on my lawn. My hand threw up my gun and took aim, and I fired off a series of shots that picked off one or two people. Return fire started coming - but I was on the road and moving. The tank would be sure to be close behind, so I drove as fast as I could. I shot at anyone that I saw in my way - I was taking no prisoners, and I was not going to die. I smashed through a wooden barricade on the road, and roared out of the city, never seeing the tank in my rear view mirror. I headed north; my only hope was that Canada wasn’t as bad as it was here. I got out onto the empty interstate and ripped the car up to about 130MPH.


I had no idea where I was going to end up, nor what to expect outside of my home. But that was the last time I ever saw Rice Lake. The next time I would talk to someone would be in International Falls, Minnesota. And what I learned from him would give me a purpose, and a destination.