The Survivor Chronicles: Book 1, The Upheaval (27 page)

He thought to ask Carl if they were dead, but he found he couldn’t open his mouth. What did it matter? Dead or alive he was still sitting in this truck, and his father was gone. Or perhaps his father was still alive and he was the one that was dead? It was too confusing, he didn’t like these thoughts and he didn’t have the energy to pursue them. Not anymore.

So he simply remained silent, sullen, and miserable. The town beyond the window was gone. He’d been here a few times to visit his mom at the University and to scope it out when he was still debating college. In the end he’d opted to stay closer to home and attend the Community College, but after two semesters he’d decided it wasn’t for him. Landscaping had been a job to pass the time and make some money, but he’d discovered he really enjoyed it and had a knack for it. He’d been contemplating taking some classes to further himself, perhaps even starting his own business.

That didn’t matter anymore though, nothing did.

They had to drive far out of their way to avoid the gaping hole, so far in fact that it took John a long time to realize they were still trying to make their way toward the college. He blinked, his head swiveled to take in the two people beside him. They were still talking Charlie Brown gibberish but they seemed enthusiastic about something.

What was there to be enthusiastic about? The world was ending, and they were dead. He assumed the two of them were dead too, if they were sitting beside him right now. He wondered when they would realize that they were deceased. He hoped it was soon so they’d shut up with that incessant, useless talk.

He turned away, unblinking as they traveled beside the edge of the strange Grand Canyon he was certain led into the very bowels of Hell. There had been nothing but despair down there from what he’d seen. And his father was somewhere within it.

But if that was true then John was still alive, wasn’t he?

He reached out and pinched himself, hard. He winced, grit his teeth, twisted his skin and pinched harder. He welcomed the pain that blazed up his arm, surged through his nerve endings and brought tears to his eyes. He meant for it to hurt. Hurt meant life.

Did he still want to be alive?

Did he want this life? It wasn’t even lunchtime and he no longer recognized anything he’d ever known. No longer recognized himself. Not even five hours and the house he’d left this morning, the family he’d been certain would always be there, the friends he’d spent hours playing video games and partying with, and the girl he’d been chasing no longer existed in this new reality of endless mayhem.

The girl, Rochelle, grabbed hold of his hand. Her dark eyes were wide as she peered up at him. Her mouth was moving, there were sounds coming out, but he didn’t hear her. What was she saying? He tried to tell her to slow down, to speak English, but he found that though his mouth would part, no words came out.

She tugged at his hand, her head turned worriedly to Carl as they began to speak excitedly in what he realized were deeply troubled tones, but the words were all wrong. He didn’t understand why Carl would start speaking this strange language with the girl when he’d been speaking English all day. They weren’t speaking Spanish, as he had a rudimentary knowledge of that, and he’d learned Pig Latin like every other kid who thought they were slick and discovering something new that their parents would never figure out.

He turned away from their buzzing, only to be brought back as the girl pulled incessantly at his hand again. It was only then that he realized he was still pinching his skin. His fingers relaxed, falling limply to his side. His forearm was red, already bruising, and he’d even pierced the skin. Blood welled up and slid from the two fingernail gouges he’d dug into his forearm. He didn’t feel it.

The girl was peering up at him again, concern radiated from her as her mouth continued to move. “I don’t know other languages!” he shouted the words at her, but she didn’t react. He dimly realized that he’d never actually said the words aloud.

Oh well, she wouldn’t understand him anyway. He turned away from her and back to the window. He wondered if there would be some kind of a handbook for this death like there was in Beetlejuice. He’d discovered the movie when he was eleven and had watched it over and over again as a kid. To the point where even his mother could recite it line for line with him. He’d often hear her absently singing the songs even if the movie wasn’t playing. In a time when kids his age had been listening to The Backstreet Boys and Christina Aguilera, he’d thought that Harry Belafonte was the man.

He’d never been one of the popular kids.

He hoped there was a handbook like there was in the movie, it would come in handy. Perhaps it would even show him how to get out of this never ending nightmare he was ensnared in.

He didn’t realize the truck had stopped moving until he felt a hand on his shoulder. The brusque shaking was jarring. Carl was staring at him, his mouth moving; his voice loud. He was shouting in that strange language, as if that would somehow make it possible for John to understand him. He was turning away when Carl grabbed hold of his chin and jerked it toward him. Carl’s fingers were rough on John’s chin, he didn’t care.

The girl said something and Carl released him. Carl raised his hand, looked as if he were considering slapping him but lowered his hand again and exchanged a disheartened look with the girl. She shrugged but her eyes remained on John as Carl started driving again.

At least they had finally stopped blathering on like idiots.

There were more houses in this area, though none of them had fared well. They were sagging and crumpled. Some had caught on fire and were nothing more than rubble. People were on the streets here, moving about, they looked like he felt. Were they dead too?

No. Not dead.

He shook his head; his gaze fell to his wounded arm. The dead didn’t bruise and the dead didn’t bleed. The dead didn’t hurt like this, either. The dead did not miss the living.

Death was always hardest on the living, he’d heard that somewhere but he’d never understood it. How could anything be harder than death?

He understood it now.

Now, beneath the confusion, beneath the fear and the grief understanding was taking root. He had been left behind; he would have to deal with the devastation of the world, his family, and his life. He’d have to deal with the mourning and the loss, he’d be the one left with the memories but none of the tangible entities that had created the very fabric of his existence.

His parents, or for certain his father, no longer knew suffering. He wondered if it was death, or living, that was more terrifying.

He wasn’t ready to die yet to find out the answer.

Though understanding was beginning to churn through his dulled mind, he still couldn’t seem to find the strength to move, to speak, to acknowledge the girl worriedly patting his arm like he was a puppy requiring comfort.

He tried to emerge from the fog, but though he lifted his head, sorrow rose back up to pull him back down. His father had taught him to ride a bike, had coached his little league team, and had picked him up from the principal’s office when he’d been busted skipping school to smoke pot. He’d expected a lot of screaming, perhaps a beating even though his father hadn’t done so much as spank him since he was seven.

Instead, he’d been given a glimpse into a man who wasn’t so different from him. A man who had wandered a near-identical path to John’s, and had floundered until his mid-twenties when John was born. A man who had listened to John instead of screaming, and explained that though he understood, he didn’t approve, and wouldn’t tolerate it again. John had been grounded for a week, but he’d never felt closer to his father and had grown to realize that though their relationship was still authoritarian, they may one day become friends. He’d been suspended again after that, but he’d never gotten high at school after that day. When he’d turned twenty they had started to forge the friendship that John had sensed at fifteen. He’d lost more than his father today, but also the friend he'd trusted the most.

Tears slid down his face and dripped onto the girl’s hand. She patted enthusiastically; her chatter became more eager as she looked rapidly between him and Carl. She bent low, peering expectantly up at him again.

Yes, death was definitely toughest on the living. He knew this now. He wished his parents were here to talk to, to guide him, and to show him the way as they’d done so often over the years. But they weren’t here and they never would be again. If his father was still here though, he’d tell John to pull it together. There was still a chance, no matter how miniscule that his mother was still alive, and he had to do everything he could to get to her.

But it was so grueling.

Another tear slid free. He could do this, he knew he could. It felt like he was trying to swim out of a pool of mud but somehow he managed to lift his head and take in the world beyond the windshield. It was the real world out there. He wasn’t dead, he was pretty certain of that at least. Too many TV shows and movies had played with his mind to be completely sure, but he was ninety-nine percent there.

This wasn’t a movie. His father was dead, and he was still alive. As he watched part of the rotary that led to the college came into view. The other half of it was gone.

It looked as if a perfect line had been drawn through the middle of the campus, half of it had vanished; the other half remained untouched, perfect, dazzling and eerie in the light of the day. The campus contained a lot of older buildings, but they were gone now, eaten by the pit. The other side, the one with the newer buildings, remained intact. His mother, as a history professor, had taught and had her office in the oldest building on campus.

He didn’t even look in that direction, he didn’t intend to see into that hideous hole again.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself. He hadn’t held out hope, but acute anguish still twisted through his heart and stabbed into his gut.

Students had gathered in front of what he dimly remembered as one of the few dorms on campus. There were teachers, or perhaps even older students gathered out front in a large clumping of nearly a hundred people. He could see that there were more people inside the building, filling the hall, and pressed up against the glass doors. Security personal was also milling about in the crowd. Thanks to the summer semester, the number of people was lower than it would have been during the school year.

A young girl, with blood streaking her cheek and dirt smudging her features, raised a hand in a shaky greeting. John pressed his hand against the glass; it was the only action he could give in return. Others watched warily as Carl drove past. Someone was talking again, and judging by the deeper tones, it was Carl.

John opened the door as the truck stopped. He took in the eerily silent world as he watched the people milling about the dorm. He heard nothing as he made his way forward, searching the crowd for a familiar face, but knowing that it wasn’t going to be there.

He stood on tip toe, peering over and around the mob as he moved through it. He pushed his way into the building, ignoring the strange faces that turned toward him. He barely saw the dirt, blood, and tears that covered a good portion of the survivors.

He passed by what he assumed was the public gathering room. A large TV was hanging on the wall; it was on, but only static flickered over the screen. They must have turned the sound off as it made no noise. They had turned the large room into a makeshift hospital ward. People were spread out on twin beds they had pulled from the rooms branching off the hallway. John stopped in the doorway and stared at the carnage spread out before him. There was so much blood, too much. Many would not survive.

One young man was missing an arm. There was no way he was going to stay alive judging by the sparse medical supplies John spotted in the room.

John turned away from the carnage, continuing down the hall, but the crowd began to thin out the farther into the building he went. He found a bathroom; he used it and returned to the hallway. A set of stairs was at the end, but he knew it would be useless. His mother was not up there, he didn’t think anyone was up there.

He turned back around. Carl and Rochelle were at the end of the hall, speaking with a middle-aged woman who was shaking her head. Tears ran down her face as she gestured around the building. Carl looked up and spotted him. John didn’t move. People walked and flowed around him, some seemed just as dazed as he felt.