Shia looked up at the leaden grey sky and decided it was shortly after noon; with the thick clouds obscuring what weak sunlight there was, it was bound to start getting dark soon. He tightened his grip on Gina’s hand and pulled her onwards, ignoring her protests that her feet hurt and she needed to rest. She’d rolled her eyes earlier at his explanation that they needed to find shelter before dark, and he didn’t feel very sympathetic towards her, especially after he’d told her she needed more practical shoes.
A flash of anger went through him as she dragged her feet, whining like a child, then yanked her hand free of his and dropped down on the curb with a huff. She answered his glare with one of her own and snapped, “I need a rest. My feet are killing me.” She reached down to pull off her heeled sandals. “Look, blisters.”
“I told you to put sneakers on,” he said, only just keeping himself from adding, ‘idiot.’
“Oh, shut up, Shia. You always have to be right, don’t you?”
“I was right. If we get in trouble, you're not going to be able to run.” He looked around them, uneasy even though they were alone on a stretch of long road. Fields stretched out to either side, flat and brown in the cold November air; he could see a long way all around them but still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was sneaking up on them. “Come on, Gina.”
“I need a break. I’m not moving any further until my feet stop hurting.”
“I should just leave you here. You can sit and rot.”
“You won’t leave me,” she said smugly.
“Gina.” He caught her gaze, watching the smug expression fade from her face. “Get up now.”
Something seemed to tug in the back of his mind as he spoke the words and Gina stood up so fast she almost toppled over again, her eyes blank and her face devoid of expression. Suddenly uncertain, Shia eyed her for a moment, then snapped his fingers in front of her face. The glare she shot him should have vaporized him on the spot, but he was just glad that the blankness had disappeared from her features.
“Let's keep walking, okay, Gina?” he said, trying to keep his tone even and calm. “Just until we find somewhere to stay for the night. You want a piggyback or something?”
“No, I do not want a piggyback.” She rolled her eyes, an act he’d become intimately familiar with in the months they’d been dating. “Honestly, Shia, I'm not 5.”
He resisted the urge to tell her to stop acting like it then and simply turned around to keep going. They walked in silence, Gina with the sulky pout to her mouth that Shia had learned to recognize early on in their relationship. It meant she didn't want to talk to him, and she wouldn't talk to him until he did something to make up for whatever had ticked her off. Half the time he didn't even know what had made her angry in the first place and the other half he wondered why he put up with it.
Deciding that ignoring her was easier than trying to coax her out of her bad mood, he thought back to what had put them out here on this empty desolate road with no car and no place to go. He'd been in the lounge in his dorm, doing some homework, when someone had flipped on the big TV set on the wall, tuning it to the local news. The news anchors had been in mid-discussion on the eruption of a super-volcano, as ticker tags ran below repeating his words in short form. Shia had put down the textbook he was reading and sat up to see the TV better, as other students trickled into the room to watch.
The newscaster didn’t have much more information than the basics, though that was enough to make him believe the world was royally screwed. He'd left once they started repeating themselves, first going up to his room then, when he found it was empty, going to see Gina. She'd complained that she was studying but let him in on a promise that he would be quiet and not bother her. He'd ended up falling asleep on her bed, until loud screams from outside jolted him out of restless dreams.
He could still see the chaos that had erupted on the normally quiet campus when he closed his eyes. As he'd leaned out the window to see what was going on, he'd seen a blonde girl he vaguely knew from one of his English classes fleeing a tall football player. The football player was a lot faster and soon caught up to her, grabbing her by her long hair and yanking her backwards. It had been hard to see what happened next, and Shia was trying to deny it, but a deep part of him knew the football player had ripped her throat out with his teeth.
He'd told Gina to grab her coat and shoes and dragged her out of the building. Somehow they had managed to escape in all of the confusion, though they soon discovered that the violence was not confined just to the campus. It had been a harrowing run to his car, which had had the back window smashed in but was otherwise still whole. At least, he'd thought so, until it had spluttered and died only a mile out of the city, leaving them to walk.
Beside him Gina was complaining about her feet again, just loud enough that he knew he was supposed to hear it. He tuned it out instead, trying to decide what they should do. He knew they couldn't keep wandering without a destination in mind; it would only be a matter of time before they were picked off. His best idea was to head for some sort of government building, but he didn't dare turn around to go back into the city and he didn't know the area around it. Sighing, he decided to keep walking and look for the nearest house or building.
A few droplets of rain fell on his head and he glanced up at the sky again. Rain had been threatening all day and as the clouds built up he’d become aware he could smell the bitter, acrid scent he’d first noticed just before dawn on the day they had run. He’d mentioned it to Gina but she’d just shrugged, changing the subject back to her current favourite complaint. He wished he knew what was in the air, and how it was affecting them.
The road dipped down into a valley, and he saw they would have to cross under a railroad bridge. Dead cars were scattered around the opening, creating a winding maze into the darkness of the tunnel. Just the thought of going into it made his heart take a skipping beat and he has to swallow against a suddenly dry throat. He thought they could go around, even if it took them a while, but when he suggested it to Gina, she looked at him as though he had grown another head.
“I'm not walking all the way around, Shia. Don't roll your eyes,” she added, in response to his reaction to the patronizing way she had said his name. “It's just a bridge, don't be such a baby.”
“Gina, I don't think it's safe. Indulge me.”
“No,” she said. “My feet hurt.”
In desperation he tried to command her to go around, as earlier he had commanded her to stand up, but he felt no tugging in the back of his mind and she just snorted, heading for the bridge. Reluctantly Shia followed her, trying to look in all directions at once. Up close, the cars were as damaged as the ones back in the city, even the ones that had just stopped in the middle of the road. Others had slammed into other cars or into the sides of the bridge itself. It was like walking through an automobile graveyard and Shia felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck just looking at them. He shuddered and squinted into the dark under the bridge, then squared his shoulders and forced himself to follow Gina into it.
He told himself it was all an illusion, but the space under the bridge seemed much longer than it looked from the outside. The light marking the exit was barely a pinpoint, and he could only just see that the tangle of crashed cars continued all along the tunnel. Gina was already picking her way through them, fading into the gloom as she left the weak light cast through the mouth of the tunnel.
Shia hurried to catch up to her, but his toe caught on something and he sprawled on his front, just barely missing splitting his head open on a car bumper. When he picked himself up, there was no sign of Gina ahead of him. He stopped and listened, holding his breath in an attempt to hear better. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and his chest felt tight. The silence pressed down on him, heavy and oppressive. Then behind him and to the right, he heard a soft scrape, like a shoe being scuffed across the pavement.
Panic gripped him and he bolted, running blindly through the tangled steel jungle of wrecked cars. He slipped on something and almost fell again, hitting his shoulder hard on a twisted bumper as he caught himself. The pain was distant and he barely noticed the warmth soaking into his shirt. Footsteps sounded behind him, at least half a dozen to his frightened mind. He put his head down and forced himself to run faster, zig-zagging through the maze of broken cars, his eyes fixed on the light in the distance.
Fingers snatched at the hem of his shirt and then he was out into the overcast afternoon, stumbling as the light hurt his eyes. He hit another car and rebounded off it, pressing a hand to the stitch developing in his side. He risked a glance over his shoulder and, seeing nothing near the exit to the tunnel, gradually slowed down and then stopped, panting for breath. A bird twittered in a tree to the side of the road and he gave a start, swallowing against a cry of alarm. Steeling himself, he took a few cautious steps back towards the tunnel, then stopped again. When nothing happened, he hesitantly walked as close as he dared and tried to see into the darkness beneath the bridge.
“Gina?” He cleared his throat and raised his voice to call again. “Gina, where are you?”
He caught sight of something glimmering in the darkness as he turned his head. It took all of his courage to move closer and reach in to snatch it up, then he scrambled backwards. He took a look at the object in his hand and almost dropped it in disgust, a low whine coming from deep in his throat.
The chunk of bone was still wet with blood, both ends jagged where it had been ripped out. A scrap of flesh hung from one end, but otherwise it had been stripped clean. Clenching his teeth against the urge to vomit, Shia spun and hurled it into the field bordering the road, then scrubbed his palm against his dirty jeans until his palm was red and sore.
Something in the darkness under the bridge growled at him and he fled, running until his chest burned. His shoulder throbbed where he had hit it on the bumper, and that pain finally brought him to a stop. He found a flat, open space and examined his shoulder, wincing as he pulled blood-soaked cloth away from the wound. The gash was deep and ragged, with flecks of paint driven into the flesh around it. He pulled the shirt off completely and used it to make a clumsy bandage and sling for his arm, then kept walking, forcing himself to think about nothing but finding somewhere to spend the night.
It was nearing dusk when he topped another rise in the road and saw the town spread out below him. The sight nearly brought him to tears, and he forced himself into a shambling run to reach it before dark fell. He made it to the nearest plaza and ducked into the drug store, checking to make sure the break room in the back had a door with a lock on it. As the setting sun cast long shadows across the floor, he gathered a first-aid kit, painkillers, bandaging, and something to eat. Taking it into the break room, he dumped it all on the scarred wooden table and locked the door, leaning a chair under the doorknob as extra protection.
Exhausted, he dropped down on the ratty couch along one wall and put his head in his hands. He felt as though he should weep for Gina, but he felt completely numb inside. After a moment, he sat up and opened the first-aid kit to clean out his shoulder, twitching as the hydrogen peroxide soaked in. By the time he was finished getting all the paint flakes out, he was surrounded by bloody scraps of gauze and nearly reeling with dizziness. The gash needed stitches, but he wasn't about to try and sew it up himself, and he didn’t think the local hospital would be accepting patients. Instead he swallowed a couple of painkillers and wrapped his shoulder in bandages, then tied it up in a sling.
He didn't feel hungry but he forced himself to eat anyway, picking at the junk food he'd gathered up. He found himself daydreaming of his mother's roast beef, but the thought of his family was too painful and he forced himself to find something else to think about, shying away from thoughts of Gina or of his current situation. Eventually, exhausted, he lay down on the couch to try and sleep. The blanket he'd found draped over the back of the couch smelled musty and was thin, but it was still better than nothing. He closed his eyes and made himself relax until gradually he drifted off into a light, restless sleep.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The Boys of Winter Story - Chapter Four
Oz lay awake, staring up at the ceiling and listening to York’s stuffy breathing beside him. The stress and adrenaline rush of the past few hours combined to keep him wide awake, though he felt exhausted down to his bones. He tried to force himself to sleep but sleep wouldn’t come. Time ticked by, until the first faint light of dawn crept in through the small barred window at the top of one wall. With a sigh, Oz swung his feet out of bed and got up, thinking he could have a look around in the morning light.
He left the bedroom quietly so he wouldn’t wake Sarah when he passed her, but the couch-bed was empty. Feeling uneasy, he glanced at the shelf where she’d hung her dress to dry and saw it had been replaced by the sweatpants and T-shirt York had given her to sleep in. He went upstairs to get a drink and to see if she was awake, and found the kitchen empty but the front door hanging slightly open. A bitter smell had crept into the kitchen and he wondered if a skunk had wandered by during the night. Waving a hand in front of his nose, he went to the front door and looked outside.
Sarah was sliding into the driver’s seat of the Jeep, the keys in one hand and one of York’s grandfather’s hunting rifles in the other. Swearing under his breath, Oz bolted down the steps and grabbed her arm, yanking her halfway out of the car. She glared at him and tried to bring the rifle to bear on him, but it got tangled in the seatbelt.
“Let go, or I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarled.
“You are not stealing our car, you lying bitch,” Oz snapped back, catching her in the chin with the heel of his hand and slamming her head back. She grunted and pulled on the gun, almost freeing it from the tangles of the seatbelt. Starting to panic that she might get it free, Oz grabbed her by the front of her dress and by her long hair, and hauled her out of the car.
She dropped the keys but kept her grip on the gun, and as she tumbled out of the Jeep, the gun came free of the seatbelt. Oz scrambled back, then froze as she got to her feet and aimed the rifle unwaveringly at his head. Sudden vicious hatred flared through him and he took a lunging step towards her, meaning to make a last-ditch effort to tackle her. He saw her eyes narrow, then she pulled the trigger.
Heat flashed through him and he hazily wondered if it meant he’d gone straight to hell. Screaming jolted him out of his confusion and he opened his eyes to see that Sarah was on fire, flames licking at her dress and long hair. She flung the gun away and threw herself on the ground, rolling and beating at her body to try and put out the fire. Oz gaped at the sight, then turned and ran for the kitchen, passing a sleepy York on the way. He snatched the fire extinguisher off the wall and ran back outside to spray Sarah.
The flames were strangely resistant and by the time they finally went out, Sarah had stopped screaming. Holding his breath against the smell of charred and smoking flesh, Oz cautiously approached her body. The sight of her eyes opening in her burnt face nearly made him scream, but her gaze was unfocused and a moment later went blank. He tried to force himself to check and make sure she was really dead, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach down and touch her.
“Oz.” York’s voice snapped him out of his horrified daze and he looked up, realizing there were people in the shadows under the trees. They didn’t stray out into the light but he still paused only long enough to scoop up the car keys before running for the house. He caught York around the waist on the way by and hauled him bodily back inside, kicking the door shut behind them and locking it.
“Basement, now,” he said, interrupting York’s demand to know what was going on. To his relief York shut his mouth and went back down into the basement.
“Is she dead?” he asked quietly, once Oz had shut and locked the basement door. In the gloom his eyes were wide and white.
“Yeah. Dammit, I should’ve grabbed the gun too.” Oz ran both hands through his hair, making it stand up in tufts, and thought of the flash of heat that had gone through him. “I don’t know what happened. I went out and she was trying to steal the car, then she tried to shoot me, and then she was on fire.”
“Spontaneous combustion?” York asked uncertainly.
“Maybe it was your aliens,” Oz snapped, and immediately regretted it. “I'm sorry. I'm rattled.”
“Forget about it.” York stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, resting his chin on the top of Oz’s head.
Oz leaned against him for a few moments, grateful for the comfort, then nuzzled his neck and pulled back. “We have to get moving.”
“What? Why?” The look York gave him was almost reproachful.
“Because something is seriously wrong and we can’t spend forever hiding out in your grandparents’ basement in the country. We need to find out what’s going on. We’ll go…” Oz hesitated slightly, thinking, then continued, “Ottawa. We’ll go to Ottawa and make the PM actually do his job.”
He saw the hesitation and uncertainty on York’s face and turned him bodily around, pushing him towards the back bedroom. After a moment York went forward under his own momentum and Oz let him go, briefly watching him start packing clothing and toiletries before jogging back up the basement stairs. He paused at the closed door and listened intently, then cautiously let himself out into the empty kitchen. A band of sunlight lay across the kitchen table but it was weak and pale.
He gathered up the cloth shopping bags from the hook on the inside of the pantry door and started filling them with cans and jars of food. He added a loaf of bread and the can opener, then set the bags by the door and went to the fridge to add a case of water and a carry-pack of Sprite to the pile. After a few moments of thought, he also grabbed a couple of long knives from the drawer and a bunch of dish towels to wrap them in.
Oz contemplated the pile for a minute then glanced out the window at the front yard, avoiding looking directly at Sarah’s charred corpse and squinting at the shadows under the trees instead. He could see vague flashes of colour—red, blue, purple, white—against the greens and browns of the woods. A shiver went down his spine and he turned away from the window, double-checking to make sure the front door was locked before he went back downstairs to see how York was making out.
York met him at the foot of the stairs, carrying a duffel bag in one hand and a hiking backpack slung over his other shoulder. Oz took the duffel bag and led the way back upstairs, dumping it beside the little pile beside the back door.
“Anything else we might need?” he asked, purposely keeping his back to the window that looked out over the front yard.
“If the power's still off, I don't think we'll be able to get gas. Papa might have left some out in the shed.” York chewed on his bottom lip. “The other hunting rifles are probably out there too.”
“Wait here.” Oz unlocked the front door and eased it open, stepping out onto the porch when nothing leaped out at him. “I want to grab this rifle first.”
“You don't need to act like a hard-ass, Oz,” York called after him.
“Sure I do,” Oz muttered. He glanced at the shifting colours under the trees then hurried across the dying grass towards the rifle. The sickly-sweet stench of charred flesh and hair filled his nose and he fought the urge to sneeze. Crouching down, he snatched up the rifle and nearly ran back to the porch.
“My hero,” York said, laughing a little. Oz stuck his tongue out and took York's hand so they could walk down to the shed together.
He glanced up at the sky as they walked, watching the clouds gather and drift across the sky. It was growing dark as they covered the sun and he looked nervously at the trees, but the shadows beneath them were empty. He couldn’t help wondering what was wrong with the people who had been lurking there earlier, that they wouldn’t step out into the light. Before he could stop himself, he thought of Sarah’s story about her dog and a violent shiver went through him, making York look at him in concern.
The shed door was padlocked but York felt around on top of the doorframe until he found a key to unlock it. The inside was cool and dark; the windows had been covered with dust and cobwebs, allowing very little of the grey light inside. Wishing they’d thought to bring a flashlight, Oz flicked off the safety on the rifle and took a cautious step into the shed.
His eyes adjusted slowly, showing him that there wasn't much room for anybody to hide in all the clutter; there was barely enough room for Oz to walk to the back, where the guns sat neatly in a homemade rack. He took down the other hunting rifle and handed it to York, then started filling his pockets with small cardboard boxes of bullets from the worktable below the rack. Beside him, York loaded the second rifle with the ease of practice.
Oz turned to go back outside and froze at the sound of a low growl directly over his head. He looked up slowly and felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of the child in the rafters, hanging from one of the beams like a grotesque spider. He couldn't tell if it was male or female; it was skinny and dressed in nondescript rags. Both eyes had been torn out but it was focused on him so intently that he had the uncanny sensation it could see him anyway.
York walked past him then glanced back and followed his gaze up to the ceiling. Oz saw him begin to raise the rifle but the child launched itself at them before he got it further than halfway. It landed on Oz, knocking him flat on his back, and he felt its hot breath on his throat. Grabbing it by the shoulders with panicky tightness, he tried to shove it away, surprised at its wiry strength. It darted its head down and snapped at his neck, missing his skin by centimetres and frightening a choked scream out of him.
He'd dropped the rifle when he fell, but a desperate attempt to reach out for it rewarded him with the feel of cool metal under his fingers. He tightened his grip around the muzzle and brought it up and around in a short, punishing blow against the side of the creature's head. The creature tumbled off him and he heard it wail in a perversion of a normal child's cry of pain. Shuddering with revulsion, Oz scrambled to his feet and bolted from the shed, dragging York with him.
“Get in the car.” He pressed the keys into York's hand and ran to grab their supplies, taking as much as he could carry out to the car and tossing it haphazardly into the back seat. He forced himself to walk back for the rest of their gear, though his walk was stiff-legged and uneven. As he was getting into the passenger seat he thought he saw movement from the open door of the shed and nearly slammed the door shut on his own foot in his scramble to get fully into the vehicle. York put his foot down on the gas as soon as Oz was in, sending the Jeep fishtailing down the driveway and out onto the road.
“We never got the gas,” York said after they'd gone a few miles in silence.
Oz leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes, fighting nausea. “We'll think about that later.” Still with his eyes closed, he reached out for York's hand and relaxed as York’s fingers laced with his. “We'll get through this.”
He left the bedroom quietly so he wouldn’t wake Sarah when he passed her, but the couch-bed was empty. Feeling uneasy, he glanced at the shelf where she’d hung her dress to dry and saw it had been replaced by the sweatpants and T-shirt York had given her to sleep in. He went upstairs to get a drink and to see if she was awake, and found the kitchen empty but the front door hanging slightly open. A bitter smell had crept into the kitchen and he wondered if a skunk had wandered by during the night. Waving a hand in front of his nose, he went to the front door and looked outside.
Sarah was sliding into the driver’s seat of the Jeep, the keys in one hand and one of York’s grandfather’s hunting rifles in the other. Swearing under his breath, Oz bolted down the steps and grabbed her arm, yanking her halfway out of the car. She glared at him and tried to bring the rifle to bear on him, but it got tangled in the seatbelt.
“Let go, or I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarled.
“You are not stealing our car, you lying bitch,” Oz snapped back, catching her in the chin with the heel of his hand and slamming her head back. She grunted and pulled on the gun, almost freeing it from the tangles of the seatbelt. Starting to panic that she might get it free, Oz grabbed her by the front of her dress and by her long hair, and hauled her out of the car.
She dropped the keys but kept her grip on the gun, and as she tumbled out of the Jeep, the gun came free of the seatbelt. Oz scrambled back, then froze as she got to her feet and aimed the rifle unwaveringly at his head. Sudden vicious hatred flared through him and he took a lunging step towards her, meaning to make a last-ditch effort to tackle her. He saw her eyes narrow, then she pulled the trigger.
Heat flashed through him and he hazily wondered if it meant he’d gone straight to hell. Screaming jolted him out of his confusion and he opened his eyes to see that Sarah was on fire, flames licking at her dress and long hair. She flung the gun away and threw herself on the ground, rolling and beating at her body to try and put out the fire. Oz gaped at the sight, then turned and ran for the kitchen, passing a sleepy York on the way. He snatched the fire extinguisher off the wall and ran back outside to spray Sarah.
The flames were strangely resistant and by the time they finally went out, Sarah had stopped screaming. Holding his breath against the smell of charred and smoking flesh, Oz cautiously approached her body. The sight of her eyes opening in her burnt face nearly made him scream, but her gaze was unfocused and a moment later went blank. He tried to force himself to check and make sure she was really dead, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach down and touch her.
“Oz.” York’s voice snapped him out of his horrified daze and he looked up, realizing there were people in the shadows under the trees. They didn’t stray out into the light but he still paused only long enough to scoop up the car keys before running for the house. He caught York around the waist on the way by and hauled him bodily back inside, kicking the door shut behind them and locking it.
“Basement, now,” he said, interrupting York’s demand to know what was going on. To his relief York shut his mouth and went back down into the basement.
“Is she dead?” he asked quietly, once Oz had shut and locked the basement door. In the gloom his eyes were wide and white.
“Yeah. Dammit, I should’ve grabbed the gun too.” Oz ran both hands through his hair, making it stand up in tufts, and thought of the flash of heat that had gone through him. “I don’t know what happened. I went out and she was trying to steal the car, then she tried to shoot me, and then she was on fire.”
“Spontaneous combustion?” York asked uncertainly.
“Maybe it was your aliens,” Oz snapped, and immediately regretted it. “I'm sorry. I'm rattled.”
“Forget about it.” York stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, resting his chin on the top of Oz’s head.
Oz leaned against him for a few moments, grateful for the comfort, then nuzzled his neck and pulled back. “We have to get moving.”
“What? Why?” The look York gave him was almost reproachful.
“Because something is seriously wrong and we can’t spend forever hiding out in your grandparents’ basement in the country. We need to find out what’s going on. We’ll go…” Oz hesitated slightly, thinking, then continued, “Ottawa. We’ll go to Ottawa and make the PM actually do his job.”
He saw the hesitation and uncertainty on York’s face and turned him bodily around, pushing him towards the back bedroom. After a moment York went forward under his own momentum and Oz let him go, briefly watching him start packing clothing and toiletries before jogging back up the basement stairs. He paused at the closed door and listened intently, then cautiously let himself out into the empty kitchen. A band of sunlight lay across the kitchen table but it was weak and pale.
He gathered up the cloth shopping bags from the hook on the inside of the pantry door and started filling them with cans and jars of food. He added a loaf of bread and the can opener, then set the bags by the door and went to the fridge to add a case of water and a carry-pack of Sprite to the pile. After a few moments of thought, he also grabbed a couple of long knives from the drawer and a bunch of dish towels to wrap them in.
Oz contemplated the pile for a minute then glanced out the window at the front yard, avoiding looking directly at Sarah’s charred corpse and squinting at the shadows under the trees instead. He could see vague flashes of colour—red, blue, purple, white—against the greens and browns of the woods. A shiver went down his spine and he turned away from the window, double-checking to make sure the front door was locked before he went back downstairs to see how York was making out.
York met him at the foot of the stairs, carrying a duffel bag in one hand and a hiking backpack slung over his other shoulder. Oz took the duffel bag and led the way back upstairs, dumping it beside the little pile beside the back door.
“Anything else we might need?” he asked, purposely keeping his back to the window that looked out over the front yard.
“If the power's still off, I don't think we'll be able to get gas. Papa might have left some out in the shed.” York chewed on his bottom lip. “The other hunting rifles are probably out there too.”
“Wait here.” Oz unlocked the front door and eased it open, stepping out onto the porch when nothing leaped out at him. “I want to grab this rifle first.”
“You don't need to act like a hard-ass, Oz,” York called after him.
“Sure I do,” Oz muttered. He glanced at the shifting colours under the trees then hurried across the dying grass towards the rifle. The sickly-sweet stench of charred flesh and hair filled his nose and he fought the urge to sneeze. Crouching down, he snatched up the rifle and nearly ran back to the porch.
“My hero,” York said, laughing a little. Oz stuck his tongue out and took York's hand so they could walk down to the shed together.
He glanced up at the sky as they walked, watching the clouds gather and drift across the sky. It was growing dark as they covered the sun and he looked nervously at the trees, but the shadows beneath them were empty. He couldn’t help wondering what was wrong with the people who had been lurking there earlier, that they wouldn’t step out into the light. Before he could stop himself, he thought of Sarah’s story about her dog and a violent shiver went through him, making York look at him in concern.
The shed door was padlocked but York felt around on top of the doorframe until he found a key to unlock it. The inside was cool and dark; the windows had been covered with dust and cobwebs, allowing very little of the grey light inside. Wishing they’d thought to bring a flashlight, Oz flicked off the safety on the rifle and took a cautious step into the shed.
His eyes adjusted slowly, showing him that there wasn't much room for anybody to hide in all the clutter; there was barely enough room for Oz to walk to the back, where the guns sat neatly in a homemade rack. He took down the other hunting rifle and handed it to York, then started filling his pockets with small cardboard boxes of bullets from the worktable below the rack. Beside him, York loaded the second rifle with the ease of practice.
Oz turned to go back outside and froze at the sound of a low growl directly over his head. He looked up slowly and felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of the child in the rafters, hanging from one of the beams like a grotesque spider. He couldn't tell if it was male or female; it was skinny and dressed in nondescript rags. Both eyes had been torn out but it was focused on him so intently that he had the uncanny sensation it could see him anyway.
York walked past him then glanced back and followed his gaze up to the ceiling. Oz saw him begin to raise the rifle but the child launched itself at them before he got it further than halfway. It landed on Oz, knocking him flat on his back, and he felt its hot breath on his throat. Grabbing it by the shoulders with panicky tightness, he tried to shove it away, surprised at its wiry strength. It darted its head down and snapped at his neck, missing his skin by centimetres and frightening a choked scream out of him.
He'd dropped the rifle when he fell, but a desperate attempt to reach out for it rewarded him with the feel of cool metal under his fingers. He tightened his grip around the muzzle and brought it up and around in a short, punishing blow against the side of the creature's head. The creature tumbled off him and he heard it wail in a perversion of a normal child's cry of pain. Shuddering with revulsion, Oz scrambled to his feet and bolted from the shed, dragging York with him.
“Get in the car.” He pressed the keys into York's hand and ran to grab their supplies, taking as much as he could carry out to the car and tossing it haphazardly into the back seat. He forced himself to walk back for the rest of their gear, though his walk was stiff-legged and uneven. As he was getting into the passenger seat he thought he saw movement from the open door of the shed and nearly slammed the door shut on his own foot in his scramble to get fully into the vehicle. York put his foot down on the gas as soon as Oz was in, sending the Jeep fishtailing down the driveway and out onto the road.
“We never got the gas,” York said after they'd gone a few miles in silence.
Oz leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes, fighting nausea. “We'll think about that later.” Still with his eyes closed, he reached out for York's hand and relaxed as York’s fingers laced with his. “We'll get through this.”
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Boys of Winter Story - Chapter Three
York opened his eyes to complete darkness, unsure what had woken him. His room was pitch-black, darker than he’d ever seen it; not even a single streetlight sent its orange glow into his bedroom. Rolling over onto his side, he peered blearily at the clock on the bedside table, but the familiar glowing red numbers weren’t there. At his side, Oz stirred and muttered a sleepy question, then poked him in the ribs when he didn’t respond. York swatted his hand away and got up, feeling his way over to the window.
The lights lining the street outside were dead and no lights shone in the windows of the big houses to either side or across the street either. The moon was only a sliver of silver in the cloudy sky, providing just enough illumination to turn familiar surroundings into shadowy and ominous lumps. It was still raining and he heard a few mutters of thunder. For just a moment he thought he saw movement outside but the strain of trying to focus on it in such dim light made his eyes ache and he soon turned away.
“York?” Oz slipped an arm around his waist. “What is it?”
“Power outage in the storm, I guess.” York leaned on the sill to look up at the sky again. “I have a flashlight around here somewhere.” He turned back into the room again, brushing a kiss across Oz’s forehead before going to dig through his desk drawer for a flashlight. Once he found it he turned it on, casting a small circle of light on the messy floor of his room.
“Why don’t we just go back to bed?” Oz yawned and held his watch under the flashlight’s beam. “It’s... huh, it’s dead.”
“Told you to get new batteries for it.”
“No, you told me you were going to buy me new batteries for it, and I told you to fuck off because I’m not taking charity.”
“Oh, shut up. I’m thirsty.” York headed out into the hallway, the beam of the flashlight bobbing ahead of him. He heard Oz’s footsteps behind him and glanced back to make a comment about being afraid of the dark.
The person behind him was too tall and too broad across the shoulders to be Oz. Spinning on his heel, York flicked the flashlight up to see who it was. The face in the flashlight’s beam was missing the flesh along the left side, revealing the blood-streaked bone underneath. Gobbets of flesh dangled underneath its chin and the eyeball on that side bulged from its socket; the white had gone nearly completely red with blood and the pupil had shrunk to a black pinpoint. Blood soaked the blue chambray workshirt the apparition was wearing, turning it nearly purple.
A fist the size of a brick hit him across the face, knocking him flat and sending the flashlight spinning away from his hand across the polished wooden floor. It hit the wall and went out. Dizzy, York spit out a mouthful of blood and tried to get up but a heavy weight landed on his chest and knocked the air out of his lungs. Hands closed around his throat and the stench of rotting meat filled his nose.
He dimly heard Oz yelling his name but all his attention was focused on the struggle to draw air into his lungs. Warm droplets hit his forehead and cheeks, sliding slowly down his skin. His chest burned and black spots began to creep across his vision. In a last-ditch desperate effort to free himself, he raked his fingers across the face looming above him. His nails tore flesh and skidded across wet bone, until one hit the bulging eyeball and popped it, showering him with fluid.
The man reared back, his grip loosening on York’s throat, and Oz hit him with the baseball bat from York’s room. The man’s skull caved in with a wet crunch and he tumbled to the side, his flailing hand scraping across York’s cheek. York made a low whining noise of disgust and scrambled away, using the wall to pull himself to his feet. His lungs burned as he gasped in cool air and it hurt to swallow, but he’d never tasted anything so sweet.
“Jesus Christ, York, Jesus.” Oz sounded like he was crying, panic underlining his words. Still holding onto the wall, York shuffled past the body to Oz’s side. Oz dropped the baseball bat with a clatter and pulled York into his arms, and they clung to each other until the shudders wracking their bodies subsided.
“You okay?” York asked finally, unable to raise his voice higher than a whisper.
“Am I okay? I’m not the one he was choking.” Oz’s fingers ghosted across York’s throat. “Let me get the flashlight and have a look.”
Holding hands they walked together down the hall until Oz could stoop down and pick up the flashlight. The impact had only knocked the casing loose and it came back on once Oz tightened it. Holding it out in front of him, Oz led the way down to the bathroom and played the light around to make sure it was empty before pushing York in and locking the door behind them. He sat York down on the edge of the spacious bath and inspected his neck.
York sat quietly, though he winced a little despite how gentle Oz’s hands were. “How bad?”
“Bruised but I think you’ll be okay. Are you bleeding anywhere? There’s blood on your face.”
“Not mine, I think.” York followed the light with his eyes as Oz went to wet a washcloth and brought it back to wipe the blood away.
“What the hell was that?”
“Carl, I’m pretty sure.” York found he was trembling again and swallowed hard at the memory of the man’s eyeball popping, flinching as the movement brought a flare of pain through his throat.
“The gardener? We need to call the cops.” Oz ran his fingers through York’s dark hair. “Did he lose his fucking mind?”
York thought of the flesh hanging off the gardener’s face and lunged for the toilet to throw up. Something tore in his throat, sending a line of fire down his neck and filling his mouth with the taste of coppery blood. He hadn’t eaten much the night before—thankfully—and his stomach emptied itself quickly. When he was done he sat back on his heels and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing at the taste of blood on his lips.
“We’ll go to the hospital and tell the cops.” Oz rubbed York’s back. “Up to walking yet?”
“No,” York said, but got to his feet anyway with Oz’s help. He leaned heavily on him as they made their way towards the stairs, avoiding the body still lying on the floor. The flashlight’s beam bounced ahead of them as they went down the stairs, showing nothing but the empty first floor as Oz swept it around.
York grabbed his cell phone off the kitchen counter and turned it on, frowning when it showed no reception. He moved over to the door, where the signal was usually stronger, but his cell phone remained stubbornly out of range. A quick check of the house phones showed the lines were dead as well.
“Nothing.” York sighed and shoved the phone into his pocket. “We’ll have to drive.”
“Take this and wait here.” Oz handed him a butcher’s knife from the knife caddy by the sink. “I’ll get our clothes.” He ran upstairs and soon returned with the clothes they’d been wearing the night before and just dumped on York’s floor. They dressed in silence, then Oz grabbed the keys to the Jeep from the hook by the door and led the way into the garage.
The Jeep was closest to the door, and to York’s surprise, his parents’ Lexus was beside it. They had left a few nights before for a two-week getaway to work on their marriage, and the car hadn’t been there when York and Oz had come back to the house after dinner. York and Oz exchanged a look and York read the same thought in Oz’s eyes as was going through his own mind: did they know Oz was in the house? York didn’t think so, or they would have been yanked out of bed before this, possibly by the police.
“Do you... think they’re okay?” Oz asked, glancing nervously back at the house.
“They probably went out with friends. You know how they are.” York gave Oz’s hand a squeeze and slid into the Jeep’s passenger seat. Oz got into the driver’s side and started the engine easily, but the automatic door opener clipped to the visor refused to open the door. With a sigh Oz got out to haul it open by hand and got back into the car. As he did York caught a whiff of something bitter and rotten in the rainy air, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
They pulled out of the garage, the Jeep’s headlights playing across the dark street and the houses across the road. York thought he saw the house directly across from his was missing its door, but Oz turned onto the road before York could take a better look. The entire neighbourhood was dark and he couldn’t even see the glow of lights in the distance. At the end of the street someone had crashed into a lamppost, totalling their car, but there were no police or ambulance on the scene, and no sirens broke the night’s silence.
“Where is everyone?” Oz asked softly as he took a careful turn onto the highway. “Look, there’s tons of cars in the ditch. Where are the cops?”
“I don’t know.” York turned to squint out the window. “Just get to the hospital, maybe we can find out what’s going on then.”
“I hope so.” Oz put his foot down on the gas, inching the car up above the speed limit. The rain began to fall harder, blurring the windshield despite the rapidly flicking wipers but Oz didn’t let his speed drop. York wanted to ask him to slow down but instead he just held onto the bar on the door, pulling his seatbelt tight around him.
The semi loomed up out of the darkness between one blink and the next, parked horizontally across the road. Oz slammed on the brakes but the wheels just locked on the slick road and sent them skidding sideways towards the body of the truck. York let go of the door bar and covered his head with both arms in an instinctive, futile gesture of protection.
The impact tossed him against the door with a jolt, smacking his head off the window. He heard a loud crunch and Oz’s yelp, and his seatbelt tightened hard enough and fast enough to make him grunt. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of their harsh, fast breathing. Reaching out blindly York took Oz’s hand, then opened his eyes and cast a wide-eyed look out the unbroken windshield.
The body of the truck had bowed in around the impact in a roughly circular shape, leaving the car untouched. He couldn’t even see a scratch on the Jeep’s hood, though the headlights showed the truck’s body bore deep, jagged gouges in the metal. Oz was staring out at the damage with wide brown eyes, his face pale and his mouth hanging open; the hand that York hadn’t claimed gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
“What...?” York managed.
“I don’t...” Oz laughed suddenly, though the sound was slightly hysterical. “It was like this giant soap bubble around the car. It just... protected it.”
“You must have been seeing things. Panic does that.”
“Come on, York, look at the damn truck.”
York shook his head, purposely looking away. “There’s some sort of reasonable explanation for it. Some sort of breakaway material, designed to cut down on fatalities in crashes.”
“Bullshit and you know it. There’s nothing on Earth that could do that.”
“Of course, you’re right. It must’ve been aliens. It’s an alien truck. A disguise for their spaceship.” York rolled his eyes, unable to keep the biting tone out of his voice. “They’re all disguised as semis and sitting in the middle of the highway.”
“Go fuck yourself, asshole.” Oz slammed the Jeep into reverse and backed out.
York bit his lip against a sharp reply and after a moment said, “I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh.” Oz swung the Jeep around the truck and started down the highway again, keeping his speed down this time. Beyond the truck the road was littered with other cars, smashed together and overturned. Oz navigated around them carefully and they both breathed a sigh of relief as the Jeep turned off the highway towards the hospital.
The big hospital was as dark as the rest of the city and Oz drove slowly as he searched for a parking spot. There was a space near the entrance, but Oz only pulled into it and didn’t kill the engine right away, looking up at the shadowy building. The rain pattered down on the car, heavy enough to bounce from the metal. York could see the apprehension on his face and knew they were both reluctant to leave the safety and warmth of the car to cross the dark stretch of pathway between them and the entrance.
“York?” Oz’s voice made him jump and he glanced over with wide eyes.
“My throat feels better. I don’t need to be checked out. Switch spots with me, I’ll drive.”
“Drive where?”
“My Nana’s place. They have that reinforced bunker for a basement, remember? It’ll be safe there.”
“Safe from what?”
“I don’t know, okay? Something. Whatever’s wrong here, ‘cause something is really wrong.”
Oz nodded after a moment and pulled off his seatbelt. York opened his own door and slid out at the same time as Oz did, and they hurried around the front of the car to switch seats. The bitter smell was thick in the air, enhanced by the pouring rain, and as he reached for the driver’s side handle, he was sure he heard harsh, snuffly breathing somewhere behind him. For an instant he froze, then he yanked the door open and threw himself into his seat, slamming the door shut again behind him. The slam was echoed by Oz’s door and they exchanged a frightened look before York put the Jeep into reverse and pulled out.
Neither of them spoke as York got back onto the highway, but after a half-hour of silence, Oz leaned forward to turn the radio on. Nothing but static hissed out of the car’s speakers and after going through the band twice, Oz turned it off again. York barely noticed, all his attention focused on getting them safely around all the obstacles in their path. A drive that should’ve taken twenty minutes at most took him just over an hour and by the time he turned onto the gravel road leading to his grandparents’ house, he had a stress headache pounding behind his eyes. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage of the Jeep as he went down the road, aggravating his headache and forcing him to slow down to avoid skidding in the wet mush the road always became in the rain.
Halfway there, just as he was beginning to relax, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. A shadow darted out into the road, causing him to slam on the brakes. The car fishtailed a little but stopped short of the woman picked out in the high beams. She was barefoot and soaked to the skin, her dark brown hair plastered to her skull and her dirty blue dress clinging to her frame. She ran to the driver’s side as soon as the car stopped and began to pound on the window, so hard York was afraid she might crack it. He hesitantly rolled the window down, remembering Carl the gardener, but she was only dirty and wild-eyed, not bloody.
“Please, you have to take me somewhere safe. Before they find me again. Please, you have to help me. Let me in, please.” She glanced quickly at Oz in the passenger seat, then turned her pleading gaze back to York. “Please.”
York exchanged a glance with Oz, then unlocked the doors. The woman made a sobbing noise of relief and clambered into the back seat, thanking them profusely and introducing herself as Sarah Craig.
“We’re headed to my grandparents,” York told her, watching her in the rearview mirror. “The Fitzpatricks. Do you know them?”
“I-I’ve seen them around.” Sarah’s hand crept up to tug at a lock of tangled wet hair. “Are they at home?”
“I hope so.” York fought off a distinct feeling of unease. His grandparents’ house appeared on the right, only just visible in the shadows of a stand of trees; it was as dark as everything else around them. Pulling into the driveway, York parked as close to the house as he dared and switched off the engine.
Sarah threw the back door open and got out, gesturing for them to follow her up onto the front porch. York and Oz exchanged a glance then followed her, bumping their shoulders together as they walked. The front door was locked but York found the spare key underneath the welcome mat and let them in, calling a hello. There was no answer, even when Oz yelled as loud as he could. After a moment York went into the kitchen and found a lighter, lighting the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table and turning it up so it illuminated the room. He looked around but saw no note explaining where his grandparents had gone; but when he checked the garage he saw their car wasn’t in its usual place. Wondering if they'd gone out with his parents—unlikely, but this was a night for strange things—he went back into the kitchen.
Oz had already set out three mugs on the counter and put the kettle to boiling. Leah had sat down at the table, shivering, and gratefully accepted the towel York fetched for her. Finished with the tea, Oz brought their mugs over to them then pulled the kitchen stool up to the table to sit on. York took the other chair and wrapped his hands around the warm mug, breathing in the tea-scented steam rising from it.
“What were you doing out in the rain?” York asked once he’d had a chance to drink some of his tea.
She was silent for a moment, warming her hands. “I rented the old Thompson place a few weeks ago, just me and my dog.” Her lip trembled for a moment and she took a deep breath. “You heard about the volcano?” When they shook their heads she gave them the rundown on the eruption of the supervolcano on Toba Lake, then continued. “I went to bed early because I got sick of the doom and gloom of the news. I left Ellie, my dog, downstairs. She woke me up a little later, barking like she does when there’s a stranger at the door. I hadn’t heard the doorbell but I got up anyway, ‘cause maybe it was someone who needed help.
“Ellie stopped barking while I was throwing this dress on but then she started yelping like she’d hurt herself.” Sarah wiped absently at the tears rolling down her cheeks. So I went running downstairs. The side door was wide open—it’s never shut properly—and this... man had come in. He’d... he’d killed Ellie and he was... eating her.” She took a deep breath. “I screamed and he came after me. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. I somehow managed to avoid him and then I ran. Kept running until I heard your car.”
“I’m sorry,” York said after a moment of silence. He almost told Sarah about Carl’s attack on him in the house, but after a quick shared look with Oz, he decided not to. “We’ll be safe here until morning. When it’s daylight we can go to the cops.”
He drained the last of his tea and gathered up the mugs to put in the sink, then picked up the kerosene lamp and led the way down into the basement, closing and locking the door behind them. With Oz’s help he pulled out the couch-bed and set it up while Sarah took a shower, leaving a pair of his old sweatpants and a T-shirt for her to change into when she was done. Taking Oz’s hand, he led the way into the back bedroom and they changed and settled into bed. York thought he might stay awake a long time, replaying the past few hours over and over in his mind, but instead he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
The lights lining the street outside were dead and no lights shone in the windows of the big houses to either side or across the street either. The moon was only a sliver of silver in the cloudy sky, providing just enough illumination to turn familiar surroundings into shadowy and ominous lumps. It was still raining and he heard a few mutters of thunder. For just a moment he thought he saw movement outside but the strain of trying to focus on it in such dim light made his eyes ache and he soon turned away.
“York?” Oz slipped an arm around his waist. “What is it?”
“Power outage in the storm, I guess.” York leaned on the sill to look up at the sky again. “I have a flashlight around here somewhere.” He turned back into the room again, brushing a kiss across Oz’s forehead before going to dig through his desk drawer for a flashlight. Once he found it he turned it on, casting a small circle of light on the messy floor of his room.
“Why don’t we just go back to bed?” Oz yawned and held his watch under the flashlight’s beam. “It’s... huh, it’s dead.”
“Told you to get new batteries for it.”
“No, you told me you were going to buy me new batteries for it, and I told you to fuck off because I’m not taking charity.”
“Oh, shut up. I’m thirsty.” York headed out into the hallway, the beam of the flashlight bobbing ahead of him. He heard Oz’s footsteps behind him and glanced back to make a comment about being afraid of the dark.
The person behind him was too tall and too broad across the shoulders to be Oz. Spinning on his heel, York flicked the flashlight up to see who it was. The face in the flashlight’s beam was missing the flesh along the left side, revealing the blood-streaked bone underneath. Gobbets of flesh dangled underneath its chin and the eyeball on that side bulged from its socket; the white had gone nearly completely red with blood and the pupil had shrunk to a black pinpoint. Blood soaked the blue chambray workshirt the apparition was wearing, turning it nearly purple.
A fist the size of a brick hit him across the face, knocking him flat and sending the flashlight spinning away from his hand across the polished wooden floor. It hit the wall and went out. Dizzy, York spit out a mouthful of blood and tried to get up but a heavy weight landed on his chest and knocked the air out of his lungs. Hands closed around his throat and the stench of rotting meat filled his nose.
He dimly heard Oz yelling his name but all his attention was focused on the struggle to draw air into his lungs. Warm droplets hit his forehead and cheeks, sliding slowly down his skin. His chest burned and black spots began to creep across his vision. In a last-ditch desperate effort to free himself, he raked his fingers across the face looming above him. His nails tore flesh and skidded across wet bone, until one hit the bulging eyeball and popped it, showering him with fluid.
The man reared back, his grip loosening on York’s throat, and Oz hit him with the baseball bat from York’s room. The man’s skull caved in with a wet crunch and he tumbled to the side, his flailing hand scraping across York’s cheek. York made a low whining noise of disgust and scrambled away, using the wall to pull himself to his feet. His lungs burned as he gasped in cool air and it hurt to swallow, but he’d never tasted anything so sweet.
“Jesus Christ, York, Jesus.” Oz sounded like he was crying, panic underlining his words. Still holding onto the wall, York shuffled past the body to Oz’s side. Oz dropped the baseball bat with a clatter and pulled York into his arms, and they clung to each other until the shudders wracking their bodies subsided.
“You okay?” York asked finally, unable to raise his voice higher than a whisper.
“Am I okay? I’m not the one he was choking.” Oz’s fingers ghosted across York’s throat. “Let me get the flashlight and have a look.”
Holding hands they walked together down the hall until Oz could stoop down and pick up the flashlight. The impact had only knocked the casing loose and it came back on once Oz tightened it. Holding it out in front of him, Oz led the way down to the bathroom and played the light around to make sure it was empty before pushing York in and locking the door behind them. He sat York down on the edge of the spacious bath and inspected his neck.
York sat quietly, though he winced a little despite how gentle Oz’s hands were. “How bad?”
“Bruised but I think you’ll be okay. Are you bleeding anywhere? There’s blood on your face.”
“Not mine, I think.” York followed the light with his eyes as Oz went to wet a washcloth and brought it back to wipe the blood away.
“What the hell was that?”
“Carl, I’m pretty sure.” York found he was trembling again and swallowed hard at the memory of the man’s eyeball popping, flinching as the movement brought a flare of pain through his throat.
“The gardener? We need to call the cops.” Oz ran his fingers through York’s dark hair. “Did he lose his fucking mind?”
York thought of the flesh hanging off the gardener’s face and lunged for the toilet to throw up. Something tore in his throat, sending a line of fire down his neck and filling his mouth with the taste of coppery blood. He hadn’t eaten much the night before—thankfully—and his stomach emptied itself quickly. When he was done he sat back on his heels and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing at the taste of blood on his lips.
“We’ll go to the hospital and tell the cops.” Oz rubbed York’s back. “Up to walking yet?”
“No,” York said, but got to his feet anyway with Oz’s help. He leaned heavily on him as they made their way towards the stairs, avoiding the body still lying on the floor. The flashlight’s beam bounced ahead of them as they went down the stairs, showing nothing but the empty first floor as Oz swept it around.
York grabbed his cell phone off the kitchen counter and turned it on, frowning when it showed no reception. He moved over to the door, where the signal was usually stronger, but his cell phone remained stubbornly out of range. A quick check of the house phones showed the lines were dead as well.
“Nothing.” York sighed and shoved the phone into his pocket. “We’ll have to drive.”
“Take this and wait here.” Oz handed him a butcher’s knife from the knife caddy by the sink. “I’ll get our clothes.” He ran upstairs and soon returned with the clothes they’d been wearing the night before and just dumped on York’s floor. They dressed in silence, then Oz grabbed the keys to the Jeep from the hook by the door and led the way into the garage.
The Jeep was closest to the door, and to York’s surprise, his parents’ Lexus was beside it. They had left a few nights before for a two-week getaway to work on their marriage, and the car hadn’t been there when York and Oz had come back to the house after dinner. York and Oz exchanged a look and York read the same thought in Oz’s eyes as was going through his own mind: did they know Oz was in the house? York didn’t think so, or they would have been yanked out of bed before this, possibly by the police.
“Do you... think they’re okay?” Oz asked, glancing nervously back at the house.
“They probably went out with friends. You know how they are.” York gave Oz’s hand a squeeze and slid into the Jeep’s passenger seat. Oz got into the driver’s side and started the engine easily, but the automatic door opener clipped to the visor refused to open the door. With a sigh Oz got out to haul it open by hand and got back into the car. As he did York caught a whiff of something bitter and rotten in the rainy air, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
They pulled out of the garage, the Jeep’s headlights playing across the dark street and the houses across the road. York thought he saw the house directly across from his was missing its door, but Oz turned onto the road before York could take a better look. The entire neighbourhood was dark and he couldn’t even see the glow of lights in the distance. At the end of the street someone had crashed into a lamppost, totalling their car, but there were no police or ambulance on the scene, and no sirens broke the night’s silence.
“Where is everyone?” Oz asked softly as he took a careful turn onto the highway. “Look, there’s tons of cars in the ditch. Where are the cops?”
“I don’t know.” York turned to squint out the window. “Just get to the hospital, maybe we can find out what’s going on then.”
“I hope so.” Oz put his foot down on the gas, inching the car up above the speed limit. The rain began to fall harder, blurring the windshield despite the rapidly flicking wipers but Oz didn’t let his speed drop. York wanted to ask him to slow down but instead he just held onto the bar on the door, pulling his seatbelt tight around him.
The semi loomed up out of the darkness between one blink and the next, parked horizontally across the road. Oz slammed on the brakes but the wheels just locked on the slick road and sent them skidding sideways towards the body of the truck. York let go of the door bar and covered his head with both arms in an instinctive, futile gesture of protection.
The impact tossed him against the door with a jolt, smacking his head off the window. He heard a loud crunch and Oz’s yelp, and his seatbelt tightened hard enough and fast enough to make him grunt. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of their harsh, fast breathing. Reaching out blindly York took Oz’s hand, then opened his eyes and cast a wide-eyed look out the unbroken windshield.
The body of the truck had bowed in around the impact in a roughly circular shape, leaving the car untouched. He couldn’t even see a scratch on the Jeep’s hood, though the headlights showed the truck’s body bore deep, jagged gouges in the metal. Oz was staring out at the damage with wide brown eyes, his face pale and his mouth hanging open; the hand that York hadn’t claimed gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
“What...?” York managed.
“I don’t...” Oz laughed suddenly, though the sound was slightly hysterical. “It was like this giant soap bubble around the car. It just... protected it.”
“You must have been seeing things. Panic does that.”
“Come on, York, look at the damn truck.”
York shook his head, purposely looking away. “There’s some sort of reasonable explanation for it. Some sort of breakaway material, designed to cut down on fatalities in crashes.”
“Bullshit and you know it. There’s nothing on Earth that could do that.”
“Of course, you’re right. It must’ve been aliens. It’s an alien truck. A disguise for their spaceship.” York rolled his eyes, unable to keep the biting tone out of his voice. “They’re all disguised as semis and sitting in the middle of the highway.”
“Go fuck yourself, asshole.” Oz slammed the Jeep into reverse and backed out.
York bit his lip against a sharp reply and after a moment said, “I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh.” Oz swung the Jeep around the truck and started down the highway again, keeping his speed down this time. Beyond the truck the road was littered with other cars, smashed together and overturned. Oz navigated around them carefully and they both breathed a sigh of relief as the Jeep turned off the highway towards the hospital.
The big hospital was as dark as the rest of the city and Oz drove slowly as he searched for a parking spot. There was a space near the entrance, but Oz only pulled into it and didn’t kill the engine right away, looking up at the shadowy building. The rain pattered down on the car, heavy enough to bounce from the metal. York could see the apprehension on his face and knew they were both reluctant to leave the safety and warmth of the car to cross the dark stretch of pathway between them and the entrance.
“York?” Oz’s voice made him jump and he glanced over with wide eyes.
“My throat feels better. I don’t need to be checked out. Switch spots with me, I’ll drive.”
“Drive where?”
“My Nana’s place. They have that reinforced bunker for a basement, remember? It’ll be safe there.”
“Safe from what?”
“I don’t know, okay? Something. Whatever’s wrong here, ‘cause something is really wrong.”
Oz nodded after a moment and pulled off his seatbelt. York opened his own door and slid out at the same time as Oz did, and they hurried around the front of the car to switch seats. The bitter smell was thick in the air, enhanced by the pouring rain, and as he reached for the driver’s side handle, he was sure he heard harsh, snuffly breathing somewhere behind him. For an instant he froze, then he yanked the door open and threw himself into his seat, slamming the door shut again behind him. The slam was echoed by Oz’s door and they exchanged a frightened look before York put the Jeep into reverse and pulled out.
Neither of them spoke as York got back onto the highway, but after a half-hour of silence, Oz leaned forward to turn the radio on. Nothing but static hissed out of the car’s speakers and after going through the band twice, Oz turned it off again. York barely noticed, all his attention focused on getting them safely around all the obstacles in their path. A drive that should’ve taken twenty minutes at most took him just over an hour and by the time he turned onto the gravel road leading to his grandparents’ house, he had a stress headache pounding behind his eyes. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage of the Jeep as he went down the road, aggravating his headache and forcing him to slow down to avoid skidding in the wet mush the road always became in the rain.
Halfway there, just as he was beginning to relax, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. A shadow darted out into the road, causing him to slam on the brakes. The car fishtailed a little but stopped short of the woman picked out in the high beams. She was barefoot and soaked to the skin, her dark brown hair plastered to her skull and her dirty blue dress clinging to her frame. She ran to the driver’s side as soon as the car stopped and began to pound on the window, so hard York was afraid she might crack it. He hesitantly rolled the window down, remembering Carl the gardener, but she was only dirty and wild-eyed, not bloody.
“Please, you have to take me somewhere safe. Before they find me again. Please, you have to help me. Let me in, please.” She glanced quickly at Oz in the passenger seat, then turned her pleading gaze back to York. “Please.”
York exchanged a glance with Oz, then unlocked the doors. The woman made a sobbing noise of relief and clambered into the back seat, thanking them profusely and introducing herself as Sarah Craig.
“We’re headed to my grandparents,” York told her, watching her in the rearview mirror. “The Fitzpatricks. Do you know them?”
“I-I’ve seen them around.” Sarah’s hand crept up to tug at a lock of tangled wet hair. “Are they at home?”
“I hope so.” York fought off a distinct feeling of unease. His grandparents’ house appeared on the right, only just visible in the shadows of a stand of trees; it was as dark as everything else around them. Pulling into the driveway, York parked as close to the house as he dared and switched off the engine.
Sarah threw the back door open and got out, gesturing for them to follow her up onto the front porch. York and Oz exchanged a glance then followed her, bumping their shoulders together as they walked. The front door was locked but York found the spare key underneath the welcome mat and let them in, calling a hello. There was no answer, even when Oz yelled as loud as he could. After a moment York went into the kitchen and found a lighter, lighting the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table and turning it up so it illuminated the room. He looked around but saw no note explaining where his grandparents had gone; but when he checked the garage he saw their car wasn’t in its usual place. Wondering if they'd gone out with his parents—unlikely, but this was a night for strange things—he went back into the kitchen.
Oz had already set out three mugs on the counter and put the kettle to boiling. Leah had sat down at the table, shivering, and gratefully accepted the towel York fetched for her. Finished with the tea, Oz brought their mugs over to them then pulled the kitchen stool up to the table to sit on. York took the other chair and wrapped his hands around the warm mug, breathing in the tea-scented steam rising from it.
“What were you doing out in the rain?” York asked once he’d had a chance to drink some of his tea.
She was silent for a moment, warming her hands. “I rented the old Thompson place a few weeks ago, just me and my dog.” Her lip trembled for a moment and she took a deep breath. “You heard about the volcano?” When they shook their heads she gave them the rundown on the eruption of the supervolcano on Toba Lake, then continued. “I went to bed early because I got sick of the doom and gloom of the news. I left Ellie, my dog, downstairs. She woke me up a little later, barking like she does when there’s a stranger at the door. I hadn’t heard the doorbell but I got up anyway, ‘cause maybe it was someone who needed help.
“Ellie stopped barking while I was throwing this dress on but then she started yelping like she’d hurt herself.” Sarah wiped absently at the tears rolling down her cheeks. So I went running downstairs. The side door was wide open—it’s never shut properly—and this... man had come in. He’d... he’d killed Ellie and he was... eating her.” She took a deep breath. “I screamed and he came after me. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. I somehow managed to avoid him and then I ran. Kept running until I heard your car.”
“I’m sorry,” York said after a moment of silence. He almost told Sarah about Carl’s attack on him in the house, but after a quick shared look with Oz, he decided not to. “We’ll be safe here until morning. When it’s daylight we can go to the cops.”
He drained the last of his tea and gathered up the mugs to put in the sink, then picked up the kerosene lamp and led the way down into the basement, closing and locking the door behind them. With Oz’s help he pulled out the couch-bed and set it up while Sarah took a shower, leaving a pair of his old sweatpants and a T-shirt for her to change into when she was done. Taking Oz’s hand, he led the way into the back bedroom and they changed and settled into bed. York thought he might stay awake a long time, replaying the past few hours over and over in his mind, but instead he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
The Boys of Winter Story - Chapter Two
Severin waited until Baz’s breathing deepened into the steadiness of sleep before he got up to search out a blanket. He found one in a cupboard in the children’s area and brought it back to drape over Baz, tucking it in around his shoulders. Baz stirred briefly, but only enough to roll over onto his side and snuggle into the couch cushion. Smiling a bit, Severin left him to sleep and wandered over to the bookshelves, keeping half of his attention on his surroundings as he searched the stacks and occasionally pulled books out, setting them aside on a table. His stomach growled and he paused a moment to think about when he’d last had something to eat. That brought back memories he was working very hard to forget about, and he turned all his attention back to his search.
When he’d found everything he’d wanted, he gathered up the armful of books and carried them back to the reading area where Baz still slept. Settling into an armchair where he could keep an eye both on Baz and on the entrance to the reading area, he started in on reading the books. Hours passed as he went through the books, reading carefully and marking certain pages by folding down the corners, until a rumble of thunder startled him out of his concentration. Light still shone through windows and skylights, though it had moved with the passage of time, leaving Baz sleeping in shadow. Severin studied him for a moment then glanced up at the nearest skylight as thunder growled again.
He folded down the corner of the page he’d been reading and got up, stretching his back to work out a kink in his spine. Lightning flashed in the windows across the room and he made his way over there to look out. To his surprise the sky was still blue, marred only by a few fluffy white clouds.
Frowning, he watched the sky for a few long moments, still dimly hearing rumbles of thunder, then returned to his seat. He picked up his book again but the type blurred in front of his eyes and he found his thoughts wandering. A headache was beginning behind his right eye, extending tendrils throughout his entire skull and worsening his burgeoning bad mood. He reached up to touch the cross hidden underneath his shirt on its fine silver chain and closed his eyes to try and relax.
In the darkness between his eyes, a blue-white streak of lightning arrowed down and struck with a soundless explosion that jolted him upright in his chair. Only the silent library met his wide-eyed gaze, whole and intact; Baz still slept peacefully, one hand curled under his chin. Rubbing at his temples, Severin sat back again and murmured the prayer his father had taught him as a child, asking for help and protection. Calm gradually came over him and he soon dozed off again, the long sleepless hours of the night before catching up to him.
He opened his eyes again moments later to nothing but air all around him; and far below his feet a sparkling ribbon of blue-white water flowing through shades of green countryside. Looking up, he saw a towering mass of angry black thunderheads above him; lightning flashed in their depths and the following bang of thunder rattled in his bones.
Severin reached up a hand towards the thunderheads, straining to read into their heart and grasp the power he knew was there. He felt as though it remained just beyond the reach of his fingertips no matter how hard he fought to stretch that last little inch, and a mix of grief and frustrated rage washed through him.
He glanced down past his feet—flat on the empty air, as though he were standing on a completely solid floor—again and saw the water had become ice in a wasteland of snow drifts heaped higher than the tips of the trees. A rush of snowflakes swirled in front of his face, landing on his skin with just the barest kiss of cold. He wiped at wetness under his eyes and found he was crying; for the power just beyond his reach, for the snow-covered land below him, for the knowledge that everything he’d ever known had changed forever.
The cross around his neck had grown cold against his skin and he reached under his shirt to pull it up over his head. Lightning flashed, making the small pendant sparkle in its brief light. His hands shook, almost painfully numb, and his fingers were clumsy as he turned the cross over a few times then attempted to put it back around his neck. It slipped out of his grip and his desperate grab for its chain netted him nothing but air. The cross fell towards the snow far below, slim and silver in the dying light, until the shadows swallowed it up.
Severin screamed his rage and above him the clouds lit up with brilliant forks of lightning. The resultant clap of thunder jolted him from his position in the air and he began to fall, the wind whistling past his ears. He snatched at the clouds, straining until the muscles across his shoulders hurt, but he continued to fall. The ground rushed up to meet him.
A crack of real thunder jolted him out of his dream and he found himself on his feet, heart hammering against his ribcage. Baz was sitting up, wide-eyed and white-knuckled where he was clutching the blanket, his wide blue eyes fixed on the windows. Severin looked and saw that outside, the clear day had been replaced by a howling storm, lashing rain and hail against the windows.
Pain in his hand made Severin uncurl his stiff fingers, to find he had been gripping the cross so hard the edges had cut into his skin and brought up droplets of blood, streaking the shiny silver with red. He made a noise of disgust and carefully wiped it clean with his shirt before putting it back around his neck. The wind outside increased its fury as though in response, whistling and howling around the building.
“We need to go down to the basement.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Baz? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.” Baz got up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. “Are you okay?”
The windows blew in with a roar of wind before Severin could reply, peppering them with tiny shards of glass. Severin covered his face with his arms to protect himself, and when he cautiously lowered them, he saw the black clouds were whipping themselves down into a funnel. Within seconds the tornado was churning towards the library, throwing cars like Matchbox toys and turning the store it ran over into nothing more than kindling. Severin gaped at it for a long moment, then Baz grabbed his hand and hauled him towards the stairs. It took Severin a few seconds to get his feet under him then he ran, taking the stairs three at a time and skidding around the corner into the basement hallway.
The janitor’s closet caught his eye and he yanked Baz back as Baz started past it, nearly knocking them both over as Baz stumbled back and collided with his chest. Severin took a second to steady him then flung the closet door open and started throwing out supplies until there was enough room for them both to fit inside. They huddled together as the tornado bore down on them, its winds shrieking. Looking up, Severin saw the ceiling start to crack, then Baz threw the blanket over both of their heads to try and protect them from flying debris.
A sound like a train passing by filled the air, so loud Severin couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat in his ears. The wind snatched at them and he wrapped his arms around Baz, pressing them back into the corner as far as they could go. The floor shook as the tornado moved past them with a rumble, but his ears were ringing so loud he couldn’t hear anything else. Long minutes passed with them both breathing hard and clinging to each other before Severin gathered the courage to twitch aside a corner of the blanket and look out.
The opposite wall and half the ceiling had been torn away, exposing insulation, wiring, and the plumbing for the bathroom beside the closet. The tornado had marked a path of destruction through the building, leaving the walls creaking ominously. It was still raining lightly and occasional rumbles of thunder broke the sudden silence.
Severin got carefully to his feet and picked his way through the mess until he reached a clear spot. Looking up again, he saw the clouds were already shredding apart despite the thunder, allowing the last dying rays of the sun to cast reddish-gold light down on him. He thought of his dream and shivered, then turned back to Baz to ask, “You all right? Any injuries?”
“I think I just about shit myself, but other than that, no.” Baz ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Severin looked around, not sure what he expected to see. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. No alarms, no sirens, no one else anywhere in sight.” The strain on Baz’s face added ten years. “Where the hell is everyone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe... we should go to the police station. Even if there’s no one there, we might be able to find a radio or something.” Severin felt as though he were grasping at straws, and from the look on Baz’s face, he wasn’t the only one. “We can’t stay here, Baz.”
“I know.” Baz sighed. “I’m starving. Food first.” He glanced up at the sky, shielding his eyes against the setting sun. “Before it gets dark. There’s a 7-11 right next to the cop shop.”
“Okay.” Severin pulled his wallet from his pocket and checked through it. “I have some cash.”
“What, do you think the cashier’s just going to be there, waiting for someone to come in and buy a slushie?” Baz asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe a pack of smokes?”
“Stealing’s wrong,” Severin said automatically, then blushed when he saw Baz’s expression and defensively added, “Well, it is.”
“Whatever. If you want to leave cash, be my guest. I just want food before I become food.” Baz wrapped the blanket around himself again and headed for the door, stepping carefully around the debris. Severin hurried to catch up and they went up the street in silence.
The tornado had faded away before it hit the main street of town but the 7-11 had still taken a beating from something. The plate glass windows in front of the store had been smashed in and the gas pumps outside had been shoved over, their hoses yanked off and discarded. Gas puddled on asphalt, causing both Severin and Baz to warily approach the store from the side. Inside, shelves had been knocked over and the doors to the big standing freezers had been torn off. A sticky mixture of pop, milk, and juice covered the floor, with chip crumbs ground into it. Ice cream had been smeared across the wall, along with what looked suspiciously like blood.
Leaving Baz to hunt for something to eat, Severin walked up to the counter and glanced over it. He immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw the body of the teenage cashier lying on the floor behind it; her head had been twisted completely around. He could see where chunks of flesh had been torn from her body and suddenly remembered Baz’s comment about becoming food. A hard shiver went through him and he turned away before the sight made him vomit, though each time he closed his eyes it rose again in the darkness behind his eyelids.
“Sev?” Baz had paused in rummaging through a downed shelf and was watching him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Severin joined him in the search for something edible. “None of this is really healthy, you know.”
“Yeah, thanks, Da—” Baz stopped and cleared his throat. “It’ll do for tonight. We can go raid a grocery store tomorrow. If that isn’t too much like stealing for you.”
Severin bit back an urge to snap at him and kept his tone neutral when he replied, “Tomorrow’s fine.” He glanced outside and was alarmed to see how dark it had become in the past half hour. “Grab some food and let’s move.”
Baz followed his gaze and nodded, shoving as much food into his pockets as he could, and gathering up another armful. Severin guided him out of the store without letting him look behind the counter, though he couldn’t help taking a quick look himself. For a moment he thought the girl had moved and his heart leaped into his throat, then he dismissed it as a trick of the light.
They hurried across the plaza to the police station and let themselves in. The damage here was minimal, helped by the fact that the door was reinforced and the windows were heavy Plexiglass. Remembering the man in the library bathroom, Severin searched the station carefully, but the building was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, Severin rejoined Baz in the break room, snagging a chocolate bar to munch on.
The shadows crept in on them and after a bit he got up to flick on the lights, then let the blinds down and closed the curtains. As he was doing so he thought he caught a glimpse of movement in the near-dark but though he watched for at least five minutes, it didn’t repeat itself and he returned to his seat.
“So what were you reading, back in the library?” Baz asked, a little hesitantly.
Severin leaned back in his chair, licking chocolate off his long fingers. “Stuff about volcanoes and natural disasters. The volcano that went off yesterday, that was the super volcano on Toba Lake.” He chewed on his bottom lip, trying to think of the best way to explain it without panicking Baz. “It’s... likely caused changes in the weather patterns already.”
“Yeah, like I didn’t gather that from the tornado in November.” Baz tore apart another bag of chips and poured them into a bowl he’d found in the station’s small kitchen.
“You asked, so shut up and listen,” Severin said, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. It’s going to mean a long winter if what I read is right.”
“How long?”
“Longer than we’ll live, even if we live to be a hundred.”
Baz paused with his hand still in the bowl of chips, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What?”
“Look, I didn’t really understand it completely myself. Tomorrow I can go back and see if any of the books survived. It’s just... too much to think about right now, okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Baz dropped his eyes and pushed the food together into a pile in the middle of the table. “So tomorrow, grocery store first. We’ll stock up on food and other supplies. Then the library. Then...” He gave a helpless shrug. “Then what? Do you need to pick up anything at your place?”
“No,” Severin said quickly. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. I’m really tired.” He got up and went to curl up in the corner of the room, pillowing his head in his arms. After a moment Baz joined him, settling down with his back against Severin’s for warmth. By mutual silent agreement they left the lights on but though Baz’s breathing soon deepened into sleep, Severin lay awake for a long time, thinking.
When he’d found everything he’d wanted, he gathered up the armful of books and carried them back to the reading area where Baz still slept. Settling into an armchair where he could keep an eye both on Baz and on the entrance to the reading area, he started in on reading the books. Hours passed as he went through the books, reading carefully and marking certain pages by folding down the corners, until a rumble of thunder startled him out of his concentration. Light still shone through windows and skylights, though it had moved with the passage of time, leaving Baz sleeping in shadow. Severin studied him for a moment then glanced up at the nearest skylight as thunder growled again.
He folded down the corner of the page he’d been reading and got up, stretching his back to work out a kink in his spine. Lightning flashed in the windows across the room and he made his way over there to look out. To his surprise the sky was still blue, marred only by a few fluffy white clouds.
Frowning, he watched the sky for a few long moments, still dimly hearing rumbles of thunder, then returned to his seat. He picked up his book again but the type blurred in front of his eyes and he found his thoughts wandering. A headache was beginning behind his right eye, extending tendrils throughout his entire skull and worsening his burgeoning bad mood. He reached up to touch the cross hidden underneath his shirt on its fine silver chain and closed his eyes to try and relax.
In the darkness between his eyes, a blue-white streak of lightning arrowed down and struck with a soundless explosion that jolted him upright in his chair. Only the silent library met his wide-eyed gaze, whole and intact; Baz still slept peacefully, one hand curled under his chin. Rubbing at his temples, Severin sat back again and murmured the prayer his father had taught him as a child, asking for help and protection. Calm gradually came over him and he soon dozed off again, the long sleepless hours of the night before catching up to him.
He opened his eyes again moments later to nothing but air all around him; and far below his feet a sparkling ribbon of blue-white water flowing through shades of green countryside. Looking up, he saw a towering mass of angry black thunderheads above him; lightning flashed in their depths and the following bang of thunder rattled in his bones.
Severin reached up a hand towards the thunderheads, straining to read into their heart and grasp the power he knew was there. He felt as though it remained just beyond the reach of his fingertips no matter how hard he fought to stretch that last little inch, and a mix of grief and frustrated rage washed through him.
He glanced down past his feet—flat on the empty air, as though he were standing on a completely solid floor—again and saw the water had become ice in a wasteland of snow drifts heaped higher than the tips of the trees. A rush of snowflakes swirled in front of his face, landing on his skin with just the barest kiss of cold. He wiped at wetness under his eyes and found he was crying; for the power just beyond his reach, for the snow-covered land below him, for the knowledge that everything he’d ever known had changed forever.
The cross around his neck had grown cold against his skin and he reached under his shirt to pull it up over his head. Lightning flashed, making the small pendant sparkle in its brief light. His hands shook, almost painfully numb, and his fingers were clumsy as he turned the cross over a few times then attempted to put it back around his neck. It slipped out of his grip and his desperate grab for its chain netted him nothing but air. The cross fell towards the snow far below, slim and silver in the dying light, until the shadows swallowed it up.
Severin screamed his rage and above him the clouds lit up with brilliant forks of lightning. The resultant clap of thunder jolted him from his position in the air and he began to fall, the wind whistling past his ears. He snatched at the clouds, straining until the muscles across his shoulders hurt, but he continued to fall. The ground rushed up to meet him.
A crack of real thunder jolted him out of his dream and he found himself on his feet, heart hammering against his ribcage. Baz was sitting up, wide-eyed and white-knuckled where he was clutching the blanket, his wide blue eyes fixed on the windows. Severin looked and saw that outside, the clear day had been replaced by a howling storm, lashing rain and hail against the windows.
Pain in his hand made Severin uncurl his stiff fingers, to find he had been gripping the cross so hard the edges had cut into his skin and brought up droplets of blood, streaking the shiny silver with red. He made a noise of disgust and carefully wiped it clean with his shirt before putting it back around his neck. The wind outside increased its fury as though in response, whistling and howling around the building.
“We need to go down to the basement.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Baz? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.” Baz got up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. “Are you okay?”
The windows blew in with a roar of wind before Severin could reply, peppering them with tiny shards of glass. Severin covered his face with his arms to protect himself, and when he cautiously lowered them, he saw the black clouds were whipping themselves down into a funnel. Within seconds the tornado was churning towards the library, throwing cars like Matchbox toys and turning the store it ran over into nothing more than kindling. Severin gaped at it for a long moment, then Baz grabbed his hand and hauled him towards the stairs. It took Severin a few seconds to get his feet under him then he ran, taking the stairs three at a time and skidding around the corner into the basement hallway.
The janitor’s closet caught his eye and he yanked Baz back as Baz started past it, nearly knocking them both over as Baz stumbled back and collided with his chest. Severin took a second to steady him then flung the closet door open and started throwing out supplies until there was enough room for them both to fit inside. They huddled together as the tornado bore down on them, its winds shrieking. Looking up, Severin saw the ceiling start to crack, then Baz threw the blanket over both of their heads to try and protect them from flying debris.
A sound like a train passing by filled the air, so loud Severin couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat in his ears. The wind snatched at them and he wrapped his arms around Baz, pressing them back into the corner as far as they could go. The floor shook as the tornado moved past them with a rumble, but his ears were ringing so loud he couldn’t hear anything else. Long minutes passed with them both breathing hard and clinging to each other before Severin gathered the courage to twitch aside a corner of the blanket and look out.
The opposite wall and half the ceiling had been torn away, exposing insulation, wiring, and the plumbing for the bathroom beside the closet. The tornado had marked a path of destruction through the building, leaving the walls creaking ominously. It was still raining lightly and occasional rumbles of thunder broke the sudden silence.
Severin got carefully to his feet and picked his way through the mess until he reached a clear spot. Looking up again, he saw the clouds were already shredding apart despite the thunder, allowing the last dying rays of the sun to cast reddish-gold light down on him. He thought of his dream and shivered, then turned back to Baz to ask, “You all right? Any injuries?”
“I think I just about shit myself, but other than that, no.” Baz ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Severin looked around, not sure what he expected to see. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. No alarms, no sirens, no one else anywhere in sight.” The strain on Baz’s face added ten years. “Where the hell is everyone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe... we should go to the police station. Even if there’s no one there, we might be able to find a radio or something.” Severin felt as though he were grasping at straws, and from the look on Baz’s face, he wasn’t the only one. “We can’t stay here, Baz.”
“I know.” Baz sighed. “I’m starving. Food first.” He glanced up at the sky, shielding his eyes against the setting sun. “Before it gets dark. There’s a 7-11 right next to the cop shop.”
“Okay.” Severin pulled his wallet from his pocket and checked through it. “I have some cash.”
“What, do you think the cashier’s just going to be there, waiting for someone to come in and buy a slushie?” Baz asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe a pack of smokes?”
“Stealing’s wrong,” Severin said automatically, then blushed when he saw Baz’s expression and defensively added, “Well, it is.”
“Whatever. If you want to leave cash, be my guest. I just want food before I become food.” Baz wrapped the blanket around himself again and headed for the door, stepping carefully around the debris. Severin hurried to catch up and they went up the street in silence.
The tornado had faded away before it hit the main street of town but the 7-11 had still taken a beating from something. The plate glass windows in front of the store had been smashed in and the gas pumps outside had been shoved over, their hoses yanked off and discarded. Gas puddled on asphalt, causing both Severin and Baz to warily approach the store from the side. Inside, shelves had been knocked over and the doors to the big standing freezers had been torn off. A sticky mixture of pop, milk, and juice covered the floor, with chip crumbs ground into it. Ice cream had been smeared across the wall, along with what looked suspiciously like blood.
Leaving Baz to hunt for something to eat, Severin walked up to the counter and glanced over it. He immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw the body of the teenage cashier lying on the floor behind it; her head had been twisted completely around. He could see where chunks of flesh had been torn from her body and suddenly remembered Baz’s comment about becoming food. A hard shiver went through him and he turned away before the sight made him vomit, though each time he closed his eyes it rose again in the darkness behind his eyelids.
“Sev?” Baz had paused in rummaging through a downed shelf and was watching him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Severin joined him in the search for something edible. “None of this is really healthy, you know.”
“Yeah, thanks, Da—” Baz stopped and cleared his throat. “It’ll do for tonight. We can go raid a grocery store tomorrow. If that isn’t too much like stealing for you.”
Severin bit back an urge to snap at him and kept his tone neutral when he replied, “Tomorrow’s fine.” He glanced outside and was alarmed to see how dark it had become in the past half hour. “Grab some food and let’s move.”
Baz followed his gaze and nodded, shoving as much food into his pockets as he could, and gathering up another armful. Severin guided him out of the store without letting him look behind the counter, though he couldn’t help taking a quick look himself. For a moment he thought the girl had moved and his heart leaped into his throat, then he dismissed it as a trick of the light.
They hurried across the plaza to the police station and let themselves in. The damage here was minimal, helped by the fact that the door was reinforced and the windows were heavy Plexiglass. Remembering the man in the library bathroom, Severin searched the station carefully, but the building was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, Severin rejoined Baz in the break room, snagging a chocolate bar to munch on.
The shadows crept in on them and after a bit he got up to flick on the lights, then let the blinds down and closed the curtains. As he was doing so he thought he caught a glimpse of movement in the near-dark but though he watched for at least five minutes, it didn’t repeat itself and he returned to his seat.
“So what were you reading, back in the library?” Baz asked, a little hesitantly.
Severin leaned back in his chair, licking chocolate off his long fingers. “Stuff about volcanoes and natural disasters. The volcano that went off yesterday, that was the super volcano on Toba Lake.” He chewed on his bottom lip, trying to think of the best way to explain it without panicking Baz. “It’s... likely caused changes in the weather patterns already.”
“Yeah, like I didn’t gather that from the tornado in November.” Baz tore apart another bag of chips and poured them into a bowl he’d found in the station’s small kitchen.
“You asked, so shut up and listen,” Severin said, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. It’s going to mean a long winter if what I read is right.”
“How long?”
“Longer than we’ll live, even if we live to be a hundred.”
Baz paused with his hand still in the bowl of chips, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What?”
“Look, I didn’t really understand it completely myself. Tomorrow I can go back and see if any of the books survived. It’s just... too much to think about right now, okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Baz dropped his eyes and pushed the food together into a pile in the middle of the table. “So tomorrow, grocery store first. We’ll stock up on food and other supplies. Then the library. Then...” He gave a helpless shrug. “Then what? Do you need to pick up anything at your place?”
“No,” Severin said quickly. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. I’m really tired.” He got up and went to curl up in the corner of the room, pillowing his head in his arms. After a moment Baz joined him, settling down with his back against Severin’s for warmth. By mutual silent agreement they left the lights on but though Baz’s breathing soon deepened into sleep, Severin lay awake for a long time, thinking.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Boys of Winter Story - Chapter One
Baz was sitting in his third period math class, daydreaming about lunch, when he felt the floor rock back and forth underneath him. He sat up straight, eyes wide, and looked around the classroom, but no one else even seemed to have noticed; most of his classmates were sprawled out on their desks, asleep or nearly there. The teacher hadn’t paused in the equations he was writing on the board; the writing itself wasn’t smeared or jerky. Breathing hard, Baz scooped up his backpack and his coat and left the classroom, ignoring the teacher’s startled commands for him to come back. He ducked into the nearest bathroom and splashed his face with water, then grabbed at the lip of the sink as the floor shuddered again.
The PA system crackled to life, startling him so badly that he cried out, then clapped a hand over his mouth. The principal came on, informing them of a natural disaster on the Indonesian island Baz vaguely remembered as being in the news recently. There was no mention of earthquakes in their own area but the principal announced that school was being closed early and all students should go home to their families. Baz made a face at himself in the mirror and slowly picked up his bag again as he heard the rising chatter outside in the halls. He went out and joined the tide of students flowing out of the building but broke away from them on the sidewalk outside, shrugging into his coat as it started to rain.
As he walked he watched cars pulling in and out of the school’s parking lot and picking up students along the streets. Every facial expression he saw was tense and worried, and the parents herded their kids into the car with quick, hurried motions. More than one car squealed as it pulled back out onto the road, and he saw a pair of minivans just barely miss a head-on collision down by the lights at the end of the street. Somewhere in the dark clouds up above, thunder muttered.
By the time he passed the elementary school that marked the halfway point of his walk, the rain had soaked right through his coat and plastered his dark hair to his skull. The playground was empty and grey under the cold rain and he had no doubt that the students there had been sent home early as well. A few cars passed him as he turned onto his own street ten minutes later but his own driveway was empty, though the door was unlocked and opened under his hand. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up to dry on the coat rack, kicked off his wet sneakers, and went upstairs with his backpack.
He dropped the pack on the floor and flicked on the radio as he passed by it to find some dry clothes. He paused in the act of pulling on a clean hoodie when the DJ interrupted the music to pass on a breaking news bulletin: a supervolcano had erupted underneath Lake Toba, on the Indonesian island of Sumatra, and was spewing volcanic ash high into the air. It had already destroyed the island with the force of its eruption, and caused an enormous tsunami to wash over the land for miles around. The DJ wrapped up her report by reading out safety instructions for the anticipated bad weather to come and asked them to remain tuned to the station. Her voice cracked a little as she began to repeat the report, and Baz turned it off with more force than was strictly necessary.
He pulled the hoodie on completely, absently flipping the hood up over his damp hair, and went to open the window a crack, feeling the need for some fresh air in the stuffy house. It was still raining outside, the clouds heavy and ominous in the remnants of the weak afternoon light. Thunder rumbled again and he saw a brief flash of lightning but other than that it only rained, a steady downpour that had turned the roads slick and shiny.
Baz paused for a moment to watch the rain come down in silvery sheets, then went back downstairs to grab himself a drink and a snack. Five minutes later he was sitting at his desk with a can of pop at his elbow and a bowl of dry cereal within easy reach, working on his homework. The radio continued to play in the background until it went staticky and distracted him with a low, annoying whine. He marked his place in the book he was reading and got up to go turn it off, pausing again on the way back to look out at the rain.
As he leaned on the sill to look out at the street below, he caught an odd scent; a bitter smell that made him wrinkle his nose and automatically straighten up. He hesitated then pushed the window up further, sticking a hand out into the rain then sniffing at his wet palm. The smell clung to his skin and he shuddered suddenly, wiping his hand off on his jeans. Shutting the window tightly, he turned back to his desk, still absently scrubbing his hand against his jeaned thigh.
The rain and clouds brought dark creeping in even earlier and he found he didn’t want to be upstairs alone with night pressing against his windows. He packed up his books and went downstairs for an early supper, creating something edible from the meagre supplies with the ease of long practice. A glance at the clock showed it was just past 4:30 in the afternoon. He thought for a moment then made enough for his father as well, though the man was unlikely to eat it. He had learned early on that it was less trouble to make more than it was to deal with his father when his father wanted food and couldn’t be bothered to make his own.
He sat at the kitchen table to eat, unconsciously seating himself side-on to the big sliding glass doors that led out to the backyard so that he neither had to look at them head-on or have them at his back. The sound of the rain had taken on a sinister tone, like a thousand snakes slithering past him. He gave a violent shiver at the thought and shoved it to the back of his mind, concentrating on eating; but the food was as tasty as sawdust in his mouth and he soon gave up, wrapping it up and putting it in the fridge next to the beer his father had bought that week instead of groceries.
Feeling lost, he busied himself cleaning up the kitchen then went upstairs to watch TV on the little set in his bedroom. The sound drowned out the rain and he pulled the curtains so he wouldn’t have to see the rain glowing orange in the light of the lampposts outside, feeling a little ashamed of himself as he settled on his bed. He found a mindless comedy to lose himself in, and soon drifted off to sleep.
A loud bang startled him out of sleep and he sat up straight, his breathing ragged and his heart hammering against his ribs. His thoughts felt scattered and dull but he vaguely thought that his father must be home, drunk and stupid as usual. The TV was still on but showing only static; the clock said 1 am. He swung his feet to the floor and got up, rubbing at his eyes as he made his way towards the door.
The smell hit him as he eased the door open, the same bitterness now mixed with an earthy, rotting scent. He gagged and pinches his nose shut with his fingers, wondering what could cause such a stench. From downstairs he heard another loud bang, then the sound of glass shattering. It took him a moment to realize the noise was coming from the kitchen and he wondered if it was his father after all as the bangs continued; his father was a mean drunk but he was too possessive to randomly destroy his own belongings.
Baz hesitated on the landing, rocking back and forth on his toes as he debated whether he dared to go downstairs. The sounds of destruction from downstairs got louder and he suddenly turned on his heel and went back to his room, fear tightening his chest. Too frightened to be ashamed, he got down on his hands and knees, and crawled under the bed, curling up into a ball with his face turned towards the door.
Heavy footsteps came up the stairs only moments later, then a hunched shadow appeared in his doorway. The rotting smell intensified, threatening to make him gag again and forcing him to breathe in quiet, shallow pants. The shadow came closer in an odd, stilted walk, and he recognized his father’s beat-up old construction boots. There was dirt ground into the hems of his jeans and dark stains on the boots themselves.
His father stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly and breathing in a snuffling gasp, as though through a broken nose. He was holding something at his side but the angle of his body prevented Baz from seeing it clearly. The soft shh-shh of the rain seemed to drill its way into Baz’s head, until he felt like screaming and only digging his nails into his palms kept him from doing so.
With a grunt his father hefted the object he was holding and Baz had a moment to see it was the long-handled ax from the woodshed. He cringed back as far as he could and pressed himself down against the floor, only a moment before his father brought the ax whistling down on the bed. It bit deep into the mattress with a heavy thunk, breaking springs and causing the entire bed to sag downwards around the point of impact.
Baz crammed a fist in his mouth to block the scream rising in his throat, struggling against the urge to break and run. His father’s shadow stayed in place for another long minute, then it turned and walked out of the room in its limping gait. Baz heard his footsteps going down the stairs, then the slam of the front door, followed by the tinkle of glass as the thin panes in the door shattered and fell out on the concrete of the porch.
Pressing his forehead against the rough carpeting, Baz bit his bottom lip against sobs that threatened to turn into hysterical laughter. Silence descended on the room except for the faint sound of a car alarm in the distance, until a loud, nearby shriek shattered it into pieces. Through it all Baz could hear the sound of the rain falling, though part of him insisted it was all in his mind. His surroundings started to fade away around him and he had to pinch himself hard to keep from passing out.
He crept downstairs, the muscles in his shoulders tense and stiff as he listened for any sound. He could hear what sounded like a riot outside but the house itself was silent in the darkness. He hesitated in the doorway then made his way through the living room to the basement stairs. It took him a few moments to fumble on the light switch then he went down the steep stairs, turning the light off again once he’d found the flashlight by the furnace. He used it to pick his way through the mess of cardboard boxes and shoved himself into the crawlspace beneath the stairs, pulling an old couch cushion into the opening in an attempt to hide himself. Burying his head in his arms, he surrendered himself to the darkness.
When he woke again the house was still silent and still. He pushed the cushion aside just enough to peek out and saw a few weak beams of sunlight coming in through the small window high up on one wall. He listened a few minutes longer, then climbed out of the crawlspace, grimacing as he brushed old dusty cobwebs from his clothes. Keeping one hand on the wall, he climbed up the stairs, wincing when the second from the top creaked under his weight.
He turned into the living room and a shudder went through him; the room looked as though a tornado had gone through it. The TV had been thrown into the corner of the room and the handle of the ax protruded from its dark screen. It seemed to have been the last thing his father had done before leaving again; the ax had obviously been used on the furniture and shelving, and there was so much debris blocking the doorway to the kitchen that he didn’t want to try climbing over or through it. The rotten smell was much stronger there as well, and something deep inside told him to stay away. Instead he went around the other way and up to his bedroom, unsurprised to see that the destruction was even worse here. His desk, bookshelves, and bed had been turned into kindling and both the window and the ceramic bowl he’d been eating cereal out of had been smashed on the floor, littering the carpet with shards. He stepped around them carefully in his bare feet as he searched for anything he could salvage, stuffing it into his backpack, which had miraculously escaped destruction.
Heading back downstairs, he paused to grab a butcher’s knife that had been driven into the last step, then went down the hall to put on his shoes and go outside. The street was as empty and silent as the house had been, and just as much of a mess. A car sat haphazardly on the neighbour’s lawn, all its windows and lights smashed, and two of its tires shredded. Someone had dug something into the driver’s side door and dragged it all along the side of the car, tearing off strips of paint and metal like wallpaper. All the houses he could see around him had broken windows and a few were missing doors; opposite his house his neighbour’s prize-winning flower garden had been dug up and scattered all over the sidewalk. Debris littered the street and he couldn’t help wondering if a severe storm had gone through the area while he slept dreamlessly.
Taking a deep calming breath he picked his way across the front lawn to the closest neighbour’s house. Their door was still intact but it fell over with a loud crash when he knocked on it. The sudden sound made his heart leap into his throat and he shot a wild glance over his shoulder, not even entirely sure what he expected to see. Only the empty street met his gaze.
The neighbour’s house was as silent as his own had been, though usually there were two yappy dogs that barked night and day. Baz hesitated then stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at a heavy, coppery smell. His voice cracked as he called a hello and he cleared his throat, unconsciously curling his fingers into fists. When no one answered he walked further into the house, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that told him to get out before something got him. He told himself someone might be hurt, or hiding as he had been.
He started to call again as he turned into the living room but his voice died in his throat. He recognized the woman lying spread-eagled on the floor, though only by her clothing. Her face had been smashed into an unrecognizable pulp, matting her greying hair with sticky blood and bits of brain. One leg bent at an unnatural angle; the other was missing completely below the knee, the flesh of her thigh terminating in a shattered mess of bone and muscle. One of the yappy dogs lay at her side, its head twisted almost backwards. The other one had been torn in half and thrown into the ashy remnants of the fireplace.
Baz spun away from the sight as though on strings. His feet slid on the smooth floor and he felt his stomach turn lazily over, then he bolted. His feet slid again and he hit his shoulder against the doorframe, though he didn’t notice it until later, when he had time to inspect the massive bruise. He leaped over the front steps in his hurry to get away and took off down the sidewalk, his sneakers slapping against the asphalt and his backpack jouncing around on his back. He ran heedless of what direction he was going in, his breathing coming in whooping gasps. A stitch started in his side but he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.
He skidded around the corner and only just realized there was someone there before they collided. His nose connected with the stranger’s shoulder and they both went down in a tangle of limbs. Baz struggled to free himself, throwing his elbows wildly until he managed to fight his way free. He lunged past the stranger, only to fall to his knees hard enough to tear his jeans as a hand grabbed his ankle.
“Baz, wait—” The stranger cut off with a yelp as Baz kicked backwards, barely missing his face. Baz tried to take advantage in order to get up again but only found himself flat on his face as the stranger tackled him. The second brief struggle ended with Baz flat on his back by a tall, familiar-looking young man about his own age.
“Can I get up without you trying to take my head off again?” the young man asked, breathing as hard as Baz was.
Baz nodded, still trying to catch his breath, and waited until the other youth had gotten to his feet before gingerly sitting up. He took the offered hand and let the young man pull him up, wincing at the aches and pains in his body, especially in his nose. He reached up carefully to touch it and his fingers came away red and wet.
“Here.” The young man handed him a clean, if wrinkled, handkerchief. “I’m sorry for startling you.”
Baz shrugged, pressing the handkerchief to his nose. “Who are you?”
“You don’t recognize me? We’re in the same math class.” He sighed at Baz’s blank look and stuck out his hand. “I’m Severin Poole.”
“The church kid?” Baz ignored the attempt at a handshake and after a moment Severin dropped his arm back against his side.
“I guess.” Severin’s slightly slanted green eyes darkened briefly, then he put on a smile even Baz could tell was forced, though his tone was sincere when he added, “You have no idea how glad I am to find someone else al—around.” His smile flickered then came back full-force, reminding Baz strongly of a politician.
“There was... Someone killed my neighbour.” Baz was surprised to hear himself say it, and even more surprised to find himself suddenly near tears. “She, uh, and the dogs... There was blood everywhere.” He gave a weak and slightly hysterical laugh. “And my dad tried to kill me with an ax.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, a slight lift and drop of his shoulders.
Severin looked at him for a moment, smile fading, then glanced away. “I’m sorry. We should get off the street. The library’s just down here and it’s not too damaged.” He reached out to put a cautious arm around Baz’s shoulders, tugging him gently in the direction of the library. Baz allowed it, glad for any comfort.
The big glass front doors of the library were somehow still intact, though the plant pots that once sat in the corners of the overhang had been smashed on the street. The decorations left over from Halloween a few nights before were still up, and Baz shuddered to see a skeleton hanging in the corner, though it was cartoonish. Still, somehow he felt better inside the building's airy front hallway with the sun shining through the domed skylight, casting stripes of pale light across the tiled floor.
“Do you know what's going on?” he asked, a little ashamed of the slight, childish pleading in his tone.
Severin shook his head. “I came here first thing this morning, and you're the first person I've seen all day.” His tone was convincing, but Baz could see the lie in the shadows in the other boy's eyes.
“Maybe people panicked about that volcano erupting.” Baz looked around and spotted what he was searching for behind the librarian's desk. He hopped over it and set the miniature TV on the counter, turning it on and flicking through channels. All he found was static and messages asking him to please stand by. “Guess it's interfering with the signal.” The explanation sounded weak to his own ears and he quickly flicked the TV off.
“The phones don't work either, I tried calling the police earlier.” Severin stared down at his hands, curled into fists on the polished top of the counter he was leaning on, and shook his head. “It's probably just temporary. How's your nose?”
“I think it's stopped bleeding.” Baz carefully dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief, then gave the blood-splattered cloth a rueful look. “You've got a hard shoulder.”
“I’m sorry for hurting you.” Severin straightened up. “There’s a bathroom downstairs. You can go wash your face.”
“Come with me.” Baz shrugged at Severin's slightly surprised look, feeling his cheeks go hot. “I'd... just feel better. If I wasn't alone.”
“Sure, no problem.” Severin lead the way through the back hallway and down the stairs, gesturing to the bathrooms on the right. “I'll wait out here, unless you want me to come in with you.”
“No, I'll just be a few minutes.” Baz pushed open the door and stepped into the small, dim bathroom.
He flicked the light switch but no lights came on; only a small window set high in the wall provided enough illumination to see, and then only just. He walked over to the double sinks against the wall and started running hot water, then inspected his face in the mirror, grimacing at the blood on his skin and the bruise already forming over the bridge of his nose. He glanced down to check on the water, and when he looked up again, the mirror reflected a filthy, bedraggled man standing behind him.
He whirled around and then dropped to his knees to avoid the fist aimed at his face. His nose filled with the scent of rotting meat, garbage, and wet dirt. He heard the mirror shatter behind him, but he was already lunging for the door, his shoulder hunched in anticipation of a blow. His hand just grazed the handle then fingers tangled in his hair and yanked him backwards, bringing tears of pain to his eyes. Hot breath gusted against the side of his neck and the sensation broke the barrier keeping him silent. Screaming for Severin, he threw himself to the side, breaking the grip on his hair and kicking out at the same time.
His foot connected solidly with the man's stomach, knocking the man back a step. He heard the door bang open but didn't dare to look away, his eyes fixed on the man's face. There was something familiar under the dirt and blood caked on the man's skin but it wasn't until Baz saw the big class ring on the man's finger that he recognized the school's football coach.
The man watched, head tilted slightly as Severin helped Baz to his feet, then suddenly lunged at them again. He moved like a video sped up to twice its normal speed, one moment halfway across the room, the next so close Baz had no time to react. He saw hands with cracked fingernails reaching for him, then Severin shoved him back and roundhouse kicked the coach in the face. The crunch of the man's nose breaking was very loud in the enclosed bathroom.
Baz might have stood there still, his mouth hanging open, but Severin shoved him back out into the hallway and propelled him towards the stairs until his brain engaged and he started moving on his own. They heard the bathroom door open again and started running, but Severin caught Baz back when he headed for the front door.
“What are you doing?” Balthazar tried to free his arm but the other boy was surprisingly strong. “We have to get out of here.”
“This is a safe place. That down there... it's an anomaly.”
“You are out of your mind.” Balthazar tried again to free himself but movement over Severin's shoulder caught his attention. The coach had come up the stairs and was standing in the entrance to the hallway, head swinging back and forth slowly like an animal searching for a scent. His eyes were narrowed into slits and Balthazar was suddenly sure that he was blind in the brighter light.
They stood there in silence, hardly daring to breathe, until the coach sniffed the air and swung his head towards them. Balthazar stumbled back, pulling Severin with him, as the man rushed them with the same uncanny speed. They stumbled into one of the bands of sunlight laying across the floor and the coach abruptly stopped and snatched his hands back with a snarl. He shook his head and growled at them, then his head went up and he appeared to be listening to something. With a last snarl, he turned and slammed his way out of the fire exit, bending the steel bar in the middle with the force of the impact.
There was silence for a moment then a high-pitched shriek that made Balthazar and Severin clutch at each other and exchange wide-eyed glances. It was followed by another, then a third that trailed off into a gurgling, choking noise. Severin closed his eyes and after a moment Balthazar realized he was praying. Unable to resist rolling his eyes, he let go of the other boy and cautiously made his way over to the fire door to look outside.
The coach lay face-down on the sidewalk, wisps of smoke curling lazily up from his exposed skin. The skin itself looked red and shiny, and even as Balthazar watched the man's forearm split open with a sickening pop. Balthazar spun away from the sight and barely made it to the trash can before throwing up so hard he could feel the muscles in his stomach strain. An image of the coach's entire body splitting apart like a hot dog on the grill rose in his mind and he vomited again, until nothing but bile came up.
He gradually became aware of Severin's hand on his back, rubbing in slow circles and offering some comfort. Baz managed to sit back on his heels and wiped at his mouth, feeling weak and unsteady, and gratefully accepted the paper cup of water Severin brought him. With the other boy's help he got to his feet and let Severin lead him up to the reading area on the second floor. More sunlight came in through the second skylight here, and Balthazar made sure to sit in a patch of it, turning his face up to its warmth in an attempt to ease the shivers shaking his body.
“You okay?” Severin handed him another cup of water and sat beside him.
Balthazar nodded. “Sorry.”
“You really don't need to apologize. And it's safe up here, I checked. Maybe you should try and get some sleep.”
“No, I should stay awake.” Balthazar drained the cup and set it on the low wooden table in front of the couch. “Keep an eye out.”
“I can do that.” Severin laid the inside of his wrist against Balthazar's forehead, a no-nonsense gesture that Balthazar found oddly comforting. He was beginning to feel sleepy and hardly protested as Severin made him lie down. His head hurt and it felt good to close his eyes, knowing there was someone else there to keep watch, though a part of him still didn’t completely trust Severin. Before he could think about it any further he drifted into a deep sleep.
The PA system crackled to life, startling him so badly that he cried out, then clapped a hand over his mouth. The principal came on, informing them of a natural disaster on the Indonesian island Baz vaguely remembered as being in the news recently. There was no mention of earthquakes in their own area but the principal announced that school was being closed early and all students should go home to their families. Baz made a face at himself in the mirror and slowly picked up his bag again as he heard the rising chatter outside in the halls. He went out and joined the tide of students flowing out of the building but broke away from them on the sidewalk outside, shrugging into his coat as it started to rain.
As he walked he watched cars pulling in and out of the school’s parking lot and picking up students along the streets. Every facial expression he saw was tense and worried, and the parents herded their kids into the car with quick, hurried motions. More than one car squealed as it pulled back out onto the road, and he saw a pair of minivans just barely miss a head-on collision down by the lights at the end of the street. Somewhere in the dark clouds up above, thunder muttered.
By the time he passed the elementary school that marked the halfway point of his walk, the rain had soaked right through his coat and plastered his dark hair to his skull. The playground was empty and grey under the cold rain and he had no doubt that the students there had been sent home early as well. A few cars passed him as he turned onto his own street ten minutes later but his own driveway was empty, though the door was unlocked and opened under his hand. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up to dry on the coat rack, kicked off his wet sneakers, and went upstairs with his backpack.
He dropped the pack on the floor and flicked on the radio as he passed by it to find some dry clothes. He paused in the act of pulling on a clean hoodie when the DJ interrupted the music to pass on a breaking news bulletin: a supervolcano had erupted underneath Lake Toba, on the Indonesian island of Sumatra, and was spewing volcanic ash high into the air. It had already destroyed the island with the force of its eruption, and caused an enormous tsunami to wash over the land for miles around. The DJ wrapped up her report by reading out safety instructions for the anticipated bad weather to come and asked them to remain tuned to the station. Her voice cracked a little as she began to repeat the report, and Baz turned it off with more force than was strictly necessary.
He pulled the hoodie on completely, absently flipping the hood up over his damp hair, and went to open the window a crack, feeling the need for some fresh air in the stuffy house. It was still raining outside, the clouds heavy and ominous in the remnants of the weak afternoon light. Thunder rumbled again and he saw a brief flash of lightning but other than that it only rained, a steady downpour that had turned the roads slick and shiny.
Baz paused for a moment to watch the rain come down in silvery sheets, then went back downstairs to grab himself a drink and a snack. Five minutes later he was sitting at his desk with a can of pop at his elbow and a bowl of dry cereal within easy reach, working on his homework. The radio continued to play in the background until it went staticky and distracted him with a low, annoying whine. He marked his place in the book he was reading and got up to go turn it off, pausing again on the way back to look out at the rain.
As he leaned on the sill to look out at the street below, he caught an odd scent; a bitter smell that made him wrinkle his nose and automatically straighten up. He hesitated then pushed the window up further, sticking a hand out into the rain then sniffing at his wet palm. The smell clung to his skin and he shuddered suddenly, wiping his hand off on his jeans. Shutting the window tightly, he turned back to his desk, still absently scrubbing his hand against his jeaned thigh.
The rain and clouds brought dark creeping in even earlier and he found he didn’t want to be upstairs alone with night pressing against his windows. He packed up his books and went downstairs for an early supper, creating something edible from the meagre supplies with the ease of long practice. A glance at the clock showed it was just past 4:30 in the afternoon. He thought for a moment then made enough for his father as well, though the man was unlikely to eat it. He had learned early on that it was less trouble to make more than it was to deal with his father when his father wanted food and couldn’t be bothered to make his own.
He sat at the kitchen table to eat, unconsciously seating himself side-on to the big sliding glass doors that led out to the backyard so that he neither had to look at them head-on or have them at his back. The sound of the rain had taken on a sinister tone, like a thousand snakes slithering past him. He gave a violent shiver at the thought and shoved it to the back of his mind, concentrating on eating; but the food was as tasty as sawdust in his mouth and he soon gave up, wrapping it up and putting it in the fridge next to the beer his father had bought that week instead of groceries.
Feeling lost, he busied himself cleaning up the kitchen then went upstairs to watch TV on the little set in his bedroom. The sound drowned out the rain and he pulled the curtains so he wouldn’t have to see the rain glowing orange in the light of the lampposts outside, feeling a little ashamed of himself as he settled on his bed. He found a mindless comedy to lose himself in, and soon drifted off to sleep.
A loud bang startled him out of sleep and he sat up straight, his breathing ragged and his heart hammering against his ribs. His thoughts felt scattered and dull but he vaguely thought that his father must be home, drunk and stupid as usual. The TV was still on but showing only static; the clock said 1 am. He swung his feet to the floor and got up, rubbing at his eyes as he made his way towards the door.
The smell hit him as he eased the door open, the same bitterness now mixed with an earthy, rotting scent. He gagged and pinches his nose shut with his fingers, wondering what could cause such a stench. From downstairs he heard another loud bang, then the sound of glass shattering. It took him a moment to realize the noise was coming from the kitchen and he wondered if it was his father after all as the bangs continued; his father was a mean drunk but he was too possessive to randomly destroy his own belongings.
Baz hesitated on the landing, rocking back and forth on his toes as he debated whether he dared to go downstairs. The sounds of destruction from downstairs got louder and he suddenly turned on his heel and went back to his room, fear tightening his chest. Too frightened to be ashamed, he got down on his hands and knees, and crawled under the bed, curling up into a ball with his face turned towards the door.
Heavy footsteps came up the stairs only moments later, then a hunched shadow appeared in his doorway. The rotting smell intensified, threatening to make him gag again and forcing him to breathe in quiet, shallow pants. The shadow came closer in an odd, stilted walk, and he recognized his father’s beat-up old construction boots. There was dirt ground into the hems of his jeans and dark stains on the boots themselves.
His father stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly and breathing in a snuffling gasp, as though through a broken nose. He was holding something at his side but the angle of his body prevented Baz from seeing it clearly. The soft shh-shh of the rain seemed to drill its way into Baz’s head, until he felt like screaming and only digging his nails into his palms kept him from doing so.
With a grunt his father hefted the object he was holding and Baz had a moment to see it was the long-handled ax from the woodshed. He cringed back as far as he could and pressed himself down against the floor, only a moment before his father brought the ax whistling down on the bed. It bit deep into the mattress with a heavy thunk, breaking springs and causing the entire bed to sag downwards around the point of impact.
Baz crammed a fist in his mouth to block the scream rising in his throat, struggling against the urge to break and run. His father’s shadow stayed in place for another long minute, then it turned and walked out of the room in its limping gait. Baz heard his footsteps going down the stairs, then the slam of the front door, followed by the tinkle of glass as the thin panes in the door shattered and fell out on the concrete of the porch.
Pressing his forehead against the rough carpeting, Baz bit his bottom lip against sobs that threatened to turn into hysterical laughter. Silence descended on the room except for the faint sound of a car alarm in the distance, until a loud, nearby shriek shattered it into pieces. Through it all Baz could hear the sound of the rain falling, though part of him insisted it was all in his mind. His surroundings started to fade away around him and he had to pinch himself hard to keep from passing out.
He crept downstairs, the muscles in his shoulders tense and stiff as he listened for any sound. He could hear what sounded like a riot outside but the house itself was silent in the darkness. He hesitated in the doorway then made his way through the living room to the basement stairs. It took him a few moments to fumble on the light switch then he went down the steep stairs, turning the light off again once he’d found the flashlight by the furnace. He used it to pick his way through the mess of cardboard boxes and shoved himself into the crawlspace beneath the stairs, pulling an old couch cushion into the opening in an attempt to hide himself. Burying his head in his arms, he surrendered himself to the darkness.
When he woke again the house was still silent and still. He pushed the cushion aside just enough to peek out and saw a few weak beams of sunlight coming in through the small window high up on one wall. He listened a few minutes longer, then climbed out of the crawlspace, grimacing as he brushed old dusty cobwebs from his clothes. Keeping one hand on the wall, he climbed up the stairs, wincing when the second from the top creaked under his weight.
He turned into the living room and a shudder went through him; the room looked as though a tornado had gone through it. The TV had been thrown into the corner of the room and the handle of the ax protruded from its dark screen. It seemed to have been the last thing his father had done before leaving again; the ax had obviously been used on the furniture and shelving, and there was so much debris blocking the doorway to the kitchen that he didn’t want to try climbing over or through it. The rotten smell was much stronger there as well, and something deep inside told him to stay away. Instead he went around the other way and up to his bedroom, unsurprised to see that the destruction was even worse here. His desk, bookshelves, and bed had been turned into kindling and both the window and the ceramic bowl he’d been eating cereal out of had been smashed on the floor, littering the carpet with shards. He stepped around them carefully in his bare feet as he searched for anything he could salvage, stuffing it into his backpack, which had miraculously escaped destruction.
Heading back downstairs, he paused to grab a butcher’s knife that had been driven into the last step, then went down the hall to put on his shoes and go outside. The street was as empty and silent as the house had been, and just as much of a mess. A car sat haphazardly on the neighbour’s lawn, all its windows and lights smashed, and two of its tires shredded. Someone had dug something into the driver’s side door and dragged it all along the side of the car, tearing off strips of paint and metal like wallpaper. All the houses he could see around him had broken windows and a few were missing doors; opposite his house his neighbour’s prize-winning flower garden had been dug up and scattered all over the sidewalk. Debris littered the street and he couldn’t help wondering if a severe storm had gone through the area while he slept dreamlessly.
Taking a deep calming breath he picked his way across the front lawn to the closest neighbour’s house. Their door was still intact but it fell over with a loud crash when he knocked on it. The sudden sound made his heart leap into his throat and he shot a wild glance over his shoulder, not even entirely sure what he expected to see. Only the empty street met his gaze.
The neighbour’s house was as silent as his own had been, though usually there were two yappy dogs that barked night and day. Baz hesitated then stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at a heavy, coppery smell. His voice cracked as he called a hello and he cleared his throat, unconsciously curling his fingers into fists. When no one answered he walked further into the house, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that told him to get out before something got him. He told himself someone might be hurt, or hiding as he had been.
He started to call again as he turned into the living room but his voice died in his throat. He recognized the woman lying spread-eagled on the floor, though only by her clothing. Her face had been smashed into an unrecognizable pulp, matting her greying hair with sticky blood and bits of brain. One leg bent at an unnatural angle; the other was missing completely below the knee, the flesh of her thigh terminating in a shattered mess of bone and muscle. One of the yappy dogs lay at her side, its head twisted almost backwards. The other one had been torn in half and thrown into the ashy remnants of the fireplace.
Baz spun away from the sight as though on strings. His feet slid on the smooth floor and he felt his stomach turn lazily over, then he bolted. His feet slid again and he hit his shoulder against the doorframe, though he didn’t notice it until later, when he had time to inspect the massive bruise. He leaped over the front steps in his hurry to get away and took off down the sidewalk, his sneakers slapping against the asphalt and his backpack jouncing around on his back. He ran heedless of what direction he was going in, his breathing coming in whooping gasps. A stitch started in his side but he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.
He skidded around the corner and only just realized there was someone there before they collided. His nose connected with the stranger’s shoulder and they both went down in a tangle of limbs. Baz struggled to free himself, throwing his elbows wildly until he managed to fight his way free. He lunged past the stranger, only to fall to his knees hard enough to tear his jeans as a hand grabbed his ankle.
“Baz, wait—” The stranger cut off with a yelp as Baz kicked backwards, barely missing his face. Baz tried to take advantage in order to get up again but only found himself flat on his face as the stranger tackled him. The second brief struggle ended with Baz flat on his back by a tall, familiar-looking young man about his own age.
“Can I get up without you trying to take my head off again?” the young man asked, breathing as hard as Baz was.
Baz nodded, still trying to catch his breath, and waited until the other youth had gotten to his feet before gingerly sitting up. He took the offered hand and let the young man pull him up, wincing at the aches and pains in his body, especially in his nose. He reached up carefully to touch it and his fingers came away red and wet.
“Here.” The young man handed him a clean, if wrinkled, handkerchief. “I’m sorry for startling you.”
Baz shrugged, pressing the handkerchief to his nose. “Who are you?”
“You don’t recognize me? We’re in the same math class.” He sighed at Baz’s blank look and stuck out his hand. “I’m Severin Poole.”
“The church kid?” Baz ignored the attempt at a handshake and after a moment Severin dropped his arm back against his side.
“I guess.” Severin’s slightly slanted green eyes darkened briefly, then he put on a smile even Baz could tell was forced, though his tone was sincere when he added, “You have no idea how glad I am to find someone else al—around.” His smile flickered then came back full-force, reminding Baz strongly of a politician.
“There was... Someone killed my neighbour.” Baz was surprised to hear himself say it, and even more surprised to find himself suddenly near tears. “She, uh, and the dogs... There was blood everywhere.” He gave a weak and slightly hysterical laugh. “And my dad tried to kill me with an ax.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, a slight lift and drop of his shoulders.
Severin looked at him for a moment, smile fading, then glanced away. “I’m sorry. We should get off the street. The library’s just down here and it’s not too damaged.” He reached out to put a cautious arm around Baz’s shoulders, tugging him gently in the direction of the library. Baz allowed it, glad for any comfort.
The big glass front doors of the library were somehow still intact, though the plant pots that once sat in the corners of the overhang had been smashed on the street. The decorations left over from Halloween a few nights before were still up, and Baz shuddered to see a skeleton hanging in the corner, though it was cartoonish. Still, somehow he felt better inside the building's airy front hallway with the sun shining through the domed skylight, casting stripes of pale light across the tiled floor.
“Do you know what's going on?” he asked, a little ashamed of the slight, childish pleading in his tone.
Severin shook his head. “I came here first thing this morning, and you're the first person I've seen all day.” His tone was convincing, but Baz could see the lie in the shadows in the other boy's eyes.
“Maybe people panicked about that volcano erupting.” Baz looked around and spotted what he was searching for behind the librarian's desk. He hopped over it and set the miniature TV on the counter, turning it on and flicking through channels. All he found was static and messages asking him to please stand by. “Guess it's interfering with the signal.” The explanation sounded weak to his own ears and he quickly flicked the TV off.
“The phones don't work either, I tried calling the police earlier.” Severin stared down at his hands, curled into fists on the polished top of the counter he was leaning on, and shook his head. “It's probably just temporary. How's your nose?”
“I think it's stopped bleeding.” Baz carefully dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief, then gave the blood-splattered cloth a rueful look. “You've got a hard shoulder.”
“I’m sorry for hurting you.” Severin straightened up. “There’s a bathroom downstairs. You can go wash your face.”
“Come with me.” Baz shrugged at Severin's slightly surprised look, feeling his cheeks go hot. “I'd... just feel better. If I wasn't alone.”
“Sure, no problem.” Severin lead the way through the back hallway and down the stairs, gesturing to the bathrooms on the right. “I'll wait out here, unless you want me to come in with you.”
“No, I'll just be a few minutes.” Baz pushed open the door and stepped into the small, dim bathroom.
He flicked the light switch but no lights came on; only a small window set high in the wall provided enough illumination to see, and then only just. He walked over to the double sinks against the wall and started running hot water, then inspected his face in the mirror, grimacing at the blood on his skin and the bruise already forming over the bridge of his nose. He glanced down to check on the water, and when he looked up again, the mirror reflected a filthy, bedraggled man standing behind him.
He whirled around and then dropped to his knees to avoid the fist aimed at his face. His nose filled with the scent of rotting meat, garbage, and wet dirt. He heard the mirror shatter behind him, but he was already lunging for the door, his shoulder hunched in anticipation of a blow. His hand just grazed the handle then fingers tangled in his hair and yanked him backwards, bringing tears of pain to his eyes. Hot breath gusted against the side of his neck and the sensation broke the barrier keeping him silent. Screaming for Severin, he threw himself to the side, breaking the grip on his hair and kicking out at the same time.
His foot connected solidly with the man's stomach, knocking the man back a step. He heard the door bang open but didn't dare to look away, his eyes fixed on the man's face. There was something familiar under the dirt and blood caked on the man's skin but it wasn't until Baz saw the big class ring on the man's finger that he recognized the school's football coach.
The man watched, head tilted slightly as Severin helped Baz to his feet, then suddenly lunged at them again. He moved like a video sped up to twice its normal speed, one moment halfway across the room, the next so close Baz had no time to react. He saw hands with cracked fingernails reaching for him, then Severin shoved him back and roundhouse kicked the coach in the face. The crunch of the man's nose breaking was very loud in the enclosed bathroom.
Baz might have stood there still, his mouth hanging open, but Severin shoved him back out into the hallway and propelled him towards the stairs until his brain engaged and he started moving on his own. They heard the bathroom door open again and started running, but Severin caught Baz back when he headed for the front door.
“What are you doing?” Balthazar tried to free his arm but the other boy was surprisingly strong. “We have to get out of here.”
“This is a safe place. That down there... it's an anomaly.”
“You are out of your mind.” Balthazar tried again to free himself but movement over Severin's shoulder caught his attention. The coach had come up the stairs and was standing in the entrance to the hallway, head swinging back and forth slowly like an animal searching for a scent. His eyes were narrowed into slits and Balthazar was suddenly sure that he was blind in the brighter light.
They stood there in silence, hardly daring to breathe, until the coach sniffed the air and swung his head towards them. Balthazar stumbled back, pulling Severin with him, as the man rushed them with the same uncanny speed. They stumbled into one of the bands of sunlight laying across the floor and the coach abruptly stopped and snatched his hands back with a snarl. He shook his head and growled at them, then his head went up and he appeared to be listening to something. With a last snarl, he turned and slammed his way out of the fire exit, bending the steel bar in the middle with the force of the impact.
There was silence for a moment then a high-pitched shriek that made Balthazar and Severin clutch at each other and exchange wide-eyed glances. It was followed by another, then a third that trailed off into a gurgling, choking noise. Severin closed his eyes and after a moment Balthazar realized he was praying. Unable to resist rolling his eyes, he let go of the other boy and cautiously made his way over to the fire door to look outside.
The coach lay face-down on the sidewalk, wisps of smoke curling lazily up from his exposed skin. The skin itself looked red and shiny, and even as Balthazar watched the man's forearm split open with a sickening pop. Balthazar spun away from the sight and barely made it to the trash can before throwing up so hard he could feel the muscles in his stomach strain. An image of the coach's entire body splitting apart like a hot dog on the grill rose in his mind and he vomited again, until nothing but bile came up.
He gradually became aware of Severin's hand on his back, rubbing in slow circles and offering some comfort. Baz managed to sit back on his heels and wiped at his mouth, feeling weak and unsteady, and gratefully accepted the paper cup of water Severin brought him. With the other boy's help he got to his feet and let Severin lead him up to the reading area on the second floor. More sunlight came in through the second skylight here, and Balthazar made sure to sit in a patch of it, turning his face up to its warmth in an attempt to ease the shivers shaking his body.
“You okay?” Severin handed him another cup of water and sat beside him.
Balthazar nodded. “Sorry.”
“You really don't need to apologize. And it's safe up here, I checked. Maybe you should try and get some sleep.”
“No, I should stay awake.” Balthazar drained the cup and set it on the low wooden table in front of the couch. “Keep an eye out.”
“I can do that.” Severin laid the inside of his wrist against Balthazar's forehead, a no-nonsense gesture that Balthazar found oddly comforting. He was beginning to feel sleepy and hardly protested as Severin made him lie down. His head hurt and it felt good to close his eyes, knowing there was someone else there to keep watch, though a part of him still didn’t completely trust Severin. Before he could think about it any further he drifted into a deep sleep.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
The Boys of Winter Story - Prologue
An earthquake struck the day Baz Bryant’s mother left, packing her bags and disappearing on a bus heading out of town while her son was in school and her husband was passed out drunk on the couch. Sitting at his desk in his grade 8 science class, and half-asleep under the hypnotic spell of the teacher’s droning voice, Baz wasn’t sure what exactly was happening when his desk began to sway underneath him. He sat up straight and looked out the window, expecting to see construction on the new arena across the street, but everything over there was still. Around him his classmates were making noises of surprise and fear, and the teacher was forced to raise her voice over their excited babble to tell them to get under their desks. Baz joined his classmates in obeying, but only after one last look outside, where dark clouds had scudded across the blue sky suddenly. For just a moment he thought he saw snow drifting through the hot early summer air, then he ducked under his desk and waited for the shaking to stop.
When he got home—sent home early by the school—the excitement of the earthquake was lost in finding his mother gone without even a note. Unwilling to face his father’s wrath when the man awoke from his drunken stupor, Baz left the house almost as soon as he’d walked in and wandered the streets until dark, when he reluctantly returned home. He tried to sneak past and up to his room but his father caught him at the bottom of the stairs, cuffing him upside the head hard enough to send him to his knees and screaming at him in almost unintelligible snarls. Baz hunkered down and protected his head, waiting until his father ran out of steam and allowed him to escape up to the relative safety of his bedroom.
His life went on, after, and he almost forgot about the earthquake that had disrupted his classroom at probably the same time his mother was getting onto a bus to leave him behind forever. He vaguely heard reports on the radio and on the news over the next two years; reports about earthquakes in other areas, especially those in some place in India, but he didn’t pay much attention to them. He had enough to deal with as he entered high school and dealt with his father’s increasingly violent drinking binges. It wasn’t until a series of earthquakes all over the world, the week before Halloween, that he thought again of that single earthquake and the momentary hallucination he’d had of snow outside in the summer heat.
On November 1st, the world ended.
When he got home—sent home early by the school—the excitement of the earthquake was lost in finding his mother gone without even a note. Unwilling to face his father’s wrath when the man awoke from his drunken stupor, Baz left the house almost as soon as he’d walked in and wandered the streets until dark, when he reluctantly returned home. He tried to sneak past and up to his room but his father caught him at the bottom of the stairs, cuffing him upside the head hard enough to send him to his knees and screaming at him in almost unintelligible snarls. Baz hunkered down and protected his head, waiting until his father ran out of steam and allowed him to escape up to the relative safety of his bedroom.
His life went on, after, and he almost forgot about the earthquake that had disrupted his classroom at probably the same time his mother was getting onto a bus to leave him behind forever. He vaguely heard reports on the radio and on the news over the next two years; reports about earthquakes in other areas, especially those in some place in India, but he didn’t pay much attention to them. He had enough to deal with as he entered high school and dealt with his father’s increasingly violent drinking binges. It wasn’t until a series of earthquakes all over the world, the week before Halloween, that he thought again of that single earthquake and the momentary hallucination he’d had of snow outside in the summer heat.
On November 1st, the world ended.
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