Chapter 1: Umbra
Seafoam.
Raging tides slam against the high sediment seawall with the force of mother nature’s haymaker. Gulls of all sorts wail at random over the salty scene as the ocean winds up another of its infinite punches on the jagged coastline.
A perfect canvas of light blue paints the western sky in beautiful cloudless unison with the sun. At the top of the high seawall were fading white concrete freeway meridian, along with rusty steel railing- both littered with barnacles. Light gray asphalt bordered the infrastructure that was horribly split and cracked.
The strong Arizonian sea gusts were strong this hour. Monterey Cypress trees rehearse their unending Triangle yoga pose as they bend further but never touching the ground. The rhythmic crunching of leaves can be singled out from Earth’s orchestra.
Crunch. Crack. Crunch. A lone human on the empty coastal highway makes their way forward on foot with not a single motor vehicle to be seen. The figure stands quite tall with a black backpack on his person, his jet black hair swaying gently in the breeze with his scruffy ponytail following suit. He sports loose black jeans with a dark blue shirt adorned in slightly lighter blue palm fronds and the word “relax” in white. The young man looked to be in his early twenties.
He approaches a downed white concrete overpass with rubble strewn about and steps over a buried piece of green sheet metal. To his left over the safety railing, was the sudden fifty foot dropoff to the rocky coastline below. And to his right, a vast grassy field shadowed by a million mountains in the far background with a singular high plateau cutting through them. The young man seemed to be staring off into space when he looked to the right slightly, likely deep in a daydream.
Suddenly the young man broke concentration as he stumbled on a large piece of protruding asphalt and stepped forward a good deal. He instinctively outstretched his arms and a bracelet of light and dark wooden beads flew off his wrist in front of him. “Damn”, the young man mutters as he rolls his eyes in annoyance and walks over to the bracelet. He kneels down and picks it up, the string had come undone and the one triangular bead was missing. He panicked for a moment and scanned the floor around him for the missing memento until he spotted it a few feet away.
He walks over to it and swipes it up from a standing position, he slides it back into its place “For Tael, My little bro, Be the change this world needs and never lose hope. -Tai”, read the tiny engraving. “Miss you man, I wish you’d come around more…” Tael whispers to himself before tightening the bracelet firmly to his right wrist.
He continued onward as a mountain pass off toward the right came into view just a few miles away. Still near the meridian, Tael passes a reflective rectangular sign and slaps it to scare away some gulls perched on the cliff’s edge.
He chuckles, then spots a faded plastic yellow box a few hundred feet ahead of him near the precipice, his eyes perk up.
He speedwalks toward it and his expression turns to one of annoyance as he is reminded why he needs to walk this route to begin with. He reaches the box and flings its bird poop covered guard open to reveal a phone pad and microphone. Tael frantically mashes the buttons at random and presses his ear up to the wired microphone.
Nothing could be heard for a moment, he lifts his head away from the keypad and walks backward a moment before charging into the pole with his shoulder. The phone swings frantically as he quickly grabs it and sticks his head next to the microphone to now hear a dial tone, he pumps his fist in accomplishment and starts methodically typing in a number.
He raises the microphone to his head and leans on the pole, waiting for a response from the recipient. “Come on ya old coot… pick up…”, Tael mutters to himself while scratching his head. He turns to face the mountains and twirls the rubber coiled phone cord around his hand when he spots a semblance of black clouds looming over the vast range of peaks in the distance.
The dial tone continues, Tael gets impatient and hangs up the phone. He picks up the phone again and punches in the same series of numbers and leans against the pole again, he clasps the phone with his head and shoulder as he picks up a rock.
The dial tone continues to play as Tael inspects the rock and tosses it between his hands for a few minutes until chucking it into the ocean far below. He annoyingly hangs the phone up and turns back toward the mountain range, the dark clouds were much closer as the wind picked up and lapped at his face.
“What could you possibly be doing, old man?” , he whispers. Tael turns toward the mountain pass and walks in its direction, the foliage’s swaying becoming more violent as the air grew bitter and cold.
Tael approached the incline of the valley passage, its asphalt was even more damaged and worn out. The path gave way to small hills at either side that got taller and grassier the further he walked up the slightly steep grade.
He passed another sign, this one was green and conical with weathered white lettering reading 45-East which Tael promptly ignored.
It had been a while since the last time he walked home from school on this route.
Most days, Tael would bike home on a more rugged albeit straightforward route that featured muddy countryside roads that sucked to walk due to aggressive Javelina and Coyote packs. He felt like not being attacked by wildlife today so chose the valley passage since Uncle Aimann didn’t show up like he normally would.
The black nimbus were directly over Tael at this point and the wind now whipped in his face, he pauses his uphill trudge and pulls a black hoodie out to wear and flips his hood over his head. His ears, nose, and fingertips were cold- he buried his hands in his pockets and occasionally clamped his nose with his hands to warm it up.
He reached the top of the inclined pass to reveal a large expanse of grass bordered by distant mountains on all sides; only a few groups of trees stood tall in the massive field. The scent of wet earth flooded Tael’s nostrils as his body temperature became colder by the minute.
It began to lightly sprinkle.
The asphalt was now completely gone at this point and gave way to a dirt road that split into two paths where the left led north and the right, south.
Tael reaches the intersection and turns left toward a long inclined path up a hill; one lone house could be seen atop the hill. He walked for about half an hour and the light sprinkle evolved into moderate rainfall as he shivered, soaking wet. He approached the remnants of a shoddy spiked wire fence with a dented steel cube-shaped mailbox atop one bent wooden post, the white paint on the side read Mhatar.
The sky had darkened a great deal and one orange light could be seen inside the lone house from a distance.
The moderate rainfall turned into an onset rainstorm.
Tael, worried that his textbooks and papers would get wet ran under a group of Cypress trees as he sat on the soggy leaf-covered ground. He hugged his backpack, shielding it from the elements.
Holding his head in his lap, he perks up when he hears leaves crunching from behind the tree. He leaned over the soaked trunk to see it was the silhouette of a deer, “ Huh, didn't know we had these in Nova Bay. The more you know I guess.” He mutters confusingly.
The deer came closer to the point where it was only a few feet away from Tael’s face.
It stared at him eerily.
He squinted through the dark and rain and pointed, “ Are you supposed to have a gray-colored head? New breed?”.
It didn't react.
A flash of lightning sparked the background, briefly illuminating its face.
Its head bore no skin nor muscle, its body was horribly thin and discolored a deep blue.
Tael yelped and fell backwards onto his hands and scurried away still facing the deer who continued staring at him.
He blinked once and the deer was gone.
The sounds of its hooves on mud receding into the rain.
Tael hastily unzipped his front backpack’s pocket to reveal a bowie knife, he stood up and waved it around while yelling into the dark. After a while he sat down with his backpack in his lap still holding the bowie knife in the direction of the deer’s egress.
The rain was not letting up and would likely last several hours at this point, “Where the hell was Aimann?! It’s stupid cold…”
— 1.5 Hours Earlier, 5 Miles West —
Drip.
The sound of tall barley stalks brushing up against each other set the scene of the blazing landscape of October’s sun. The lime-colored skin of watermelons glistened in abundant godrays.
Drop.
An infinite expanse of amber grass blades swaying in the wind painted the scene during this most summery autumn.
Drip.
Cicadae form a cacophonous melody on all sides in unison with the cricket’s chirp mixed in.
Drop.
A spigot’s dark brown liquid rhythmically hits the bottom of an equally rusted steel bucket, adding percussion to nature’s ensemble.
Distant rushing water adds to the backdrop as a natural estuary runs through the expanse.
An isolated two storied ranch home is attached to the spigot, it was severely run down. Not a cloud can be seen in the vast golden sky- the wind picks up and aggressively spins a tall decaying weathervane to the west.
The front porch of the ranch home bore two wooden rocking chairs with an empty plastic green bowl near the stubby stairs and some black muddy bottomed boots near the screen door.
A light rhythmic series of thuds on wood emanated from inside the house which turned louder over the course of a few seconds.
The thuds stopped.
A figure was standing behind the criss-cross laced bug screen in the dark of the home.
Click.
The figure continues standing in place.
Swoosh. A piece of metal comes loose.
Woosh.
The screen door swings open slowly to reveal a tall and bulky middle aged man- he was gripping a bundle of poppies in his left hand.
The man steps down from the doorway onto the porch, the planks creak under him.
He stops and takes in a deep breath then lets out a heavy sigh as looks right at the two chairs, his expression becoming downcast. The man swipes up the boots with one hand and continues down the creaky wood steps and sits on the bottommost stair with his bare feet in the dry grass and dirt.
He lets down the flowers and sniffles as he slides on his slick rubber boots before sitting in silence for a moment, his silver beard gleaming in the sun. He leans back on the step behind him and plants his grizzled hands on the splintery wood. He looks up to the dreary saffron sky above the mountain range just a few miles away.
A strong gust is carried down the mountain’s edge and nudges the weathervane as it lets out a high pitched squeal.
The man perks up from his blank stare and takes in a deep breath before standing up and surveying his surroundings. He stares ahead at the rusty gate and withering white fence line surrounding his home, picks up the poppies, stands, then approaches it. The man firmly presses his palm against his back and groans as he walks the cracked concrete path bordered with empty ceramic planters.
The thick olive jacket he wore waved wildly in the autumn wind, it was adorned with many decorations and patches of all sorts; most prominently: F. Aimann SFC. 164th Airborne, United States Army.
Aimann towers over the gate as he pulls it toward him with a series of squeaks and proceeds toward four stone obelisks a small distance away. He had traveled a few hundred feet when he met a tall field of golden grass. Arms suspended near his head, he waded through the grass that grazed his chest.
The patch cleared out and Aimann lowered his arms as he approached the obelisks. Aimann kneels down on one foot and sets the flowers in front of the group of headstones. A lump in his throat forms as he gulps and turns away briefly, then takes a deep breath.
He pays his respects and sets the bouquet down. Few tears crept down his silver haired face as he kneeled silently in thought. Tears began to stream down Aimann’s face as he sniffled,” You were always filled with so much hope, so much life. I never saw you sad for more than five minutes Meli, you had a way of continuing on so gracefully. You were a better soldier than I could’ve ever been. You of all people didn’t deserve The Pox, you were a gift that I am so honored to have been able to live alongside.” Now on both knees he reaches his hand out to feel the stone with his palm.
He stares blankly at the engraved text then lifts his head and peers to his right where there were two other headstones- these were adorned with medals. Markus Aimann, Lucas Aimann, then the smallest headstone furthest from him: Avee Aimann.
The engraving in front of him detailed its occupant: Melissa Aurlie Aimann, February 17th, 2027 - December 21st, 2073. She was swathed in great vigor and steadfastness and never lived outside of the present. A loving mother of two and right hand to her best friend Felix Aimann who never left his side. Meli found hope where there was none and pressed on without fail perpetually. A true beacon of light that will live on as long as love persists somewhere in this world. We miss you mom, I miss you, Love. -Aimann Family, January 29th, 2074.
Aimann still holding his palm on the stone, lets go. He lets out a hollow sigh and turns toward his home, he still had field work to attend to. Wading through the tall grass once again, his eyes droop like that of a basset hound. He sighs as he emerges from the dense foliage and continues onward.
He eyeballs his empty mailbox devoid of color and creaks his gate open as he continues to his porch deck. Eyeing his tool shed, he opts to enter his home instead as he sits on the steps removing his weathered boots. He places them next to the doorway and heads inside his home, leaving the door open.
Another hollow breath escapes Aimann’s lungs when he scans his empty home. Approaching a shelf of old mementos and ornate ceramics, he scoots them aside and cradles a dusty picture frame. Two men are depicted in the photo standing on a boat’s deck, one holding a fish dangling by a line and the other- was Aimann.
“The southern sea was so blue that day, we had driven hours down through arid wasteland, from an arid wasteland, to even catch a glimpse of the ocean. Now we have one in our backyard, K. It's so absurd, I wish you were here to share it with. Fishin’ ain’t the same.” The photo had one inscription upon its dusty glass: May 17th, 2061.
He sighs, then brings the photo over to his long wooden dining table and sits down. He gazes into the photo again, losing himself in the past- he perks up and puts it back down. He turns around in his chair to face a long rectangular window and slides it open to let the breeze in.
He leans out by his torso and takes in the cool autumn subtropical air as the endless gold fields bend to one side. Serenity swept over Aimann during this brief moment of meditation- until he smelt it. His face instantly collapsed into disgust as the overbearing aroma stung his nostrils like a gallon of lime juice to a fresh cut to the palm.
He doubled backwards for a moment then stuck his head out the window again, eyes nearly shut as he squinted.
Rushing water.
Aimann examines the estuary, the water was a sickly dark red and splashed its noxious waves about the stillwater. All flora near its banks immediately wilted into and blackened shortly after, this included a great deal of Aimann’s crops. In horror, he slowly turns his gaze toward The Plateau and spots the origin of the deathtouched liquid.
He stands motionless as his expression evolves into one filled with great dread.
His sight moves to the space above the landmass.
“Shit.”
Aimann breaks his trance and bolts toward his doors, slamming them both shut in an instant.
Frantic heavy footsteps on creaky wood and more door slamming booms through the house as Aimann scrambles around.
There was silence for a moment.
The sound of something heavy yanked from a shelf.
Thud.
A cardboard box of rounds hit the floor.
“They promised…”
Grunting, then a single wavering breath escapes from his chest.
“...Why now?...”
A shotgun’s pump slides back.
He loads slug after slug quickly in silence, barely taking a breath.
He grunts, then sounds of more scrambling on hollow wooden planks.
He stops and opens his fridge and grunts, lifting heavy objects to the counter.
Thud, steps, thud, more steps, thud.
“Fine then, we get to work.”
Muffled panting and more frenzied stomping from inside the home are the only sounds in the scene.
Squawk
A singular booming avian’s caw rushes over the mountain range.
Then silence.
It was deafening.
The wind and weathervane were the only non living souls who dare utter a sound.
The sound of a jet turbine came into perception, getting progressively louder until it was overwhelming.
A tiny triangular shaped flying vehicle screeched over Aimann’s home at mach speeds- flattening the gold fields, disappearing over the western mountains in an instant.
Three gray blips leapt high into the air from the vehicle as it passed over the rickety ranch home and descended to Earth like space debris.
Coated in fire, the three meteoric automata made landfall one after the other with a blazing explosion, leaving deep car-sized craters in their wake.
Aimann’s breathing quieted as he idled in the dark.
Footsteps in the dirt outside came from all directions as They circled his home.
One of the steps on dirt evolved into thin steps on wood when it stopped then gently gave a three-knocking pattern on the front door.
Nobody answered nor received.
Silence.
Again the knocking.
Silence.
They began to pull on the handle violently, banging the door against the old frame.
Silence.
A loud wooden splintering sound deafened the room as a sharp mechanical pyramid shaped proboscis stabbed through the door and its handle. It pivots downward to grab the rest of the door and pulls it right off its hinges, shaking the room and its wobbly portraits.
A human-shaped mechanoid with little thickness to its chassis reveals itself standing broodingly in the doorway.
Its head was quarter circle shaped with the flat end facing forward and a long metal drill to accompany it along with a singular, maroon baseball-sized sphere for an eye.
It hunched over the ground to kneel and inspected the downed door debris amid the sawdust.
A slimy bloodshot eyeball attached shoddily to the end of a rod extended itself toward the door bits as well. The eye bore no eyelids and was stuck to the right side of the mechanoid’s head, squelching, dripping fluid as it scanned Aimann’s living room independent of the mechanoid.
A distant upstairs window shatters as glass shards hit the floor, thin hollow footsteps from above followed suit.
The downstairs mechanoid sidles around the perimeter of the living room, avoiding its center. It checked corners and the backs of furniture before proceeding around the couch, carpet, and television to the right of the front door.
Creak.
Creak.
Both mechanoids proceeded, quietly flinging open all compartments.
Suddenly the bottom floor mechanoid’s eyeball began wriggling violently, yanking the head toward a specific long cabinet near the far wall. It turned its head and creeped toward the cabinet as it approached. The eye only more violently yanked itself toward the low bearing cabinet.
The infrared view of the mechanoid revealed a heated biosignature scrunched inside the cabinet. It continued to encroach on it, crouching. The pyramidal proboscis retracted quickly into its arm with a metallic swish as it traded places for a four-fingered claw of long razored talons.
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The mechanoid wound its right arm back, sprawling its claws out.
Aimann took a quick sharp breath as the quiet footsteps came closer.
The arm wound back even further.
It was mere inches from the cabinet.
Aimann gasped.
The arm violently thrusts itself into the cabinet, destroying the door and spraying a chunky red paste all over the area as it repeatedly stabs the compartment. It rips out threads of watery red flesh and cloth from inside.
The machine stops for a moment and stands up, then grips the top of the cabinet and tears it clean off.
There were the remains of three gutted watermelons wrapped in shirts and denim. It picks a piece of watermelon chunk wrapped in a shiny material off the floor and holds it up to the fleshy eyeball. It was very warm.
A voice emerges from behind, “Don’t microwave foil, hm?”
The cold steel head of a fire axe drives its way into the shoulder of the mechanoid, tearing through red sinew underneath its plating and spraying diesel and blood all about.
It let out a deafening bird’s wail and swiped frantically behind of itself as Aimann let go of the axe now lodged in place. The mechanoid kneeled still flailing its arms about, unable to turn around or move. He slings his 12 Gauge Remington shotgun in front of him at the hip with the swing of his shoulder.
“You all’ve taken enough, thank you.”
Ka-Chunk
The deafening roar of the gun’s buckshot instills a ringing in Aimann’s ears as the head of the unit is utterly ripped to pieces. The flash was blinding. Metallic shrapnel embeds itself into the old torn wallpaper and crimson red vitals with bits of nerve and vein paint the wall in a gory red and black paste. The head of the unit had been completely taken off by the blast, leaving a football sized hole bored in the wall.
The body, still kneeling, began convulsing as diesel spurted out its neck hole and blood was strewn about the scene. The axe was still embedded in its shoulder. Aimann violently yanks it out with a fleshy tear. The unit collapsed on its side with a thud and continued to shake and convulse as its blood and diesel reservoir emptied out on the floor forming an unsightly puddle as it seeped into the old wood.
Aimann pumps his shotgun as a slug flies out the bottom and hits the floor with a distinct plastic pitter patter as it rolls around the floor. He swings his gun around his back and holds the axe with one hand, scraping it against the floor as he walks. Clothes soaked with oil and blood, he felt the cold discomfort of both fluids as they seeped toward his skin.
Suddenly the landline from across the room on the kitchen counter began to ring.
Aimann looked over for a split second.
The window behind him shattered, sending shards of glass piercing into his back and neck. He yelped in pain as he covered his head with his left hand and turned around swiftly to meet another unit diving through the window at him. It pinned him to the floor kneeling over him when its arms restrained Aimann’s wrists to the rough wooden plank floor, driving splinters into his backhand and arm.
He drops his axe next to the couch as its head hits the floor and lay just out of reach, he was painfully pinned right on top of his gun. Gasping, Aimann’s eyes widen as the unit’s sharp tipped beak attempts to thrust itself into Aimann’s torso. He shimmies right and has a narrow miss with the first stab which slams the ground, shaking the room.
Then the second gores a piece of his left abdomen.
He wails in pain and struggles harder against his assailant as he bleeds profusely onto the floor and squirms in a pool of his own blood.
He kicks at the machine’s torso and makes a final attempt at reaching for the axe and scrapes the steel edge with his index finger as he swipes for it. The unit bends its head back for a strong peck when Aimann’s right hand lifts the unit’s arm off and grabs the axe’s head tightly, slicing his palm open in the process. He holds the edge over his chest and blocks the beak- denting it at a right angle.
The machine stumbled backwards squealing before crashing into the wall and slumping its back over the broken windowsill, clinging to its beak in pain as the eye yanked itself toward Aimann in a frenzy.
Aimann still on his back rolled over his right side and held his gaping wound tightly as it was spewing blood like a poked water balloon on the floor. He kneels, limps, then collapses all his weight onto the backside of his green couch, covering it in blood and diesel.
He stands upright and grips the axe correctly in one hand, swinging it crudely across his body as the head scrapes a sliver of metal hull off the unit’s face. Aimann approaches with the axe held with its head in one hand and the end in the other. The unit stands upright and slashes diagonally at Aimann with its right arm, recoiling off the axe head.
It slashes again quickly with its left hand diagonally upward and breaks the axe in half, Aimann drops the wooden handle and charges into the machine thrusting the axe head into the machine’s midsection. Sparks fly as blood and diesel spray into Aimann’s face and mouth, blinding him as he spits it out and coughs it up. The axe head remains lodged in the wailing machine’s torso as it swings wildly, screeching, now sitting collapsed on the floor.
Aimann jumps backward a few feet and rubs his hand around the couch’s flat fabric back side until he feels his shotgun’s barrel. He takes aim toward the screeching and fires a shot blindly, the machine had stood up and charges its limping body into Aimann and he falls on the side he was stabbed on. He screams in pain as he struggles to pump the shotgun again with horribly trembling arms and labored breaths.
He fires another shot while laying chest-up that hits the ceiling and quickly another that breaks a window nearest to the center of the living room. Drywall and wood planks fall from the ceiling and cover the ground in debris as Aimann continues firing wildly upward, coughing through the dust. A large portion of his ceiling comes crashing down, followed by multiple loud bangs and the splintering destruction of his wooden-planked floor.
The machine’s sounds stopped after the dust settled.
Aimann, still grunting, groaning, and hyperventilating, lunged over his couch and grabbed a bloodsoaked pillow. He wipes his face with it to see a large bureau buried into the floor with the unit’s appendages severed and sticking out from under it. A large hole in the ceiling and wall was now present with a thin pipe above leaking a constant stream of water into the new divot.
Aimann lowers his hand and presses the pillow to his left side, he gently dabs it. He instantly felt the burning sting of his mutilated flesh meeting open air as loose necrotic skin stuck to his undershirt in thin strands. He groaned in pain and took off his sage blood-stained flannel,” Augh, shit. Shit. Shit that– augh Shit! First aid… in truck… Tael…”
The phone rings again.
Aimann limps toward the phone before falling to his knees with a great thud, shaking his living room. He lets out a low groan and crawls slowly to the kitchen sink, trailing a dark rouge trail behind him on his tile dining room floor.
He grabs the white-tiled counter’s ledge from below and pulls himself up with a grunt, leaving behind a bloody handprint. His right side is slumped over the red and black splattered countertop. He slaps the blue-banded spigot counter-clockwise.
The sound of cold rushing water against cast iron cookware is halted by the chaos of splashing red tinted water and thrown pots and pans. He soaks his clumped flannel in the water after ripping his undershirt off, tearing tender bloody skin with it.
He let out a quick grunt, then forced the wet flannel on the leaking laceration to his side. He breathes deeply and tightly closes his eyes as he ties his flannel to his side firmly and shudders.
He opens his pain-scrunched eyes and focuses on the front door, crushed inward, in pieces on the floor.
His home was painted with diesel, blood, broken glass, drywall, wood shavings, and shrapnel.
The stench of hard diesel and blood soaked fabric assaulted Aimann’s nostrils as he limped helplessly toward the doorway while eyeballing the landline. Aimann leaned all of his weight on the right side of the door frame, sweating and breathing heavily.
With a grunt he launched himself forward to grab a wooden post that held his porch deck in place with both hands, shotgun still slung over his shoulder. He swings himself to the left side of his home and leans his weight on the outer wall as he limps about the perimeter of his home, eyes wide open and filled with dread.
“Need, norepin–”
He collapses in the dry golden grass, splattering blood all about. He pulls himself toward his sanguine tinted truck parked next to the stairs as he approaches the driver’s door and flops his weight onto the tire. He lifts himself higher to grab the door handle and pulls himself up to stand.
He throws the door open and sticks his keys in the ignition, lights beaming.
He shimmies around the driver’s side and leans all his weight on the truck, the axles squeaking as the suspension compensates for it. One labored step after another, he arrived at the back corner of the truck and ran his hand along the smooth paint to meet the stubby trunk handle. He uses all his strength to fling the handle up.
The trunk flops downward.
“Ah thank fuc–”
He is immediately lunged at by another unit in the trunk face first.
“Shit!”
Aimann throws his body to the right as one bladed claw knicks his left temple. Face scrunched in pain, he slings his shotgun’s stock to his abdomen as he fires at the lunging unit.
No sound came out of Aimann’s mouth.
He was expressionless.
The machine was destroyed and lay scattered about in pieces in the dry grass.
Aimann took only one breath.
The breeze had picked up and the sky was dark.
He looked down.
A glossy seven inch blade stuck out of his torso.
Still holding his gun, he trembled as he tried to open his mouth to take a breath.
His jaw locked up.
The rusted weathervane squeaked and pointed east.
Drip.
Aimann’s grip tightened, yet his fingers were numb.
Drop.
He creaked his mouth open with a trembling breath.
Drip.
His gun hits his lap, then the soaked earth.
Drop.
“Meli…”
Drip.
The sky weeps as the heavens are suffocated with darkness, thunder shakes the earth.
Drop.
Aimann’s head droops downward, First Aid bag only feet away in the dirt.
Drip.
A phone’s ring echoes through the home one last time.
Drop.
— 10 Minutes Earlier, 5 Miles East —
Thunder from the bawling shadowy drape pierces Earth’s skin, booming throughout the dusky mountainside.
The wrath of gods illuminates the blanketed underside like spotlights shining through the ocean’s surface.
A distant figure slips and slides on the thin, slick, and muddy hillside path.
One faint light shines through a glass sliding door with great prominence in the black of night. The two-floored building hosting the light stands tall in the torrent’s onslaught of bullets as the figure reaches the tall front door, they kneel down.
“Ah… Okay… Ah shit.”
The figure drops a crowded keyring into the mud with a short splosh.
“Really? Goddammit- piece of shit old ass Aimann…”
They wipe off the mud and gunk from the grooves of all the keys.
“It's this one- nope. This one… Ah, nope.”
They grunt in frustration as one key enters the lock after another for several minutes.
“Goddammit…GODDAMMIT!! I HATE YOU FELIX!!”
Tael throws the keyring at the door, sending a few of them soaring into the mud.
He breathes angrily and holds his hands over his head and face as he paces and grits his teeth.
Thunder sparks the ground causing Tael to jump.
He takes a gulp of air and closes his eyes, “Zebra breaths remember? Zebra breaths…”
“Okay. Alright… Good, good. You’re alright.” Tael whispers.
He crouches down in the muck and scans the floor for the missing keys. He scoops up balls of mud with each recovered key and cleans it using nature's free irrigation system. Tael tries the first key he picked up and turns it.
Locked.
Downtrodden, he walks around the left side of the house and passes the singular light inside the cozy living room. His hightops are painted black as he trudged around the exterior of his home. Passing a low-bearing window, he tries to lift the glass to no avail. “Damn.” He continues on to the back sliding door with a wooden trellis shading it.
He grabs the edge and yanks it right to no result again. “Tai…what the hell…”
Stepping back, Tael sees one large window directly above the overlapping trellis rafters, and to its right another window about half its width.
Through its clogged bug screen he could see the windowsill’s glass was lifted slightly up. He perked up and scanned the cracked patio around him for something to climb on. He spots an item about his height near the corner of the house, veiled with a beige tarp.
Tael grips the corner of the tarp and tears it toward him. A chaotic metal crash and small plastic objects hit the floor in a mess of noise amidst the tarp. He jumps back with the corner of the tarp still in his hand. “Oh. Nice.” He throws the tarp aside to reveal a dinky overturned grill and some cleaning tools that lay on the wet concrete patio’s floor.
“Didn't have to do all that I guess.” Tael shamefully says as he sighs.
He grips the sleek surface of the grill’s side and flips it onto its wheels with one motion.
Its model was branded in red letters over a yellow oval: Avian Inc.
“Okay good, I think I can use the post over the–”
The grill starts sliding away.
“...god can you…”
He speedwalks after it as it approaches the edge of the patio’s unfenced slope.
The wet ground causes it to rotate a small deal as it encroaches on the property’s edge.
He grips the back handle.
“...Stop being dumb for just one second.”
Tael wheels it back to the patio’s underside and parks it near the wooden post nearest to the unlocked window. “Locking wheels this time…There.” He slides open the semicircle shaped cover and feels its rough and ashy charcoal surface under his wet palms. With blackened hands, he shakes the grill, then puts a bit of his weight on it by hopping with his palms on the stove.
“Okay good. Stay.”
He puts all his weight on the stove as he flops his stomach over the tubular patterned surface and retracts his legs in to come to a kneeling stance. The grill wobbles a little as Tael comes to a slow standing position, he slings his backpack into his hands and drops it under the overhang. Trees still thrashed by the rainstorm, the wind picked up some more and wobbled the wheels of the grill even more.
Tael’s eyes meet with the edge of the trellis as he spreads his arms downward as if he were skateboarding. He bends his knees when he hears a snapping sound.
“Shit! No good!”
He springs across the small gap between the he and trellis as the grill’s wheels come loose and slides away again. His torso slumped over the wooden rafter as the wind is knocked out of him from the jump. He climbs up and turns around to see the grill reaching the patio’s edge once again and plummeting down the muddy green hillside a clank. It tumbles violently down the hill, hitting rocks and bushes until it slams into a tree and nestles itself. “Hmph” Tael scoffs as he turns to the house’s wall.
He crawls slowly across the trellis plank perpendicular with the wall as rain continues to beat down on him, antennas on the roof swinging in the wind. Kneeling, he stands and presses his back against the rough stucco wall and slides left around the overhang beneath the windowsill sending bits of wall to the floor. He reaches the window and grabs the glass with his left hand and flings it upward.
Now in front of the open window, the sill sits right at his butt area as he bends backwards into the room, eventually falling inside with a thud. “Ha! Nice! Okay, front door front door front door…” Tael exclaims as he rushes his way down the dark hall and to the stairs when he slips.
He falls on his back.
“The hell! What the fu…”
Tael’s mouth hangs open.
Dried red and black substances painted the hallway and stairs.
He gets back on his feet and tiptoes, holding his breath, to the maple railing bordering the light tan carpeted stairwell.
He peeks his head down into the living room directly below.
Eyes wide and breath near halted, he takes his first step on the top stair.
Trembling with cold and fear, he continues down.
A lit oil lantern on the stubby oak coffee table comes into view as he proceeds.
“Blood?...”
Pieces of metal strewn about the couch, oil soaked into the slick wood flooring, blood peppered the ornately patterned carpet in the room’s center.
“What in the hell man…”
Thunder cracked across the sky.
Tael jumped.
He flung himself down the stairs and began yelling as he ran through the house busting doors down.
“I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU I’LL KILL YOU, COME OUT!!!” He hollered as he grabbed a meat cleaver from the kitchen and waved it around wildly.
Huffing, he dropped the knife with a clang and analyzed the scene in the living room. Mechanical parts were strung about everywhere, in the brick fireplace, atop and around the unit, on the couch, and near the front door.
He poked his head around the downstairs hallway near the small kitchen,”Tai?”
The landline attached to the wall comes into focus, Tael grabs it and dials a number quickly, heart pounding.
There was a dial tone. A few moments passed as he frantically surveyed his home, checking corners twice, three times. “Smells like shit in here.” Tael states to himself as the diesel stench was overwhelming.
Nobody answered the phone.
“Dammit Aimann! Pick up the dumbass phone!”
Tael stomps upstairs quickly into his room, grabbing a pair of binoculars hanging from a peg. He flings his window open and climbs onto the slippery roof. He sits, wraps his head in his waterproof hood and looks west through the binoculars.
He looks left.
“Where”
To the right.
“The hell.”
A bit more right.
“Are you?...”
Something caught his eye.
“What?...”
A few miles away he spotted the ranch in the dim hours of the rainy afternoon, Aimann’s truck’s high beams were on. “Oh so he never left home…Hm…” Tael pondered for a moment, cooling his temper.
“He always responds when he’s home…”
He gasps. Then quickly scrambles off the stormy rooftop and slithers back through the window into his room. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit what if something happened? Oh man oh man oh god…” Tael pulls his hood over his head and trembles as his heart palpitates.
He inhales then exhales while inside his hood,”T, ya gotta be the man of the house when I’m away! Don’t shut down again, Tattle Tael!” He mocks Tai in his impression of him.
“Okay, alright, ok ok ok. Go time.”
He springs to the patio sliding door near the other living room past the kitchen’s hallway and slides it open, grabbing his backpack and pulling it inside. He does a few anxious jumping jacks, runs in place, then lets out a long wavering breath.
Tael bolts to the front door and stops when he crushes something metallic under his right shoe. He lifts his shoe off the item and bends down to inspect it, it was pulsing a soft green light and was very smooth. Weighing very little and bore the size of a small mason jar, he turned it over and spotted an emblem.
“What…what the hell…what is this? Never seen any pre-war brand like this?…looks like some sort of happy face? A cyclops’s smile? It's stitched shut? A weird hammer?”
Thunder struck again and snapped Tael back to his senses as he jumped.
“Right.”
He stuffs the metal chunk into his backpack and opens the front door then steps outside. He turned around to lock the door and looked left to where his ocean blue mountain bike leaned on the wall next to the door, he wheeled it facing the long path and mounted it.
“Don’t die of old age now, Aimann.”
He zips down the hill, leaving a thin, treaded trail as he disappears into the watery maelstrom.
— 15 Minutes Later, Aimann’s Ranch —
Zooming at what seemed like mach speeds, Tael spots the high beams of Aimann’s red pickup truck as he blasts through the flooded countryside. He brakes then skids on the mud a small distance and leans the bike on the ranch’s fence.
He spots his adopted uncle collapsed, slumped against the side of his home.
He wasn’t moving.
“Oh…oh shit…”
Blood cascaded down Aimann’s chest and side, he was entirely soaked.
He was barely breathing.
“Uh…hah…oh god!! What the hell, what the shit what do I do shit… ”
Tael sees the blade piercing right through his uncle’s chest, blood spurted and spattered as he stood in pure shock.
“Shit…oh shit oh shit! Who?? Why?? You’re a soldier! Impossible??”
Hyperventilating, wide eyed, he gripped his adopted uncle’s shoulders.
Head slumped down, Aimann lifted and outstretched his trembling right arm in front of him.
Tael whipped his head to discover a red first aid bag. He quickly scurries to his knees and snatches it with both hands, still shaking all over. He unzips the bag in a hurry, tears streaming down his face as he spills medical supplies on the ground.
“Unc!! Point at the thing that’ll make you alright!!”
Aimann lowered his quavering arm to meet a long, clear, syringe-like apparatus that bore many hatches and holes. “This?!” Tael picks up the device and flips it over in a hurry, inspecting the many tube ends and slots.
Aimann slowly scrunched his quivering fist closed and extended his thumb. He began a vicious hacking fit, blood began bubbling at his mouth as he struggled to breathe.
“Shit!! Okayokayokay…” Tael locked his focus to the many multicolored tubes and connections dumped on the dirt, they all were labeled with various complex medical terminology. “The colors! The yellow tube has to go to the yellow slot and the red…? Yes, yesyesyes right.”
Aimann only began convulsing more violently as bloody vomit and discharge streamed down his chin and neck, dripping into his lap. “Blue with blue, red with red… okay I think I got it!” He presses a small green button labeled: 1 near the top end of the device. The plastic chamber over the needle quickly fills with a dense white gas then vanishes in an instant.
A compressed female audio recording speaks, “ Sterilization complete. Needle surface is 99.991% free of contaminants, please proceed with:
Tael flicks the cap off. “Hold the apparatus with the needle pointing straight down on the thigh area.” He adjusts his grip, Aimann hacks more blood up. “Hold the area of administration firmly, then plunge the apparatus down for ten seconds.”
“Shit.”
The needle pierces through Aimann’s blood-stained jeans as Tael holds it in place.
The hacking stopped.
Tael lifts the needle up gently, then places it in the dirt.
“Please examine the airway for blockage by placing your ear to the middle-chest.”
Tael hesitates for a moment upon the sight of so much blood, then sticks his ear to Aimann’s soaked solar plexus.
Nothing.
He listened closer…
Nothing.
“Unc?... Unc?... Aimann? Oh sh–”
A deep breath.
“Holy shit Aimann you sca–”
Then a ferocious hacking fit as Tael had blood coughed onto his face and body. He stumbled backwards and fell on his butt and laughed,” Aimann! You’re okay!?”
He continued hacking and coughing for a moment before stopping and lifting his head to meet Tael. With heavy breaths he spoke,” Kid…there’s no time…have to tell you…get me inside…”
“Yes! Yesyessir!” Tael goes in to lift his uncle by the shoulders when he feels a light nick at the ankle.”
“Bush?”
A booming bird’s caw startles the two as the severed, half-destroyed upper body of Aimann’s last attacker swipes its dismembered claws at Tael’s leg. “Ah shit oh shit oh shit whatthehellareyou!!” One of its claws scrapes through Tael’s shoe and lodges itself. He frantically stomps and kicks at the ground when the arm comes free and flies into the underbrush like a sports ball.
Tael runs up to the head in the brush as it still deafeningly wails at him,”I'LL KILL YOU!!” He springs into the air and crushes the head over and over, burying the dilapidated remains of the unit into the floor. The caw becomes garbled,” YOU HEAR ME?! DEAD!! I’LL KILL YOU!!” The machine was already completely destroyed, this didn’t stop Tael from making sure of it ten times over.
Aimann hacks and wheezes a few words in,” Dammit kid…help me…inside…” “Ah shit.” He rushes over to Aimann and drags him by the shoulders onto the stairs, metal blade still impaled through him, scraping a trail from being dragged through the dirt. Huffing from dragging his uncle, Tael examines the scene as he is filled with dread when he reaches the doorway.
“Couch…put me on…couch…” his uncle groans.
Tael does so and slumps his uncle diagonally, he drags the square-shaped ottoman over and lifts his legs onto it.
“Unc, who did this and what do they want?”
Aimann groans,”...plateau…hunters…test subjects…”
“You mean the bigass mountain over there?” Tael exclaims as he points out the window.
“Not a mountain…research…bad people…”
Tael spots a piece of scrap metal the size of a baseball on the floor and scoops it up.
“These things are hunters? Why? What did you do to piss ‘em off? I thought that place kept to themsel–”
He recognizes a familiar emblem on the metal plating.
His expression goes blank.
“Tai…” Tael mutters.
Aimann ends a coughing fit, “Tai…not home?...”
“He told me before you picked me up today that he needed to stay home and take care of something.”
“Didn’t tell you… what?...”
“He didn’t, no.”
Tael unzips his backpack and pulls out the piece of debris from his home,”Does this symbol mean anything, Aimann?”
Aimann jerked forward and his eyes widened,” …your brother…taken…bad people…”
Confused, Tael asks,” Taken? How? Why him? I don’t understand? He’s smart and strong, how did he-”
“This…whyl…capture them…human testing…”
“How can you be so sure, Unc? Test subjects?!”
“Have…been attacked…by them…many times…caught me…been long time…”
Aimann began to breathe very loudly and coughed up blood once again.
Welling up, Tael questions Aimann,”Where did they take him?...”
“Can’t…just walk in…need prepare…things…you don’t know…cellar…”
Aimann slowly moves his wavering hand into his pocket and pulls out a key.
His coughing becomes violent.
Twin rivers stream from Tael’s face as he quivers,”How. Do. I. Get. In.”
“Atlas…statue…your school…follow…protocol…codeword…Gaia…”
His breathing wanes.
Tael curls up next to his uncle,“Why? Why do you know this? Why now? I don’t understand…I need more time, Unc please…”
Aimann struggles to take in another breath,” You and Tai…good kids…you both…can…change…everything…”
“Felix?...”
No response
“Unc?”
No response.
Tael’s breath wavers.
He grabs both of Aimann’s arms and shakes him and jangles his head, there was no resistance.
He sprints outside and grabs the syringe apparatus then darts back inside. He stabs Aimann repeatedly in the leg with it, tears wildly flinging about.
Aimann’s eyes had glossed over.
Palm open, he drops the key on the floor with a hollow clang.
His expression remained static and his jaw hung open.
“Don’t go…please…” Tael cries over Aimann’s bloodied lap and drops the syringe as it rolls to the floor.
Tael puts his ear to his uncle’s chest, then swallows a lump in his throat.
“Don’t leave…”
He throws himself over Aimann.
“I’m not ready for this, Unc…”
Tael sniffles and snorts as he squeezes his uncle harder.
“I need you, Aimann…”
“I’m so scared…”
“I can’t do this…”
The rain heavily beat down on the house.
A strong gale flings its liquid bullets into the windows.
Shelves filled with various picture frames of family and friends, mementos of all kinds, awards and symbols of recognition, and home decor trembled before the roar of mother nature.
Suddenly even the most mundane objects within the house would represent a time bygone.
Water streamed in from the collapsed maw of the house.
The earthy aroma of petrichor permeated the musty air.
Time came to a standstill.
Still buried in his uncle’s chest, Tael lifted his face, soaking wet, to meet the doorway, rain inviting itself in.
He stared.
And stared.
No expression crossed his gaze.
He scoots away from Aimann and looks at him over his shoulder.
Aimann’s body slowly slumped into his lap, hands dangling off the couch near his knees.
Tael squishes his head between his arms and knees as he curls up in a ball, quietly weeping.
The rain beat down on the home even harder.
A few hundred feet away on a hillside, a deer stands under a thrashing cypress tree, observing the two through the living room window.
Thunder strikes the ground mere feet away from the tree.
A small inferno burns bright next to it.
Several abnormally long withered antlers, skull devoid of life, lack of a jaw, body horribly deformed and twisted a grotesque navy blue.
Its hollow eye cavities stare out.
It softly chortles among the flicking flames.
Then disappears into the night.