Violator

There was once a boy and an old man sitting together on a park bench. The details of how this came to be remain sketchy, and ultimately are of little to no relevance, so instead of seeing these, we will see that the sun was setting on the two temporary companions, and that the breeze which had previously stirred up the leaves of a nearby ash now put out the old man's lighter as he struggled for comfort in a cigarette.

'You really shouldn't smoke you know.' the boy finally said, nose clogged with filter-soot.

The old man turned eyes towards youth, smirking at naiveté.

'You know what kid?' he chuckled.

'What?'

The Sun finally clothed itself in ocean, fortunate timing for cracked lips to speak their message.

'There are millions of stars observable with the human eye... Maybe not here, with all this light pollution, but out there, away from the streets and the cars. Millions and millions. Ones discovered, ones named, ones loved and worshipped and toiled under, although we can't see them.'

The breeze finally dropped, a flash and a spark later the old man was puffing rings from his lips.

'And you know what kiddo?'

There was no reply this time, just cold eyes from above a warm sweater.

'In the time it takes the light from all those distant stars to reach us, through all the distance they have to plod,' he paused, dragging on the unlit end of his paper, 'They could have already gone out, and we wouldn't even know it until after our species dies.'

The spent butt drops to the grass, crushed underfoot. In the distance a lonely gull squawks.

'What are you saying?'

'I'm saying we're dead for years until the rest of us finally notice.'

He put another cigarette between his lips and lit it, coughing as he did so.

'Ain't nothing quitting can do about that.'

The youth nodded.

'Say boy; aren't you a little young to be out alone? Where're your parents?'

Blue and foggy eyes met halfway.

'I have no parents.'

'Hm.'

The light flickered once more as spent nicotine found its way to the ground. Pensive, tense air filtered through the nostrils of a young boy and an old man whom fate had placed together on a park bench.

'Why don't you come home with me?'

'No.'

A sigh.

'So be it.'

The old man got up and wandered off, cig pursed in gnarled fingers.

The subsequent fourteen years aged the boy; he was now an adult, and had been one for quite some time. Had fate not turned the way it did, he may have returned to that bench the next day to seek out the man.

But fate did turn the way it did.

Cataclysms, nuclear fire, war; devastation.

The wells dried up; the fields were wasted. Cars littered the streets, abandoned and left to dilapidate slowly. The world was now in ruins; all the work of civilization had drained away and the minds of those who had survived the ordeal were now found equally drained. They squabbled and fought like cats over the last scraps of a dish they had been eating for a century and a half, and when even those last crumbs fell off the platter, they turned on each other.

It went on like this for a while, and soon the pariah turned into the norm.

Aurilaq

He was sitting, lying, on a branch, hands held out in feign prayer, feeling for the only nest he had yet to harvest that week.

It had so far proven to be difficult work; the wind which had kicked up seemed to have done so exclusively to halt human progress, a side effect was to leave him without dinner, and indeed the swaying of the limb beneath and the rapidly dropping temp`erature did nothing to help. Unfortunately for him, this bit of forest had anchored itself on a hill, wedged between the broken plaster, shattered glass, and corrugated iron of several old tenements; as such it fell prey to the worst of the winds that blew through this particular valley. Despite all this the husks of those buildings remained relatively untouched among the foliage; white cubes with grown over doors and empty rooms that still carried the odour of the last person to stay there.

Below him one such relic loomed, a simple, black road. Apparently the people of this hill town hadn't walked anywhere, as any evidence of a footpath was sorely lacking. However, this remained the least of his worries, consigned to the same reaches of the mind as string theory, instead the honour of most concerning went to the ticking time bomb in his pants, and the reminder that Mama-Bird could be back any moment.

All at once the branch failed beneath him, snapping. The eggs careered to the ground amid a flurry of squawking; the sound of fifty birds leaving their homes in a hurry. He pulled back, steadied against the tree with the strength of a pounding heart, and a sighing mouth.

Damn.

He looked down; the eggs had shattered across the pavement. A goo of protein and carbs filling the massive cracks that the trees had made was a final testament to their existence. From below the yolks stared at him, two big, mocking yellow eyes.

Some kind of eagle?

He shrugged to himself, clambering down the tree with as much grace as he could muster with numb hands, the pouch of eggs attached to his leg clacked as he did so.

When feet touched ground, he began homewards, or rather, a small detour into the forest to take care of business later he was homebound. He passed by a schoolyard on his walk, finding on the fence outside a small pink backpack, the sack of eggs went inside.

He now continued to trudge homewards, hands in pockets, air turning to steam as he breathed. It'd take about forty minutes to get to where he was going, so his mind turned to other things; the way he used to stare at cars from his alleyway, and wonder about their warmth. Seeing couples walking down the street, darting it seemed from light to light. Dangerous thoughts filled his head, of other people and different presents.

But his second voice shouted those out, putting them down to incomprehension and a fog.

One thing rang true however. Another day was over, he counted two hundred and eighty nine at his current housing, the longest he'd ever stayed anywhere.

The grass crinkled underfoot; thawed by spring, waiting for summer.

Flash forward forty minutes or so, now inside and sheltered from the cold. He goes to his regular checks; on the locks, the cracks in the walls, the shelves, the cupboards-

Hm.

Slammed from their perch, a set of boxes fell to the floor. Soon a set of plastic cups came down too, landing among them on the linoleum.

God damn it.

The young boy, now a young man, brought his hands to his head, slowly massaging the temples that had begun to pulse with stress.

His wallet was gone. Inexplicably removed from the diner where he had waited out the apocalypse, and although money was the least of his worries, it did hold several things that were somewhat important, some might say essential, for life (among them a lighter, an old drivers license, two boxes of matches, and a stub most people would be hesitant to call a pencil).

It perplexed him, to say the least. The diner was in the middle of nowhere, on a road which hadn't seen any foot traffic but his for the better part of a year. Furthermore, the cupboard in which it normally resided was locked and bolted; for that matter the diner itself was locked and bolted. Nobody had the key; he had been entering through a vent.

He began looking around. Fortunately it didn't take him long to spy the faux leather rag behind a busted jukebox, which currently sat between what used to be two bathrooms. This location in mind, he forgot the matter, and sat down in front of a stall whose table and chairs had been uprooted, to tend to a makeshift fire. Like clockwork the rain began outside, as it had done everyday for the past fourteen years. He ignored it, and continued placing sticks onto the mound. Soon warmth poured from the wood, melting hunger away. He'd been left tired by a day of scrounging, and now, seeing the cracked bar and the broken tables cast in a warmer light his eyelids began to droop further.

They closed without a thought; nothingness ensued.

Awake. Hands searching. Eggs found. Pan found. Fire restarted.

Eggs cooked. Eggs eaten.

Today was not a gathering day. Nonetheless he threw on the jacket which best kept him warm, a tattered, brown thing, and the pants which best protected his legs. To say they were good at their jobs would be to lie; the fact of the matter was that they were the best because he had no other clothes to wear.

Still, he picked up his backpack and mounted the stove, climbing upwards into the vents above. He made his way through these in due time and soon surfaced on the roof, before hopping off it onto the hill next door.

He would go back to the hill town; the place begged to be looted, failing that at least searched, maybe rummaged about in.

The better part of an hour passed by before he reached the set of ruins lowest on the hill.

At about twenty metres tall and thirty wide it was easily the biggest around; a white mammoth of a building which at some point in its life had cost a lot of people a whole lot of money, although that was the past, and this was now; and now it was a wreck.

Exterior light fixtures hung off the peeling paint like the eyelashes of an aging prostitute and the sad green slab of a door was doing little to help its situation. Alongside this the majority of the construct seemed to be submerged in dirt, a few adventurous trees even going so far as to grow on its roof. Whatever grand entrance there might have been before, he could only see the outside of a single, collapsing, fire exit, and a suitable pathway leading up the incline towards it.

One foot in front of the other, he trudged up the stairs. They creaked underfoot, as they should considering their unattended age, eventually crumbling away as he reached the penultimate. What followed was a gasp, but nothing of importance. He hopped up onto a deck, walking towards the lonely door and scratching his hair.

He went to work on it. The deadbolt did its best to hold it closed as boots made their impact, only betrayed by the rotten wood crumbling around it. Once undermined it clattered to the floor, almost disintegrating into rust on the wooden patio, and the door swung ajar, opening into a large, empty box.

The scrap of old was kicked aside as he entered. The roof at some point had collapsed inside, leaving in its place a pile of rebar and concrete. For the time being the hole allowed light through insofar he wouldn't trip and impale himself on the many sharp objects scattered about the floor, but the sun set quickly nowadays, and he resolved to be fast. Around the spires pink upholstery was splayed on the floor, and at the far end of the building sat a large stage, collapsing at the sides.

Although with little experience inside one, he was aware of auditoriums. Apparently this was one. Banners hung around the interior, puckered with tears and holes, commemorating the various sporting and academic achievements of yesteryear. His fingers began to twitch as he walked into the centre of the building, the few chairs that hadn't been turned into twisted spires sat unassumingly among the rest, some still with the packs of children sitting beneath.

He began to rummage those bags he could see, crawling between the aisles on hands and feet, but found nothing save rotting lunch, paper and seven new pencils (these he stashed away). Next he turned to the stage, slowly and carefully tearing it apart with his eyes.

Besides dust and a sad looking piano, he could see nothing. Still he wandered over, consumed by a sad fascination with the instrument and almost tripping over the planks of wood scattered around it.

The lid didn't budge. He kicked it a little until it did. This achieved, he flung it open, almost neglecting the small scrap of paper that had found its way between the keys.

He picked it up, setting off the hammers as he did so to give a single aharmonic stab.

It all began here; this place is not safe.

'You hear that?'

'Hear what?'

'Sounded like a piano.'

'Shuttup Watson.'

'Fine- hey what?'

'What?'

The young man scattered, ducking behind the curtains backstage to hopefully shield himself from the new voices. Unfortunately the acoustics of the hall had been damaged when the roof caved in, misleading his ears, and he ended up face to face with said voices, which were wearing -quite suspiciously- full body HAZMAT suits.

Apparently also stun guns, as he fell to the ground, his body stolen from the waking Earth.

'Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing!?'

'How should I know man! He just ran back here! What would you do!?'

'I wouldn't taze him for shit's sake!'

'This is bad.'

'Yes. It is.'

A worrying pause ensued.

'Should we tell Godot?'

'What are you, stupid? This'd just be a waste of her time. Now grab his arms.'

'Fine.'

The two strangers took him up like a stretcher, and waddled out of the room, scattering a trail of pencils as he left. In his paralysed awareness he noticed they had loaded him into the back of a very new and shiny cargo truck.

It didn't start moving anytime soon, mind you. So he lay there for a few hours, staring at the ceiling. Something in his bones said this was not a great situation to be in.

'Ma'am?'

'What is it.'

'The report from the field teams has come through.'

'And?'

'They were able to contain the Contaminate within the first parallel.'

'Good.'

She sat in an office comprised of what appeared to be an almost entirely boring grey wallpaper dotted with small white squares which might have held pictures had the occupant had anyone to photograph. The floor was the same shade of grey, a rather auchre reflection. Nowhere in the room lay any art or company logo.

Just white squares.

It might have made up for this with its size, unfortunately however, this it did not have. It was small and cramped, the walls ran with sweat.

The occupant sat upright, staring straight ahead with hands unassumingly placed in front. A middle aged black woman, suffering vitiligo severe enough that by now what used to be a pigment now comprised a patch barely discernible from a birthmark.

This did not bother her.

The fly on the wall bothered her, her eyes narrowed on it.

He awoke with a pain in his neck. Apparently at some point he'd fallen asleep, though recollection of this was lacking. Above him was the same sky he'd stared at in the back of a truck, despite this the grass beneath his back felt significantly less painful than the nails jutting out from the wood.

As he rolled over the diner door came into view, the remaining glass did nothing to flatter his appearance.

Was that a dream?

He saw his eyebrows rise slightly in the mirror shard. The pain in his neck certainly felt real, and the bruise spreading across his throat appeared to be here, at least according to whatever lucidity he had left.

'What's the deal, small fry?' He muttered, picking himself up.

He kicked aside a stone as he walked through the doors, pausing slightly to scratch an itch at the back of his mind.

A small radiometer clicks outside, the Geiger-Müller tube inside was doing its job; keeping a check on radiation levels certain people did not want to rise.

Clocks elsewhere struck five O'clock, and like clockwork the rain clouds rolled in, drenching the valley with cold sweat and a fine sheen of chill. Inside his diner, a young boy currently does not care for this, and lies on the cushion of a shattered bench next to a makeshift fireplace, eyes staring straight up at a vent that remained unopened.

The itch began to rise again on the back of his scalp.

I've seen things.

EnD