Prologue
'Apocalypse,'
In still air, in grave silence, in genuine fear—she whispered, ever so softly.
Was that the very first time she had seemed almost scared? With the white alabaster skin, vacant eyes, trembling lips, faltering voice? Since never had he once seen her so quiet, filled with what ludicrous fear and doubt; and those eyes, oh, how those eyes had stared into his, drowning him in this strange, strange power...
It smothered him; then he watched her, questioningly. Her fingers scratched the mahogany diner table, producing some eerie, maddening sound—and at that second, he might have just took those two large strides, gingerly wrapping his protective arms around her curvaceous but fragile body, embracing her from the frightening whatnots of the world. He could have, would have, should have; because this was not some insignificant event, where she would simply laugh it off and shove him aside before scouring for another leg of ham. No, this was not her usual satire self.
This was the dawn of her breakdown. And his.
Instead, he looked at her distraught face with what foolish incredulousness he managed to muster, and wiggled his brows in the silly fashion she hated with a passion (or did she love—he couldn't remember). And with that he burst out into joyous laughter, as if catching her in a crime she had yet done again; with pride he capered round her, utterly oblivious to this broken thing standing there in terror.
Oh, he was so sure of it this time.
But then again, Freddie never was right when it came to Sam.
Still he continued with his taunts, guffawing louder as he heard the slow footsteps of Carly's approaching—he had, for longer than he could remember, wanted to put her under the headlights, much like she had been for the best decade. Since seven she had generally been this disgusting creature that catapulted epic insults at him; she had this burning hatred inside of her, and he hadn't known what he'd done to anger her so. He'd walk into the room with the peace he had (and slick, gelled hair he spent hours and hours perfecting while watching the how-to video on SplashFace) and she would slap a slice of ham on his head, with that winning smirk she always seemed to have.
So yes, Freddie needed a win. Sam had one too many, and besides—he was so sure.
Life was a bitch, he never did learn.
She glanced at him in despair, a peculiar look that grounded him for just a moment. Then he started to ask himself: who was this girl? This seemingly intimidated, sober girl child that although resembled what he knew, was the exact opposite. Where was the spunky girl, filled with life and also gyrating around like the savage caveman—or woman, who knew, for she could probably have had the strength and craziness of a man—she was. But today she stood there, towering over him even though he was obviously the one at upper hand in the heigh section.
It almost alarmed him; for a second then and there, he yearned to pick her up and lay her on the purple sofa, brushing the streaks of blond hair away from her glassy eyes.
Could have, would have, should have.
The door opened and the familiar smell of garden apples engulfed the entire room (and how many times had he told her not to use that apple shampoo? He hadn't hated it, he just wanted to smell Sam's perfect strawberry golden hair). She gazed first at the girl, skeptical, then proceeded to throw herself onto the couch, where Sam should have been lying on, resting those tired eyes to sleep.
Carly snorted when Freddie had recounted a tale where he humiliated her and had left her in a complete daze. She was dubious, with her rationality and reasoning; but still, for all her logic and knowledge and beauty and intelligence, she looked over this surprisingly cool air, blaming it on the weather.
But come on, it was April and the flowers were just starting to bloom.
How could a summer day turn winter-cold?
And then that hysterical girl slid across the room, blocking that silly wooden box that played what mindless show Carly seemed to enjoy (she had once loved it, he recalled). Her invincible fist struck down onto the coffee table; pure, dark silence followed thereafter, where only the creaks of the table were heard, and her conspicuous, laboured breathing.
At this he could feel the sick feeling in his guts, warning him about playing with fire. Settling on the sofa, he cautiously muted the box and placed his hands firmly on the table. Her baby blues searched the eyes of her two confidants, as if seeking for attention and permission. She could not have looked more petrified than ever.
Again, he was downright wrong.
She launched into some conspiracy about the American government, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the scientists (did she call them the 31 Hoover?), the destruction, the future, the tests, the fear, the fear, the fear...
She ended her speech abruptly, body shaking from the warring emotions inside her. He watched her with curiosity, worry, and a tad bit of disbelief—in what universe could there be beasts; and superpowers? He laughs! This was not some fucked up sci-fi movie where vampires and werewolves and pixies and unicorns existed. This was real life. Nothing as special happens, and nothing will. He wanted to slap her.
Instead, she slapped him.
'You're right,' she whispered in the same, deathly tone. 'This is life; it's worst. Uglier. Stronger. Faster. They are the predator, and we the prey.'
They are the predator, and we the prey.
That was much too capricious—even for Sam. She never had that wisdom, nor the English skills of a poet. While her silver tongue could possibly have gotten her anything and everything, she certainly did not know how to piece together a coherent sentence that held such power, he almost collapsed in defeat. It seemed too fake, like an act.
She must be waiting for his reaction, that face which she would laugh of for years. And years to come.
'And since when did you turn into J. K. Rowling?'
The quiet brunette suddenly laughed, awkward with this bizarre tension that hung between the two. Carly was quite sure of the fact that they fought and fought, but there was an intensity in their gaze that frightened her. As she watched, she got tangled within this intricate maze Freddie and Sam seemed to call their friendship.
Unexpectedly, the blonde recoiled. She stared at the boy, then the uncomfortable girl, then the boy again, and stayed like this for one solemn minute. He choked on the air that he breathed, and she? Her blue eyes pierced his skin, as if looking for the heart safely locked by his ribcage. And Carly simply laughed again, feigning what silly whimsicality they used to survive on.
'Do you believe me?'
But he was so sure, oh, how sure he was...
'Dear God, no, Sam. I swear, you're getting crazier by the second-'
And her next motion surprised him so much his head spun. He gripped the sofa, palms sweaty; a silent chaos unfurled in front of Freddie, and there was her eyes, her eyes! That radiating dark light that blinded him died down—they say that eyes were the windows to the soul, and he could swore on his life he caught a glimpse of her soul. That terrified, trembling shining thing, staring back at him. Time stopped for him (he wondered then, what happened to Carly?). He saw her, the true Sam, somewhere deep and behind the thick layers of deception—and he panicked.
He truly did.
And he saw that tear fell.
He almost reached forth to catch it.
Almost.
'Then promise me never to give up.'
She didn't wait for a reply—she simply left, and Carly and Freddie, so appalled by this being, froze. The winter-summer day just grew colder.
Those seven words were her last, for that was the last time anyone saw Samantha "Sam" Puckett.
Then it began, just as she said.
The Apocalypse.