Disclaimer: I do not own Falling skies or any of the characters, even if I wish I do. All rights belong to TNT.
Author Notes: That took awhile. Funny thing is I didn't spend any of that week typing this. I spent it taking a huge breather and working on my summer assignment for school. xD I wrote this all just a couple minutes ago. Decided my breather had turned into a really long breather. Anyway. This is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, sequel to Rehabilitation. I will try to balance the psychological whump with physical whump and will include Maggie, Ben, Tom, and possibly others into the wonderful world of whumpiness! Also, read and review if you want something! Or to keep me working. I will update this every two days, probably. Just to be clear, I do not write any kind of romance... though I might point out some. I can't write about what I don't have! And before this becomes longer than the actual story, have fun and welcome to the second story!
HAL POV
Two weeks ago our world had changed. We had looked out over the forests of the mountain to see a wasteland of our former cities, and a war between skitters. The fish-heads had left. The ships were gone. Harnessed children were still under control but no longer seemed interested in us, unless they were with the other side. Less and less children were being harnessed by the day, and the attacks on us were minimal.
We had learned two things.
The skitters had once been harnessed on their own planet, and like some kids, some were able to fight the effects of the harness and controls. They rebelled. The others, still under control, continued to fight despite the lack of guidance from the fish-heads.
Harnessed kids for the rebellion came to us and other resistance groups to explain what had happened and to ask our help to save our planet. When the electromagnetic pulse had been released to destroy our planes and missile guidance systems, the aliens hadn't expected such a powerful containment for the most dangerous of bombs that protected them from being damaged. They hadn't expected some of their skitters to turn on them and release the bombs on that designated day. Most of the major cities containing the fish-heads and their ships had been obliterated by a kind of vaporizing warhead that left little to no radiation behind. I wasn't sure how, but I was glad we didn't have to deal with any nuclear fallout. Since most of their army had been destroyed, the remaining fish-heads fled. Apparently it was a plan that had been spread around the world, so not only the cities in the States had been wiped.
I tried to feel happy. I did in a way. Most of our enemy was dead. But at the same time, so were thousands of survivors living in the undergrounds of those cities; dead, gone, vaporized. As much as I understood this need to destroy the enemy, I wasn't morally capable of accepting the number of casualties that had come along with it.
At first I thought their story was bullshit. Just another plan to destroy us from the inside out. But eventually it began to make sense. And eventually, I believed it fully. We had a few more survivors and the skitters had even allowed us to de-harness some of the children who wished to be Others, for some reason, wanted to keep their harnesses on. In a few cases we saw how severe the transformation got after many, many months of captivity. Their were covered in orange crusty scales from head to toe, with increased strength, speed, stamina, and extreme sensitivities to sound and light. Some had grown extra fingers. Others had bent spines that made them almost stand on all fours. Some even had fangs growing in around their mouths. I still flinched at the sight of them, wishing I wouldn't because it's not their fault. And besides. It couldn't be changed. I just hoped the same didn't continue to happen to Ben.
We now had 120 survivors and the skitters had moved their war somewhere else. We defended mostly, caught somewhere in the confusion of not knowing who was a friend (or at least neutral) and who was an ally. And in the middle of it all... winter came.
It was bitterly cold. Someone had the stupid idea to set up camp on – or near – the tip of a mountain to wait out winter. The first storm happened yesterday. It dumped a foot of icy rain that soon froze and then another foot of snow. Then some more ice on top just to make sure someone stepping outside and broke their neck. For the most part, my boots protected me from the ice, but on the sudden occasion I stepped through a spot deep enough, the ice on top cut into the skin at the tip of the boot rim, making me curse and rage at the night. I wasn't the only one starting to go stir crazy. Several people were getting short tempered and irritable, shouting at people and even some raising their guns on someone. It was getting hard to control order when those meant to protect everyone were the ones causing the most trouble. There simply wasn't enough clothing to go around. Most people had jackets. Few – not including me – actually had winter coats. Even less – also including me – had extra pants to wear in layers. We all had gloves, but not the good kind to protect us from the cold. And hats were mostly out of the question. So those on patrol during the day froze, and those on patrol during the night were icicles by morning.
And that meant sickness. The cold and the flu was sweeping its way – literally – up the mountain side. Many fighters were lying in beds sick with and vomiting because of the extremes of the weather, and kids especially were getting the brunt of it. It was only a matter of time before it spread beyond the kids and – so far – few fighters that had it. And for those of us who weren't sick... we had to take up more patrols for longer hours and try to stay alive in the process.
Which was where I found myself. The freezing cold air burned down my throat with every breath, nearly lighting my lungs up into a coughing of fire. I wasn't sick. This was normal for me. Every single year, the icy cold would stream down into my lungs and practically set my chest on fire. I coughed only because I needed to get warmth into my lungs and chest. I rarely ever got sick, and the times I did I was always diagnosed with strep. I should have had my tonsils removed as a kid but at the time, doctors believed tonsils were still needed. Or at least, mine did.
I wish he had gotten them out. Even if they do try to fight an infection they always lose and end up getting me even more sick than I should have been.
It was night. I was alone. Usually someone was with me, but we had to cut back a lot. I stumbled through the snow, half blinded by the wind and completely blinded by the dark. I tried to listen to something beyond my own ragged breathing and coughing and the ice crunching under my boots but no sounds came. I was panicking slightly, because there was a nagging thought in the back of my mind that something was following me. And I couldn't see. And I couldn't hear.
Things had actually lightened up a lot in the past few days. Since the fish-heads have left and we had felt a lot less hunted and disheartened, people began to hope for good things to happen and for us to finally win. Fighters became less alert. People began to stop paying attention for signs of trouble. We became pampered and unprepared. Nothing had happened so far but I was worried then when hell broke less again – and I was sure it would before everything really began to get better – that we would be in for some deep trouble. No one would be sure what to do.
More footsteps. My bad leg slipped into the ice which cut into the skin and made me wince heavily. Slowly I pulled it from the snow, knowing it was bleeding. It had cut dangerously close to the lowest of my gun wound scars. The third had hit my shin, had made walking a great difficulty because I had no strength. Now, I could feel the weakness between my knee and my shin. It was as though something was missing. It always ached, like a constant, distant throb that may flare up at any moment. Like right now. Wincing, I held back a hiss and forced myself to keep walking. I swear whatever was following me was laughing at me. Fear flooded me. I began to move forward, faster, breaking into a jog. I could feel it move faster, following me, mocking my pace. It was toying with me, knowing I could never outrun it. Knowing I was easy prey.
All I could think of was a skitter, or one of the machine like creatures we had destroyed awhile ago. I kept going, shutting my eyes and hoping for the best. Whack!
Closing my eyes wasn't the best idea. I realized that as I slammed face first into a tree and sprawled into the ice that pierced my skin as I rolled onto my back. I scrabbled backwards on the ground, half expecting the thing following me to sink its claws or teeth into me. Nothing happened, and my heart pounded against its ribcage, reminding me to breathe. I peered into the darkness, but at the same time, not too hard. I was scared of what I was going to see. I raised my gun, squinting slightly. Then remembered my flashlight.
Fumbling, I turned it on, preparing to spray it with bullets.
There was nothing there. But I still felt like something was following me. Hunting me. Struggling to my feet I kept my flashlight on all the way back to our camp, flicking it behind me every so often just to knock back whatever creature was there, trying to hunt me down in the dark of the night.