Geran 'Gar1onriva'
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Example Story #2: Warm At Last: A Frostpunk Story (2,880 words)
🕑 Added 2020-02-02 17:39:19 +0000 UTCHelllllo Rivans.
This is the second example of the kind of thing that'll be available for $15+ patrons. For a while I played Frostpunk quite obsessively; to the point it affected my dreams. Based on some of the stuff I saw in that game, I had an idea for a story. This is essentially fanfiction set in the world of Frostpunk.
Alongside the prompted works, I'm also open to writing 'fanfic' stories set within the worlds of games, movies and TV. These are a bit harder to write as I strive to make them fitting to the lore and world, as well as compelling to read. Patrons can request any such topics, but which ones I do is harder to predict.
Note: I reserve all rights to this story and its ideas and characters, excluding the elements taken from the game of Frostpunk. Replication or reposting of this story is an infringement of my copyright.
If you like what you read here, please consider pledging $15 or more to gain access to at least 5,000 words a month, split across one or more stories. The first month using this reward will be March 2020.
Warm At Last
(A Frostpunk Story)
The trek from London had been long, hard, and very punishing. My community and I were among the hundreds upon thousands herded into Land Dreadnoughts and sent north; supposedly the only refuge against the ever-growing cold. Weeks aboard a cramped, stinking box on tracks, surrounded by masses of people who had ignoring the signs - scoffed at warnings – and then expected to be saved anyway. It was almost a relief when the colossal vehicle got stuck in the billowing snow, forcing everyone on-board to make the remainder of the journey by foot.
Before leaving London, I had attended regular congregations at my local church. It astounds me to this day how so few people turned to our faith when the winds came, bringing with them the howling doom of our civilisation. Every few days I would get together with the other members of our little parish and soon our meetings represented the last bastion of warmth and hope in the world. When the announcement spread that the cold was to get worse, that we were to flee north, my friends and I were among the first to line up to board; our faith told us that this was undoubtedly the way forward.
Walking across the Frostlands, as they are now called, was nothing if not perilous. Shifting ice, sudden spiking blizzards, carnivorous wildlife and the ever-present cold itself all shrank our numbers; of the two thousand or so who left the Dreadnought, the survivors couldn’t have numbered more than a hundred. Of my congregation of twenty-six, only Theodore and Maurice made it. When we finally crested the ridge and looked down into the circular crater in which we would live, many wept openly in relief.
We have lasted here for thirty-nine days now. The Captain has established adequate food lines, gathered plentiful resources from local deposits and even sent scouts to search for other survivors. The only two demands for which discontent is brewing are a lack of medical services and, of course, the bone-chilling cold. He claims that he cannot spare the educated personnel to staff more Medical Posts, but that he has a plan to see to our needs. I do not have confidence in him.
About a week into our new life in the crater, I stood staring up at the central Generator that provides our burgeoning city with heat and power. A gigantic construct, the cylindrical structure towers greatly over even the chimneys of the steelworks. An unending stream of thick grey smoke pours from the burning opening at its top, fed by our growing coal reserves. I sometimes climb to the rim of the crater to gaze at it, marvelling at the feat of engineering that could produce such a constant heat. It truly represents the best chance for our future.
As I stood within the inner ring of tents that serve as our living quarters, basking in the radiant warmth of the Generator, the loudspeakers pitched up and announced that the Captain had signed a new law; Houses of Prayer were to be constructed for all to use as they saw fit. Such news brought me great happiness and I rushed to see my friends. They too were overjoyed and together the three of us assisted in the Houses’ construction. The nearest was built right across the street from our communal tent, but we were pleased to see that enough were built that every citizen had easy access to one. While we had been attending to our spiritual needs in the cramped tents, we excitedly moved our daily meetings to the House of Prayer instead.
The 6pm horn sounds, signalling the end of work of the thirty-ninth day. I stand, once more, in the shadow of the Generator. In our time here, the engineers have worked to improve on the design as built by the original explorers. They say it now has greater heat output and range than ever before, but standing practically below it I still feel cold. I slightly adjust how the crutch sits under my right arm, hearing it creak under the weight that my right leg, if I still had it, could have easily supported. I start slowly towards the Generator.
The House of Prayer was more spacious, and warmer, to meet in than our tents. With our parish’s priest among those who never made it to the city, it was left to the three of us to carry on our beliefs. For five days straight we met every evening at 6:30pm, after our work shifts, and took turns mounting the podium to uplift the other two. Sometimes other people would attend, but few stayed for the whole service and fewer still stuck around to discuss what they heard. Despite the church being built of scrap metal and recovered wood, it imbued us with a sense of purpose; we didn’t mind that no one else took part.
We were taken aback, however, when we arrived the next day for our service, only to discover another congregation making use of the space. We had heard of this ‘New Faith’ from the other workers, and seen their shrines being erected outside the sawmill and steelworks, but the number of followers filling the House of Prayer was surprising. We left them in peace, then returned when it sounded like the prayers were coming to an end.
After newly hopeful faces streamed past us back into the cold, we approached the old man who had led the service. Theodore politely explained how we had used the church at 6:30pm every day since its building and, while we had no problem sharing the space, would appreciate it if he’d move their service to another time. The man listened patiently, nodded with understanding, but declined our request. He replied that many of his congregation were coal miners and preferred mass to be immediately after their shifts ended, so they might get the long rest they needed for their vital work. Also, he pointed out, there were only three who followed our beliefs and the space was better used to help as many people as possible. With those words he left us in the empty church to conduct our own service.
Over the next week, despite the old man’s blunt words, we patiently waited for the New Faith mass to conclude before entering the House of Prayer. When the churchgoers left, however, we noticed more and more of them casting us expressions of derision and even some of suspicion. On the seventh day of this, a man spat at the floor as he passed us. I opened my mouth to say something, but Theodore cautioned me against it; Maurice had taken ill from the cold and was recovering in our tent, so the two of us felt lost among the crowd of the New Faith. That was the first day since its construction that we didn’t hold a service in the church.
At the base of the pulsing Generator are control stations covered in dials and switches, conveying a myriad of information to the trained eye. While I still cannot understand most of what I see, the time I’ve spent around the giant machine over the past few days has taught me a rudimentary knowledge of the incredible technology on which we rely for the city to survive.
My eyes find the dial showing current fuel usage, but how one reads what it says and converts it to a quantity of coal per hour is beyond me. Perhaps the only meter I can read clearly is also the one understandable by every person in the city; the giant Stress Gauge built into the side of the metal cylinder encasing the upper half of the Generator, as well as a much smaller version among the dials.
Turning from the control station, I hobble to the nearby metal ladder – thankfully free of frost – and drop my crutch. It would only impede my climb.
What started as mere dirty looks had grown. After Maurice had recovered from his illness, unassisted by the Captain’s medical professionals, the three of us took to travelling around together. It was the only way we could feel safe.
Almost a month after arriving at the Generator, the sawmills had depleted all the frozen trees within reach, necessitating use of a complex wall drill to collect wood from within the sides of the crater; evidently a forest had once stood here before being engulfed by the all-consuming winter. With most of the former sawmill-operators out of work, my friends and I were reassigned to hunting.
It was a tiring job; more so than the sawmill had been, as it required leaving the relative comfort of the crater each night to check traps and bring back whatever had been caught that day. Upon returning, after dropping off the food, we would then travel to the House of Prayer at 7am for a quick service before retiring to the tents.
On the morning of the thirtieth day, Maurice and I were late returning to the city. One of our traps had malfunctioned, injuring instead of capturing its prey. It took us almost half an hour to track down the creature and then repair the damaged trap. By the time we had dropped off our catches at the cookhouse, it was almost 7am. We hurried towards the House of Prayer, expecting Theodore to be concerned for our whereabouts, but came across a crowd as we rounded the corner onto its street.
The massed people ignored us, instead straining to watch something transpiring outside the church. We heard shouting ahead as we pushed through the crowd to get a better look. When I saw what was happening, my blood ran as cold as the ground beneath my feet. Kneeling outside the church, surrounded by men in hooded black robes, was our friend, bloodied in the face and begging. Standing before him, adorned with a purple stole and the symbols of the New Faith, was the leader of the Faith Keepers.
He demanded that Theodore confess to heresy, but was refused.
He demanded that Theodore convert to the New Faith, but was refused.
He demanded that Theodore repent publicly, but was refused.
With a gesture from the leader, two Faith Keepers proceeded to beat and kick Theodore until he made no more sound. That was when the leader turned to the crowd and demanded to know where ‘the other two’ were.
Climbing ladders with one leg isn’t an easy task, but all that time spent working in the sawmill greatly improved my upper body strength. After each ladder, a metal walkway runs partway round the cylindrical Generator, ending in another ladder. From a distance the black metal tower, lit from within by a fiery glow, seemed almost divine and impossibly sleek. Up close, however, all of the stray pipes, pumping pistons and precarious supports undermine its mystique and reveal it to be merely another fallible construct of man. The walkways clank as my one foot lands heavily, the railing along the edge rattling as it takes my full weight between each step.
Below me I hear activity, but I cannot bring myself to look down. Voices carry up, snatched by the bitter wind, along with the slightest hints of smells. The distant scent of the cookhouse handing out the evening meal slowly gives way to a powerful smell of industry as I ascend the final ladder and reach the peak of the rumbling machine. It roars louder than I’ve ever heard it and the smoke bellows thicker than I’ve ever seen it as I grab the highest railing to steady myself. Leaning away from the railing, I steal a glance into the great opening atop the Generator, down into the roiling fires of hell itself.
Chained by our wrists to the Generator, side by side, Maurice and I faced the crowd and, more prominently, the Faith Keepers. The great multitude outside the House of Prayer had given us up immediately. My friend and I thought we were hidden within the mass of people, but it’s likely we’d been recognised the moment we’d arrived. We saw Theodore’s body being dragged away as we ourselves were hauled in the opposite direction.
The roar and pound of the Generator behind us was loud, but not compared to the righteous mob clamouring for more of what they had just seen. With a merest wave the leader of the Faith Keepers quietened the crowd and stepped up to Maurice.
He demanded that Maurice confess to heresy, which he promptly did.
He demanded that Maurice convert to the New Faith, which he promptly did.
He demanded that Maurice repent publicly, which he promptly did, through tears of anguish and regret.
Although many members of the crowd appeared disappointed, the truly faithful among them rejoiced as Faith Keepers undid Maurice’s chains and half-escorted, half-carried him towards their headquarters to complete his conversion. With a dark glint in his eye, the leader of the Faith Keepers turned to me.
“It is said that you preached heresy as a member of the Doomsday Order, promoting the belief that the world is dead and should be cremated in the fires of oblivion!” he bellowed, repeating word for word what he’d said to my friends. “You must confess!”
With no hesitation, staring deep into his frosty eyes, I answered.
“I confess that.”
“When confronted with the New Faith, in this city, and with us as representatives,” the leader continued, indicating everything around him, “you must swear to convert fully to our beliefs and forever abandon those of the Doomsday Order! You must convert!”
Again, without blinking, I answered.
“I will convert.”
“Here today, before the New Faith, its people and our Captain, you must repent publicly for any role you played, any action you took and any people you corrupted when a member of the Doomsday Order! You must repent!”
That was when I faltered. I lowered my gaze and thought of Theodore, of Maurice, and of all those believers who never made it to this frozen city. I thought of how our beliefs and ambitions kept us alive and hopeful back in London and of how they kept us working beyond the point of human endurance here. I realised that my next words would be the last public statement ever made by a member of the Doomsday Order.
“I cannot repent for that. While I will never follow it again, for a time I wholly believed in the Doomsday Order as the inevitable truth of the world. I cannot repent for that.”
My defiance momentarily stunned the onlookers, but the Faith Keepers only grinned. They encircled me and I felt pain all over. They stepped back.
“You must repent!” they chorused.
“I cannot!” I shouted.
Again they closed in and pain filled my world. It subsided.
“You must repent!”
“I cannot!”
As they encircled once more, one pain shone brighter than all the rest; a sharp, searing, blinding pain in my right leg. Glancing down I saw a flash of bone.
“I repent!” I cried, as it all went dark.
When I awoke I was in one of the Medical Posts. There was only a single doctor on duty who informed me that he’d had to amputate the leg to save my life. He told me that he was glad I repented, but that my missing leg would forever remind me of the price of hesitation. With that he moved on to the next patient.
Pulling away from the fiery mouth of the Generator, I look around at the city. Far below, rows of flapping tents barely shelter those who toil to keep everyone fed and contented. The many Houses of Prayer toll their bells. The hunters are just visible snaking their way through the waist-high snow beyond the edge of the city. In the centre circle around the Generator mill many lights, some dashing between the tents and other buildings, but most concentrated around the control stations.
I wonder if the hunters will look back at the Generator as they venture out. I wonder if they’ll see the large Stress Gauge that dominates one side and how the needle will be rotating inexorably towards the red. I wonder if they’ll fully comprehend the meaning of it. Would I have, if I hadn’t spent the last few days around the Generator, speaking to the engineers? I certainly wouldn’t have known which levers to pull and then break off.
I wonder if Maurice will see. I don’t blame him for his actions. I trust he doesn’t blame me for mine.
I look out beyond the rim of the crater and see the nightmarish swirling clouds that haunt the horizon, inevitably bringing with them the next freezing storm.
This world is dead. I cannot burn it all, but I can burn this city; this Generator is our best chance for that and we knew that before we’d even arrived. I just wish we hadn’t hesitated and waited as long as we did. Maybe then Theodore would be here to see it.
Releasing the railing, I stagger for a moment and then throw myself into the overloading Generator. I didn’t hesitate that time, and for my faith I receive my reward.
Warm at last.
