It was lonely.
The Southern Borders of Nordstjerne were already some of the least traveled portions of the nation, and recent global events did little to change that. However, even during the worst of times, at least a few people would request entry from the Danish border. Today, however, it was only empty highlands surrounded by a large brick wall.
The wall, known to the patrols as the Mountain, was built long before Nordstjerne’s unification by the Swedish government to keep out the Afflicted (Döda). The Mountain stretched for miles, and if the weather was clear enough, one could see the ruins of Copenhagen from its high perch. Now, it served as the main checkpoint one had to cross if they wanted to enter South Nordstjerne.
Since the fall of the Danish government to militant tribal groups across the nation’s vast plains and forests, Denmark saw its population flee to the growing nations surrounding it, most prominently Nordstjerne. The Jernean border still saw dozens of refugees requesting entry to this day, almlst all of which have been accepted with open arms.
That was why the emptiness was so strange. If there weren’t immigrants, it was because of the Afflicted. But they were absent as well, even from the streets of Copenhagen across the strait.
Patrol Agent Rigley Hilder looked up from her post, the binoculars she had been using almost slipping from her grasp. She’d never seen the border empty, and after asking around, she realized that no one had, at least no one within her patrol. She had almost called headquarters to report the absence of life, but her superior had advised her against it.
“No point in reporting nothing,” they had said. They had a point, Rigley supposed, but the situation still bothered her. Where had everyone gone?
…
Captain Miller’s radio suddenly crackled to life, causing him to jump and knock over his tea. “Sir, swells on the port side.”
He tore the radio off his belt, cursing under his breath as he attempted to clean up the mess. “Size and direction?”
“We’re seeing about 3.5 meters on average heading due east. What do you advise?”
Miller’s eyes widened as he checked the various instruments within his quarters. The NNWS was still reporting clear skies over the North Sea, and the winds were blowing to the northeast. Nothing that could create a swell of that size. He double-checked, then triple-checked, before looking at the seismology charts displayed on one of the monitors. No tremors for kilometers. He brought the radio back up to his mouth and spoke slowly, still shocked.
“Can you confirm heights of 3.5 meters?”
“Affirmative.”
“Is there an apparent cause?”
“Wind speeds aren’t high enough for a swell of that size. It could be something from the North Sea, but it wouldn’t be eastward bound.”
The Captain sighed and straightened his uniform. He was going to have to investigate this himself.
As Miller pulled himself out of the hatch, he took a quick glance at the sky. Long, thin clouds had formed overhead since the last time he had checked, and he could sense the higher waves slamming against the hull of the ship, with the occasional sea spray showering the deck in water. As he looked over the railing, Miller saw something move out of the corner of his eye. When he turned his head, however, all he saw was the same rough ocean everywhere else.
One of the sailors stopped nearby and saluted Miller before reaching for a binder stuffed under their arm. They looked almost nervous, but he brushed it off as anxiety.
“Here you are, sir. These are the calculations and weather logs. I thought I should bring you these.”
“When did the swells appear?”
“About a half hour ago, sir.”
Miller lifted his wrist, his watch reading 0403. “That would place it at around 0330.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are any other ships reporting swells?”
“The Rachibold, Claynor, and Illipulpit have all reported similar waves.”
“Anywhere else?”
The sailor started to fidget as he spoke. “A few stations along the southern coastline have reported flooding.”
“Anything from our men outside of the homeland?”
“No, sir. But the Watchguards stationed at Copenhagen, Aarhus, and the suburbs of Zealand reported a loss of most of their Afflicted to the ocean.”
“Loss?”
“Apparently, all of the undead froze in unison and started moving eastward. Of course, they weren’t stopped by the sea. Some of the men are saying…”
The Captain cut him off. “I know what they’ll be saying. Damn it, that’s got me worrying now, too. Send a submersible. I want a clear view of the sea bed.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell the crew.”
…
“What the hell do you mean they just ‘walked out’? Find them, and quickly!”
The Director of Infectious Diseases slammed his phone into the receiver before rubbing his face. Shit had hit the fan, and now it was quickly becoming his job to fix it. The only problem? His entire department was out on lunch break about an hour’s drive away, and he needed them now.
And he certainly did not want to be the one to tell Baine that every instance of the Afflicted under their watchful eye had just upped and left.
…
Prime Minister Sigrid Bergman was just about to call over her secretary when the Minister of State stopped her in her tracks.
“Ma’am, I need to talk to you immediately.”
His tone sound half-tired, half-frieghtened, which did little to ease her worries.
“What is it?”
He looked around carefully, seemingly checking for eavesdroppers, before leaning in to whisper something in her ear.
“Jesus fucking… You’re absolutely sure?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Get me the Diplomatic Corps. Is Ambassador Copernickel free?”
“I’ll summon him immediately.”
“Summon the Cabinet, as well. I’ll need to speak with everyone.”
“Of course. I’ll be just a moment.”
