Authors: Doug Vossen
Skyfire (2 page)
“You mean YOUR world.”
“What? Shut up Steve, baby steps. I’m still processing this shit. Shut the fuck up.”
“Sorry, continue,” Steve replied.
Jack collected himself for a moment, then continued. “I didn’t have hands but I decided that maybe if I thought about sending the clouds a ‘wave’ of my good intentions, that might be a good place to start. So I did, I thought about sending a wave. Then immediately I saw a reddish semicircle emanate from my perceived location into these two clouds that were getting more and more tumultuous. I asked the clouds to teach me. I kept putting forth the intent that I meant no harm; I was simply looking for answers as to how I could improve the world in my own way.”
“And did you get anything?” asked Steve.
“The storms combined into what appeared to me as a vortex, similar to how you would imagine our galaxy in a photo taken from space. I felt the storms ask, ‘Why would you want to do a thing like that?’ My response was, ‘to help people’. I thought this sounded genuine enough, but I felt a non-judgmental, comforting question asking me if I was sure that was the real reason.”
“What’d you do?”
“I said I didn’t understand. Then I got launched into the vortex. I recognized I wasn’t in control. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. But I wasn’t at all scared. I felt a love, like a mother’s love for her child. The storm took me inside of it; I could see the violent fractal patterns pulsating faster and faster. It then asked, ‘What should we destroy?’ I wasn’t sure so I started naming things. ‘Terrorism? Ignorance? Violence? Socioeconomic disparity?’ I could have gone on forever, but the storm didn’t let me continue in my own douchiness for long. It spoke again: ‘Aren’t all of these what we should be healing? Are you sure you don’t just desire this to build yourself up in the eyes of others? You cannot achieve your stated goal at this time. You have much work to do within before you can affect realistic change in your conscious plane …But we can work together. Think on this and come visit again soon. I love you and will always be present, even when you don’t recognize it. There is much work to be done.’ I was hurled out of the storm, back into the original fractal bliss. This time I felt uneasiness. In the distance, I saw mirror images of the same fractals. They were negative images of the original’s bright, comforting colors. This darkness looked like stacks of rectangular prisms with golden ratios spinning faster and faster inside them. It was the most beautiful hell. Then I knew it was time to go, and I was rocketed back into this chair. But I didn’t want to go. I wanted to know what those other things were. I had so much more I wanted to figure out.”
“Fuck, man,” said Steve.
“There’s one more thing. I’m not sure if this is just me looking at that world through the lens of my own beliefs, but I think that place was real. I think that once we learn more about it we can look, maybe not look, but evaluate and measure it and learn more about it somehow. I am not nearly smart enough to figure out how, but I know that shit was real, man. How is this not more well-known?” asked Jack.
“Way back when, Nikola Tesla said the day science begins to study non-physical phenomena, it will make more progress in one decade than in all the previous centuries of its existence.”
“Didn’t that dude die poor as hell in a hotel room on 8
th
Avenue, a little down from the Houndstooth Pub?” Jack quipped.
“Yeah, he did.”
Jack chuckled. “Fucking awesome.”
HUGHES
“You may fly over a land forever; you may bomb it, atomize it, pulverize it and wipe it clean of life—but if you desire to defend it, protect it and keep it for civilization, you must do this on the ground, the way the Roman legions did, by putting your young men in the mud. ” –TR Fehrenbach (1925 -present)
Trent Hughes sprinted fifty meters and slid, slamming his back into one of the concrete pylons separating a twelve-foot section of fence. He was on the periphery of the park across the street from his apartment building. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn’t choke down.
Emma, where the hell are you!?
It had been almost three days since the power went out. A day and a half since he last saw his wife, Emma, when she went to work. Just before the blackouts she had sent a text letting him know she was going to grab a few drinks with her best friends, Julia and Jennifer. His heart raced as if he were about to have a heart attack. Trent grasped the pistol grip of his M4 carbine with a clammy left hand. Immense fear filled him, made him tremble with anxiety as he thought of what he was about to do.
I’ve done this a million times. C’mon, focus!
His rifle was clad with a rail mounted EO-Tech site displaying luminescent holographic crosshairs. It was powered by two AA batteries and backed up by a flip-up iron sight. He had a Surefire tactical flashlight affixed to the left rail of the barrel, and a bayonet attached to the bottom rail, approximately three inches forward of a removable handle known lovingly in the military as a “gangsta grip.”
What the fuck is going on!? What am I looking at?!. What the hell does it want?! How the fuck did I end up in this bullshit? Why the fuck can’t I just be left alone forever!? IT NEVER STOPS.
Trent Hughes suffered from what many in his life assumed was simply PTSD. It was more than that, however; he had always lived with a brain that never stopped. He wanted silence but never got it. His only recourse was to pour alcohol on the perpetual circus in his brain to quiet it down. Now, back against the pylon, he had that same guttural feeling that tore him apart when the trade center collapsed in 2001. He had realized then that war was inevitable. His next feeling echoed what had occurred inside him when he’d learned that a close friend had died on a mission he was supposed to be on during the Iraq War in 2006. It was a call to action combined with murderous rage, immense guilt, and the urge to break down and cry. It also showed how poorly his previous wartime experience had prepared him for this moment. This, here and now, was truly the end of days.
I should be dead right now. I should’ve gone to Rutgers and become a lawyer. FUCK!
Trent’s mind raced with futile thoughts. In his calmer states, Trent was always fascinated by the ways the human mind works in times of crisis. Once, while running toward gunfire coming from an apartment complex during the war, he had thought only of how much he wanted the can of Mountain Dew he he’d been saving for himself back at the base.
Trent pulled the quick release strap on his assault pack, lowered it to the ground. He took three deep breaths and leaped over the waist-high divider, into the park. He ran faster than any two-pack-a-day smoker should have been able to, purely on adrenaline.
What the hell am I looking at?
It seemed to be a bipedal organism, bearing a resemblance to a human, except it was larger and without distinct features. It was extremely pale. It appeared in pristine physical condition, if that was even possible to determine considering how foreign it looked. The first word that came to Trent was “ghost.” The organism looked to be unarmed.
Fuck that shit. You’re dead, asshole. No one does this to our home.
Trent assumed that the organism’s vital organs were located in its abdomen. He ran ahead at full speed. The ghost stared back with empty, lifeless eyes. Trent leapt as high as he could. As he came down on the ghost, he thrust forward his bayoneted carbine with all his might. The momentum caused him to continue falling forward while still grasping the pistol grip. Upon landing, the bayonet ripped out of his target. He spun around, stumbled. He continued to run as fast as he could, nearly falling from the momentum of his ungraceful kill. He was covered in an excessive amount of dark, amber liquid he assumed was blood. Behind him he heard the rasping sounds of labored breathing.
I never knew if I killed before. There was always a doubt. ALWAYS. I’ve only ever seen the bad guy once in my life.
This time had been definite. It had been up close and personal. Trent had no idea what to make of the situation.
What are they? Why aren’t there more of them? Where are their weapons?
Doubling back for his gear on the edge of the park, Trent had a slew of questions. As he stood on the street paralleling Manhattan known as Boulevard East overlooking the Hudson River, he thought
yeah, well, the city’s fucked and I’m glad I bought those guns in Georgia when I was a lieutenant
. He started jogging down his street toward the Lincoln Tunnel.
Glancing to his left, he could see that the scope of the damage was still very much unknown. The New York City skyline still rose magnificently along the Hudson River. Each area, each building, had its own unique characteristics, its own history, its own beauty. It may not have been the epitome of natural beauty, but Trent saw it as a testament to the capabilities of human beings who are willing to work together and put at least some of their major differences aside.
Trent’s mind continued to wander as he jogged. He looked to the recently gentrified Harlem, a stark contrast to what it was in 1980s. Slowly, his eyes shifted right, scanning south in an almost hypnotic state. His breathing was steady now, rhythmic. Cool autumn air filled his lungs. The Upper West Side, with its high-end luxury residential structures overlooking Central Park, was still there. The buildings blended in a light concrete mass, symbolizing what many people in the city hoped to achieve at some point.
Roommates or riches, I guess.
The Upper West Side ramped up steeply at 59
th
Street into the bustling corporate haven and tourist trap known as midtown Manhattan. The buildings went from a light yellowish brown to brilliant and shimmering metallic silver, accented by the sun, which had now begun its descent.
I loved sitting on the balcony looking at this.
The Bank of America Tower, 30 Rock, the Empire State Building, 1 Penn Plaza, and countless other landmarks adorned the sky. He scanned beyond midtown, beyond where the bedrock was strong enough to support such impressive, gargantuan skyscrapers, till his eyes had skipped over everything south of 23
rd
Street. He was focused on the financial district now.
HOLY SHIT. What am I looking at?
Above the cluster of buildings hovered a storm system that did not look natural. It was a misty, threatening collection of clouds forming into some sort of a shape.
Goddamn… What is that thing?
Whatever, I’m a fucking infantryman. I can figure out anything.
His thoughts narrowed.
Emma. Survivors. Move it, Hughes.
All of this would not be so out of the ordinary considering all the recent freak weather phenomena, the hurricanes and monsoons and everything else, but what was strikingly odd was that there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky otherwise. It was a beautiful, crisp October day. The only hint that anything was amiss were small columns of smoke emanating from various points across the city. And now this cloud formation over Lower Manhattan.
Trent felt ill from the stink of blood.
Goddamn it. This was my favorite Jets shirt. Funny how priorities work sometimes… What the hell do I do now? There’s nothing left at home. I need to find Emma…
CALLIE
“Show no love, cuz love can get you killed.” – Curtis ‘50 Cent’ Jackson (1975 – present)
“Hello!” Callie yelled into the blackness. There was no response. The sound did not fade as it should have, making her think she was in a small, very confined space.
Don’t freak out. It’s going to be OK.
At least I’m breathing.
She felt around with her arms and feet, searching for any possible clues. The areas directly behind, above, below, and to her sides all had the same cold, metallic feel. The most uncomfortable sensation was the cold metal against the back of her head, made worse by her closely-shaven undercut hair. Ten inches from her feet lay a similar metallic surface with divots, levers, and what appeared to be a simple mechanical assembly.
Why the hell am I barefoot?
Callie kicked the mechanical assembly at her feet as hard as she could. “Goddamn it!” She winced in pain, then kicked it three more times, without regard for her foot. On the fourth kick, a small rectangular cover measuring two by three feet burst open. Callie wiggled out of the cold, dark enclosure into the low artificial light of the room. She felt a disturbing chill as she realized she was in what appeared to be a morgue.
What? I’m not dead… My head hurts and I taste blood in the back of my throat…
She had no memories of the last few days. A quick glance to her left wrist revealed her basic information, most likely garnered from her driver’s license. Kennedy, Callie R; 6105 JFK Boulevard East, West New York, NJ 07093, 151-36-63XX.
I was at the hospital? Where are my clothes?
Callie examined herself and her surroundings. She was in a dirty hospital gown. A chill swept over her, standing up all the hairs on her body.
I have to get the fuck out of here.
The hallway hummed with the low frequency of intermittent emergency lighting. What looked like dead people lined both sides of the corridor. The bodies had a red, fluid membrane over their eyes, along with raw skin that looked as if it had been scratched uncontrollably.
Why isn’t my skin like that?
Some of the bodies were covered in soiled sheets, others slumped against the light blue cinderblock wall. It looked to Callie like a final barricade had been constructed in front of the freight elevator. The elevator led to what must be a loading dock and the remainder of the structure.
Level B2… OK, I’m in a sub-cellar. That’s a start. If there is a freight car here, the fire stairs can’t be too far away.
She kept walking, feeling the cold vinyl tile against her feet. She spotted a maintenance closet and went in to investigate. Inside the closet was a work sink and a hole in the wall. The hole led into a dark chamber that had been concealed by the gypsum board against the studs. An odd noise emanated from the hole. It sounded like velcro rubbing back and forth against itself at different speeds.
Whatever is making that noise is more than one thing.
The noise steadily lowered in frequency, eventually shifting into a loud, low-pitched hum.
Using her best judgment, Callie exited the janitor’s closet, shut the door quietly and continued down the hallway, past the masonry wall surrounding the core of the building and the elevator shaft. Fifteen meters to her left she saw a doorway. Its sign read “EMERGENCY, EXITING WILL SOUND ALARM.”
Fuck it.
An alarm was the least of her worries.
She leaned her petite 105 pound frame on the lever. The door immediately opened and the alarm began to blare. A moment later, a loud, pained shriek erupted behind her, from the direction of the janitor’s closet. Primal fear and self-preservation took over inside Callie. Ignoring the shriek, she sprinted up the stairs. She still had bare feet, her gown flapping open at her backside. Halfway up the stairs, she saw the words “To street level” written on a door sign.
The other side of the door presented a hospital lobby littered with bodies. None moved. There didn’t seem to be any power except for the minimal emergency lighting running from a backup generator somewhere, probably the basement. Callie ran toward daylight, stepping over the bodies of cops, firefighters, young professionals, mothers, children, hospital personnel. More bodies littered the entry foyer next to a massive revolving door designed to accommodate steady wheelchair traffic. Callie muscled her way through the revolving door, moving aside slumped-over bodies as necessary. The daylight hit her like a smack in the face.
Holy shit, it’s fucking chilly out here.
The October air stabbed her skin like pin pricks. Callie turned around, looked at the entryway of the building she had just exited.
Palisades Medical Center? What the hell happened? Why was I in there? Why am I the only one alive?
Before pressing onward, Callie needed to find clothes, shoes, and transportation. She continued off the hospital premises, through the drop down gate used to enforce parking fees for visitors. A can of half-consumed flat Mountain Dew was inside the booth. She chugged it voraciously. On the side of the road, near a grass island, she noticed a sport motorcycle that looked like it had been involved in a minor accident. It was leaning on its side. She could only make out some cosmetic damage, nothing obviously mechanical. Next to it lay the body of a short, small-framed, middle-aged man wearing a full leather motorcycle suit with a black helmet and face shield. His clothing was more or less a match in the waist and around the shoulders, but the shoes were two sizes too big for Callie.
I need to do a little better than that before I hop on a bike with the world’s worst hangover.
Two minutes later, walking in the direction of the adjacent parking area, she spotted the corpse of a tiny, older Asian woman.
Jackpot. White tennis shoes. I’m wearing dead people’s clothes – straight off dead people. Why am I OK with this?
Callie mounted the bike in her new clothing, started the engine with the simple flick of a switch, and rode her way out of the parking lot.
I knew this skill would be useful one day… Never imagined anything like this though…
Ordinarily, riding sport motorcycles was one of her favorite hobbies. Now, it was simply a way to get home as quickly as possible. She made a left turn onto River Road, parallel to the city, and headed south, toward her apartment.
I need to get home, hunker down, and figure out what the hell is going on.
She had never felt so confused before. Pushing further south, she noticed more and more wreckage. Oddly, there seemed to be no signs of impact, as from a bomb or some massive explosion. There were simply dead bodies and car wrecks, more than Callie had ever seen, even in the movies. She pressed on. She was headed toward the Port Imperial Ferry Terminal.
She noticed several expensive homes on the east side of the road, completely unsecured, doors, garages, and windows left open.
Whatever happened was big. Everyone was trying to get away from something.
The wind felt extremely cold against Callie’s skin.
As she came up the hill close to the access road that led to 60
th
Street, she stopped and looked to the southeast.
I’ve seen some crazy shit in my life, but this is by far the craziest. And I work in a trashy strip club in the city.
She was looking at what appeared to be a tumultuous thunderstorm above only the financial district. Yet it wasn’t moving, nor did it appear to be actually dumping any rain.
Whatever, I’m going home to take a shower and see if anything is on TV or the radio. Whatever is going on, all I know is I don’t want to be here right now.
Ascending the hill toward 60
th
Street, which intersected Boulevard East a block from her apartment, she heard four distinct gunshots. The shots, in tight groups of two, came from a distance slightly further south down the road.
Definitely time to go home now.
Callie dismounted the bike. She would continue on foot so as to not make unnecessary noise. The hill was not especially steep, but it was long and tiring, especially for someone who had just woken up dehydrated on a death slab.
Callie crept up the crest of the hill. She peeked to her left from behind a small sign for the West New York public swimming pool. She was facing down Boulevard East, searching for any signs of movement to the south. She was more curious than ever about what was happening.
OK, still no one. Why do I have this retarded haircut?
She rubbed the back and sides of her head, shaved down to a one-guard. It was getting colder. Callie just wanted to take a shower and go to sleep.
Everyone loves the biker metal chick stripper. Fuck, I need to start going to school or something. I used to want to be a doctor when I was a kid.
She was fast losing patience for the situation. She was too tired to function, let alone go looking for the cause of what appeared to be a mass extermination.
One block. I have to go one more block.
With her remaining energy, Callie sprinted to the entryway of her building, Riverside Terrace.
Home sweet home.
The entry door was open, but then again, so was almost every door in the entire neighborhood. She flew up the steps two at a time to the third floor, running all the way to the entrance of her apartment. She had been there for almost three years. It wasn’t much, didn’t have a great view, but to Callie it was home.
Shit, no key!
Callie felt around the top of the doorjamb, praying her spare was still hidden there. It was.
Thank God.
She threw open the door, slammed it behind her and dead bolted it. Taking a deep breath of relief, she began situating herself.