The Last Virus

It is Christmas Day. Squadrons of drones have taken to the skies across the major cities of the world. Attached to some of those miniature planes are banners with the wording PEACE ON EARTH. From the other drones, snow falls like confectionary sugar. It is a bewitching sight to all, like it must have been for those inside the walls of Troy when in rolled a great wooden horse. Children stick out their tongues. Lovers embrace and twirl about. The old close their eyes and unfurl their fingers as the deadly pathogen comes to rest upon their skin.

It is Year 3. Across the globe, the Caliphate is now firmly in control. Music and art are outlawed. Sport is sin. Toys are contraband, and women are bought and sold. What was once called America is now called Ummah. What we knew to be Chicago is now known as Ayla. Most who survived the virus and subsequent invasions are either in labor camps or hiding out like rats in the sewers. There is a resistance, though. Forty feet below the streets of Ayla, in abandoned freight tunnels, Sector 4 is 1700 strong. They bring hell and havoc to the Caliphate. They, however, might have just been found.