literature

The Aftermath

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PROLOGUE

    There were birds. Birds—swallows, it sounded like—were singing from somewhere in the distance. Trilling in a sharp and far too sweet voice, they had woken him from an exhausted slumber. She was there again just before his eyes opened, ever-present in his dreams; her face was round and soft and so very familiar that it pained him that her name now eluded him. The sun was just overhead and the grass was warm beneath his fingertips.

    It was only then that it occurred to him to wonder where he was. He glanced about and realized the gentle grass extended to form a small, overgrown field. He dug his fingers into the soft earth and felt the mud squish in his palms and felt the wet on the back of his t-shirt. It must have rained recently. He lolled his head to the side and saw large, untrimmed blades of grass and weeds running alongside of what seemed to be highly corroded train tracks. His eyes followed them down, toward his feet, and noticed the large, also corroded and collapsing factory there. If he followed the tracks up, he noticed an even larger factory in the same state of disrepair.

    The afternoon was quiet and tranquil. Not even the bugs buzzed. The swallows had gone now, haunting song no longer piercing the still. Were they ever even there? Or were they, like the woman, only a piece of a distant dream? He wished he could find that dream again, and in his sleep-deprived state, he yawned deep and long. The breath was cut short by a coughing fit. The air! The air was putrid! It seemed to be eating at him—attacking him from the inside like a demon from Hell that had beset his respiratory system in flames. Every breath he drew was kerosene on the already enraged blaze in his lungs and at the back of his throat. He thought he would die, and indeed a seemingly endless darkness did overwhelm him. The woman was gone, and so were the swallows.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   CHAPTER ONE

   “Hey, John! Can you go help Foster, please?” Chloe shouted, running towards John. “The guy we found in the field isn’t dead after all. We’re trying to get him to the med tent, but he’s heavier then he looks,” She finished, stopping just a few steps in front of him to lean over and rest, panting loudly. John watched her for a moment, noting that subtle, innocent beauty she seemed to exude. He watched the way her light, yellow hair, restrained in a ponytail, bounced slightly with her jostling breathing. Because she was so bent over he could see her back clad in a pink cotton tee and the slight swell of her hips in her well-fitting jeans. She was so skinny. John wondered if she had always been this way or if perhaps it was the lack of food.

   “Can’t that clown manage a little dead weight?” he rumbled.

   “Guess not. But, hey, you know Foster." She looked back up from her 5'2" to John at his even 6 feet.

    Chloe was right. Everyone knew Foster. He was the clumsiest, dorkiest fellow anyone could ever meet. He was not someone John really wanted to rely on to carry this guy. (Though he really didn’t want to carry him at all—might throw his back out again.) One thing was sure about Foster, though: he would get you through it. Whatever it was, Foster had a ten-thousand watt smile to knock your problems out of the ballpark.

    John made his way towards the ham-fisted boob juggling the limp-bodied male in his arms. He wasn’t that concerned until Foster stumbled. Then everything just went to Hell in a hand basket.  Foster, who had stepped in a grass-hidden hole, was toppling over, and the poor guy in his arms was going, too. John sprinted over and just managed to catch Foster’s shoulders and help lower him to the ground in a gentler manner. Well, so much for being careful about his back.

   “Dang, Johnny. Don’t think you could’ve picked a better time! This dude’s heavy!” Foster said, southern drawl thick. “Think you could get him off my chest?”

   After Foster was up and working again, the pair managed to lift him by shoulders and feet and carry him to the medical tent. This kid (and John called him a kid, even though he was likely at least 20) was way lighter than someone with his shoulder to hip ratio should have been. He was probably malnourished at best and starving at worst. His dark brown hair was matted and stuck to his sweaty forehead, and he had a purple bruise just below his jaw line on the left side. John pondered how the kid could've gotten there as they entered the lean to tent the group had set up earlier in the afternoon.

    Foster left quickly and quietly after the kid was settled on a cot. If there was one person on the whole earth that John was truly afraid of, it was this woman. Derica scared the life out of anyone that crossed her, and they only did it the once. Except in Foster’s case, but John was pretty sure he’d finally learned his lesson after she’d nearly shot him.

   “What exactly happened, now?” she asked, looking the young male on the table over.

    John took off his hat before answering, “Abel spotted him lying in a field. We thought he was dead, but he was still breathing when Chloe and Foster got to him.”

   Derica had already begun examining him, almost as if she was ignoring John. He knew she wasn’t, though. It was just how she worked. Again, John watched. He noted Derica's quick movements and the way she was not gentle yet not quite rough as she assessed the kid. He did not overlook the bloody patch on the right sleeve of her purple pullover. Her nosebleeds were becoming more frequent, then. That made, what, three this week alone?

   “Well, he’s got a broken arm. Was he like that when you found him, or is this Foster’s doings?” she questioned absentmindedly.

   “I’m… not sure, ma’am.” It was a fair question, and John wasn’t about to reprimand her sarcasm, anyway.

    Derica studied him closely—checking vitals, poking ribs, checking for scratches and abrasions—until she concluded he was, aside from his broken arm, in perfect health.

   “The only question remains in whether he’ll wake up or not.”

    “Why wouldn’t he wake up? Do you think he has a concussion?”

    “He’s been out all night without shelter. I’m sure it ate him up,” Derica said, almost disappointed, her mouth quirking down into a lopsided frown, as was her custom when something bothered her but she did not want to talk about it. This expression stayed if not always visible, the lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to rise again.

   “You’re not thinking-“

    “He’ll probably remain comatose. We’ll need to dig a grave… Shoot him in the head. Nice and quick, if need be.” She looked away from him as she said it. Anyone else would have called her hopeless or heartless, but John saw her pick up the materials to make a splint. She was going to fix his arm in hopes he would wake. Foster said she was the Devil himself, but John knew. Derica was an angel in disguise. They were lucky to have her in these hard times.

   “You gonna stand there and gawk at me popping this guy’s bones back together, Johnny?” John was about to apologize for spacing out when Derica continued, “Crap. Chloe, go get me some more medical tape. Should be some in my bag, I just haven’t gotten to unpack yet.”

   John hadn’t even noticed her. She had been sitting in the corner of the tent, just quietly writing in her journal until Derica called on her.

   “She sure does like being around you, Derica. I wonder why that is?” John pried carefully after Chloe had left.

   “Not sure myself. Maybe she just appreciates the quiet company. She never talks,” came the mumbled and distracted reply. John hummed thoughtfully. A moment of simple quiet falls over the two, and John thinks that might be all he's going to get. However, just as he turned to go, Derica's voice drifted again to his ears.

    “Or perhaps it’s because I found her. Maybe she finds safety near me. Who knows? And anyway, so long as she doesn’t get in my way, she tends to be a good help, so what does it matter?”

    “I don’t guess it does…” Chloe came back into the tent just as quickly as she had gone.

   “Here you go. There were two rolls, so I grabbed the bigger one because I didn’t know how much you’d need.” Chloe’s face seemed to search for approval. Derica simply took the tape and kept working. Chloe smiled just a little and then set back down in her corner, pen going back to work.


    John turned and left the odd duo to their work.
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   This was a bad idea. How many times had he gotten hurt doing this stupid shit? And how many times had she had to be his mother?

   "Damnit! You moron, you're gonna kill yourself!" Monica yelled as Rodney climbed over the shelves of aisle seven instead of just walking around like a normal human being, like she and Hale.

   "What? Just because it's the apocalypse means we can't have fun?"

   "Yes, Rodney, that's exactly what it means."

   "Frigid bitch," Rodney muttered to Hale as she walked to the next aisle to look for more canned foods or bottled water. "Don't know why she's gotta be like that."

   "Dude, she can probably hear you, first. Second, she's kinda right. You did break your wrist last time."

   "I know, but God. She's always like that."

   "She's had it just as hard as all of us. We're all coping differently. There's no need to be a dick," Hale said as politely as possible.

   "Well, she doesn't have to be a frigid bitch just because I don't walk around moping like her." The three resumed searching for non-perishables.
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   Perched like an owl upon an old rusty rooftop, Isabella (Abel! God, call him Abel.) raised his binoculars again. If he looked west, he could see Foster and John struggling to lift some poor dead bastard’s body. (Surely they weren’t carrying him to Derica? There was no way he wasn’t dead.) If he looked southwest, he could see the town in all its broken, abandoned glory. There he could see Hale, Rodney, and Monica making their way into a grocery store. (Poor Monica. That girl has had to look after Foster her whole life, and now what’s her reward? Having to deal with that prick Rodney!) Finally, if he completely turned his body around to look east, he could see Chloe’s hiding spot of the day: a hollow tree trunk. (There is no reason for her to run off like that. The countless times she’s nearly given Abel a heart attack, Christ!)

   Abel lowered his binoculars and squinted into the sun. If he looked at it just right, he could see the faint yellow hue of the radiation. It hung like a sickness, clung to the clouds like an abhorrent smog. It was disgusting. He lowered his gaze back to the small, craptastic town they had taken refuge in for a few nights. Tomorrow he would have to roll the map back out and figure out where their next stop should be.

   Damn. It was going to be a long night.
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   “Toby?” It was the only sound. “Toby?” Only the one word, waterlogged and distant. He didn’t even know what it meant. Light played behind his eyelids. He knew he was dreaming or maybe dead, but he knew this was not real. She was not real. Not anymore.

   "Toby?” She wore a floral-print yellow sundress. There was a matching ribbon tying back her long, black hair. Her slender, tan face was contorted with worry and fear. She reached outward. Toward what? Toward him? It couldn’t be. She was worlds away, and he was so small… So hurt… Hurt… Pain…

   Agony.

   It suddenly rolled across his body and settled in his arm and head, just behind his eyes. Blearily, he attempted to leave her world, but his eyes just wouldn’t open. They were heavy like someone had sown his eyes shut. Oh, God, what if they had? Sudden panic started his heart pumping furiously, fervor to open his eyes doubled as terror took hold of him. Finally his lids lifted and blinked once into the dim light of twilight. A… tent? He was in a tent? The ceiling was rounded and made of nylon (he guessed), and upon looking around, he realized so was everything else. Definitely a tent, then. There was a little foldable table set up next to his head where medical supplies (bandages, medical tape, gauze, etc.) were. He realized he wasn’t on the ground. Judging by the extreme discomfort on his back, he assumed he was lying on a cot.

   ‘Holy crap, where am I?’ he thought through the haze and pain in his mind. He tried to sit up, but the pain returned with renewed purpose.

   “Ah! Shit!” he grunted.

   “Derica! He’s awake!”

   What? Who said that? Why is she so loud? Please don’t kill me…

   “Really?” Suddenly there was a steely redhead standing over him, scrutinizing his confused expression. “Damn. That’s… unbelievable almost. How do you feel?”

   “Like fresh-ground Hell,” he gritted out. “Why can’t I move? Are you gonna kill me?” he asked with almost alarming calmness.

   “We aren’t gonna kill you. Would’ve done it while you were out if we were. And you can’t move because your arm is broken and  you’ve been out in the radiation all day. I’m Derica, by the way. That’s Chloe.” He glanced down to where Derica gestured to see a scrawny blonde smile softly at him and wave.

   “Radiation?” he replied, letting his head drop back to the cot.

   “Oh… Knew there’d be a catch. What do you remember?”

   A faint name came to him… “T-… Toby. I… think maybe that’s my name.”

   “Crap.”
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   Derica hadn’t really answered any of his questions. Instead she had insisted he sleep before learning anything and had given him a little white pill to help with the pain. It had knocked him out in about thirty minutes. His sleep was restless and dreamless. When he awoke, it was pitch black in the tent, but outside he could see the warm, orange flicker of candles.

   Very, very carefully, he sat up. He was incredibly woozy and dizzy, but eventually that subsided, and he rose from the cot, staggered to the tent’s “door” and lifted it open to reveal that he was inside an abandoned factory that seemed strangely familiar.

Bit of an updated version, just to let you all know I'm not totally fucking dead and that I'm still working on this. Guys, I think this might be what I've been aiming for. I think this might be it.

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