Friday, July 13, 2018; 10:28am
CHAT'N Go Physio and Rehab
Chattanooga, Tennessee
"Okay, now try and do five more. Remember, you'll want to get full extension, and hold - yeah, that's exactly it. Good, good. Back in, and okay, one more. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it -- perfect!" The dark-skinned, moustached man smiled at his patient, slowly letting his arm down to his side, the resistance band having served its purpose. Grunting as the workout ended and he felt a rush of tenderness in his shoulder, the teenager looked up at the physiotherapist.
"All right Parnham, that's it?"
Nodding to the young man, Parnham gestured to the physiotherapy table at the corner of the room. They went through this routine every session. The patient would do his exercises, exert himself probably just a tad more than recommended, and would try and beg off before the electrotherapy. Naturally, Parnham would never let him go. To his part, the teenager nodded and shuffled over to the table. The unkempt, scraggly-bearded teen wasn't overly talkative at any of the sessions, and shoulder injury aside, the physiotherapist knew exactly why he was likely sullen. It was in his medical history, but it was all over the news, as well.
Survival of the Fittest had returned and it had hit close to home. Too close, for poor Ross Miller.
Yet as the vast majority of his classmates had disappeared without a trace, life still had to go on for everyone who was left behind, and Ross had gone and managed to bungle his shoulder up. Many problems in the world were beyond Parnham Sunjabi's purview. He couldn't bring missing kids back from whatever hell they were going through no sooner than he could lessen the burden on this poor teenager's heart. But nursing injured limbs back to health? That was in his wheelhouse. He'd been a physiotherapist for almost a decade now, and as his forties slowly approached, he knew that he'd made the right choice as far as careers went. He loved the progression, the visible signs of seeing someone rehabilitate a limb or an injury. Even those who were likely unable to find total rehabilitation - any progress was good progress, as far as he was concerned.
Ross was, on the surface, a pretty standard case. Second-degree separation of the acromioclavicular joint sustained during an athletic contest, it was healing well and the surrounding musculature had adapted well to the exercises. Ross had started his rehabilitation two weeks after the injury - more than enough time for the limb to have started the healing process. That was all on the surface - pretty standard. It was what was below the surface that caused Parnham to take a bit of a light touch with this teenager.
George Hunter High School. The words jumped off of any page and automatically caused anyone who heard them to change their demeanour altogether. To be treating a survivor - one of the lucky ones who from all accounts, had initially deemed themselves unlucky, well... it was a lot closer to terrorism than Parnham usually wanted to get. It was why his family had originally immigrated to the United States from Pakistan several decades ago. At the time, things had been tumultuous. He could still vaguely recall witnessing awful things as a child, things that he had long ago put out of his mind. Years of therapy and a genuinely solid upbringing here in Tennessee had softened the trauma. He was a citizen, and while things weren't perfect for brown men in the near-south, he was proud of where he lived and fiercely protective of the people in his community.
His broken community.
Walking across the clinic floor, he used his toe to toggle the brake on the wheeled electrotherapy machine over to the table that Ross had set himself up on. It was his usual table, pointed directly at the large television set toward the middle of the room, so clients could watch the local news ticker as they underwent their therapy. Sometimes, Parnham would put on a football game - or depending on the time, a cricket match. A few of the other physiotherapists would always give him grief on those mornings, but hey. Most Americans had their football or their baseball. Parnham had cricket.
For Ross, it was always the news.
The teenager didn't say much on his visits, only enough to confirm that he was doing an exercise properly or answering him regarding his pain threshold or range of motion. Parnham had managed to get out of him that the injury had happened during a hockey game, though his pain was obviously more about being a survivor. About being left behind and suddenly losing the entirety of his social network in one fell swoop. The teenager had obviously stopped shaving once his schoolmates had vanished, and his facial hair was unkempt and long - particularly for an eighteen year-old. It made him look a lot older than his years, as did the dark circles around his eyes. Since the beginning of the sessions, Parnham had gently tried to offer the boy a snack here or there as well; he'd very evidently lost weight, but not in the good way.
Put simply, Survival of the Fittest may have snatched all of his classmates, but it looked to have snatched the life out of the eyes of Ross Miller as it happened.
Taking the electrode strips out of their packaging, Parnham didn't bother to try and make conversation as he put the strips together, wiped them down, and affixed them to Ross' readily rolled-up sleeve. The electrical current would relax the muscles and stimulate the repair of the damaged tissue around the injury. Most patients remarked on how much better they felt the day following a session, and even Ross had once noted that it did the trick.
If he could help at all, it would be here.
"Okay, we'll do ten minutes, okay? I'm going to set it at eighty to start, as always - if you stop feeling it, you can adjust it up or down."
Ross nodded, and Parnham started the machine, slowly turning the dial up until his patient nodded as an affirmation that he felt the electricity. Setting the dial to the agreed-upon level, he handed the control switch to Ross, set the timer on the unit, and walked over to his desk across the room. As it was morning in the clinic, there were not many appointments scheduled and it allowed Parnham the time to go through the paperwork that he needed to. Sitting at his desk, he opened Ross' file and went through it again. The teenager had made excellent progress on his recovery. The original estimate that he'd been given had been eight weeks, but while the sullen boy didn't say much, it was evident that he was taking recovery very seriously. Parnham suspected that he might beat the estimate by a week, maybe even two if he didn't attempt anything outwardly physical.
By the looks of him, that wasn't really a concern. Poor bastard was wasting away.
Taking a few minutes to go through the rest of his file, Parnham made a note to schedule another two week's worth of appointments. The second week might have been overkill, but Ross was on an insurance plan and the sessions were easily cancelled if the boy managed to recover more easily. As he filled in the workout parameters for the next week, he dotted the i's and crossed his t's, looked at the page and then shut the file, content. Putting it back on his desk, he turned his attention to the large television set across the room. Chattanooga News 9 once more, of course. When the abductions had first happened, it had been all over the news. Little under a month later, it was a ticker item at best. There was no confirmation, no certain word on the fates of the 159 George Hunter High School students. The President had spoken, the pundits all declared it so, the police had made many an official statement, but there was no confirmation.
It hung in the air, like terror was supposed to.
Looking down at his desk, Parnham sighed to himself. It didn't matter where in the world one was brought up, or where you went. Terror and those who wanted to spread it were everywhere. It was such a shame, such a damned shame.
He looked back up at the television, and his eyes widened.
"Oh my God," it slipped out of his mouth. The volume was low enough to be audible but not to drown out any rehab sessions and the subtitles were on, but he didn't need to read the scrolling text to know what the graphic was that had just popped up to the right of the news anchor's stern-looking visage.
SOTF: V7 Officially Confirmed.
Allowing his jaw to slacken a little, Parnham watched and listened. Evidently, earlier that morning someone had located a link on the deep web that was virtually identical to that of the last attack. The footage had gone live less than an hour ago. The anchor was somber as he confirmed to the world that what they had all feared was true.
One hundred and fifty-nine from their community.
Parnham jumped to his feet almost as soon as the thought brushed through his head, and he instantly looked at Ross, still seated in the chair, likely in the last moments of the ten-minute session. The boy's gaze was transfixed on the television, and from his desk, Parnham couldn't see his face. This must have been horrible for him. He'd known, of course, but now that it was on the news once more... the whimper from the table spurred him into action.
Quicker than usual, Parnham cleared the distance across the floor of the rehab studio, slowly as he came up beside the teenager beside him. As he took a step beside the table, he saw Ross' face - the youth wore a strained visage, clenching his teeth and obviously in a measure of discomfort. Crying was no stranger to his office, and over the years he'd become somewhat immune to it. If this boy needed a moment to compose himself, Parnham wasn't about to deprive him of that. Opening his mouth to offer a condolence, he almost yelped in surprise when he looked down at the panel.
Ross grunted again.
The teenager had turned the electrotherapy machine up as high as it would go.
Instinctively, Parnham hit the power button for the machine, the electrodes and Ross' shoulder muscles stopping the jumping bean-like action that had been evident, if not a little disturbing. He never used the full setting on the machine - perhaps for patients with severe muscle damage. To do so otherwise would have been incredibly unpleasant, the sensation of pricks and pulsations not one that he ever recommended.
The boy was torturing himself.
Slowly, Parnham reached over and peeled off the electrodes from Ross' arm. The muscle was still pulsing a little. This time, he had to say something.
"Ross, I'm sorry. I can't imagine what-"
The boy cut him off, his face no longer pained but more neutral. His eyes had a dead quality to them, as though the electrodes were his way of testing to see if he was still alive or not. The look of him chilled Parnham to the bone. His voice was equally as empty.
"I think I'm going to go home now. I have to go watch something."
The boy blinked and squinted, the processor of his brain trying to compute all of the details together. Parnham didn't know what to say, so he didn't even try. He just nodded at Ross as the teenager slung his legs over the table, took a few unsteady steps, and walked out of the rehab area towards the front of the building. His stride was unsteady; uneven. He'd seen stronger strides from patients who'd had to relearn how to walk.
It was the gait of someone so affected by their grief that their body was not listening to their mind.
He had to go home and-
Parnham's hands went to the side of his head, a pang of grief at the realization of what his patient was leaving to head home for. What was worse? There was nothing he could do about it. Quietly, in the empty office, he said a prayer for the poor teenager. Parnham gathered that in the coming weeks, he may not have been the proper type of therapist that Ross Miller would need to see, anyways.
He suspected that his patient wouldn't be making his next several appointments. After all, he had something he deemed more important to do.
Ross Miller was headed home to torture himself some more.
I Wait on You Inside the Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea
Ongoing
Friday, July 13, 2018; 11:42am
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
The front door flew open recklessly and thudded against the doorstop, but as Ross beelined through his front door, it was obvious that his parents had been waiting for him. His mother, Jane, was standing in the doorway that led to his kitchen, looking distraught and nervous. Patrick Miller looked no less anxious, but held it together just a little better. He was in front of the staircase, which as the door slammed behind Ross was the direction that the teenager was headed. Holding his hands up, he took a step to block his son's path.
"Ross, why don't you come in and have a coffee, okay? Why don't we ta-"
He barely got through a sentence.
"Dad, all due respect," Ross' voice was dull, and when his father blocked his step around him, he snarled back, "get the fuck out of my way."
Patrick Miller stepped back as though he'd been slapped. He leaned against the wall, opening a path for his son. Pausing to kick his shoes off into the hallway, Ross didn't even look at either of his parents as he quickly traipsed up the stairs, taking them two at a time and ignoring the still-throbbing shoulder muscles that were arguing against his rapid venture home.
"Honey, don't do this," was the only refrain that he heard from his mother as he turned the corner into his room, slamming the door behind him. He didn't say anything. For a moment before the door closed, he could have sworn he heard a sniffle and a slight sob. She would have to get used to it. Chattanooga had become crying country, now. Sorrow and despair had moved in down the street and they weren't going anywhere.
Sitting down at his computer chair, Ross thumped the spacebar, waking his desktop up from its slumber. The PC took only a second to resume, and quickly he guided himself to Chrome, and did a search.
It was the third result from the top. Not for long, he gathered. He clicked on the link.
Inhaling, Ross shut his eyes for a minute, and prayed. Not for him, not even really for his friends, most of whom were probably already long dead. He prayed for one person, and one person alone. One person he knew he'd never see again. Ross Miller wasn't even religious, but he prayed anyway.
But who was he kidding, really? If there was a God, he sure as hell had decided to take this month off. God wasn't going to sit down and watch through this, that much he knew. His parents were probably right. He shouldn't do this. It was perverse, it was inhumane, and it would only cause him grief, pain, and agony.
But he had to.
He had no choice.
He had to know.
Opening his eyes, he moused over to the simple text in the middle of the page. It read "V7", and nothing else. White text on a black screen. It seemed so ordinary, so harmless.
Ross clicked the link and after that, his life was never the same.
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
The front door flew open recklessly and thudded against the doorstop, but as Ross beelined through his front door, it was obvious that his parents had been waiting for him. His mother, Jane, was standing in the doorway that led to his kitchen, looking distraught and nervous. Patrick Miller looked no less anxious, but held it together just a little better. He was in front of the staircase, which as the door slammed behind Ross was the direction that the teenager was headed. Holding his hands up, he took a step to block his son's path.
"Ross, why don't you come in and have a coffee, okay? Why don't we ta-"
He barely got through a sentence.
"Dad, all due respect," Ross' voice was dull, and when his father blocked his step around him, he snarled back, "get the fuck out of my way."
Patrick Miller stepped back as though he'd been slapped. He leaned against the wall, opening a path for his son. Pausing to kick his shoes off into the hallway, Ross didn't even look at either of his parents as he quickly traipsed up the stairs, taking them two at a time and ignoring the still-throbbing shoulder muscles that were arguing against his rapid venture home.
"Honey, don't do this," was the only refrain that he heard from his mother as he turned the corner into his room, slamming the door behind him. He didn't say anything. For a moment before the door closed, he could have sworn he heard a sniffle and a slight sob. She would have to get used to it. Chattanooga had become crying country, now. Sorrow and despair had moved in down the street and they weren't going anywhere.
Sitting down at his computer chair, Ross thumped the spacebar, waking his desktop up from its slumber. The PC took only a second to resume, and quickly he guided himself to Chrome, and did a search.
It was the third result from the top. Not for long, he gathered. He clicked on the link.
Inhaling, Ross shut his eyes for a minute, and prayed. Not for him, not even really for his friends, most of whom were probably already long dead. He prayed for one person, and one person alone. One person he knew he'd never see again. Ross Miller wasn't even religious, but he prayed anyway.
But who was he kidding, really? If there was a God, he sure as hell had decided to take this month off. God wasn't going to sit down and watch through this, that much he knew. His parents were probably right. He shouldn't do this. It was perverse, it was inhumane, and it would only cause him grief, pain, and agony.
But he had to.
He had no choice.
He had to know.
Opening his eyes, he moused over to the simple text in the middle of the page. It read "V7", and nothing else. White text on a black screen. It seemed so ordinary, so harmless.
Ross clicked the link and after that, his life was never the same.
Friday, July 13, 2018; 11:59am
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
He'd picked at random.
Where would one even start when it came to this shit, anyway? Ross didn't know, so he'd just gone with the adage: lucky number thirteen. It had been a list of numbers and names, and so he'd just clicked on thirteen right away, and immediately the face that he saw on the screen was familiar.
Oh, shit. It was Abel. Baseball guy, not a total fucking asshole. They'd hung out a few times. Abel, heck - seemed as good a spot as any to start. He couldn't click through to find Ariana yet. Ross knew that he couldn't. Just in case - if something happened - so fuck it, Abel, he of the baseball team and one of the broier of bros at the school was the first person he'd follow along. As he watched Abel come to his senses, he felt a sense of dread. This all felt so wrong, so utterly off and it felt like he was about to watch a goddamn snuff film.
It didn't take very long until that was exactly what he was watching.
His mouth only stayed open long enough for him to realize that whatever lunch he'd had was about to come flooding back out. Ross darted away from his desk and out the door of his room, barely making it to the washroom before the faint sound of vomiting was the only thing keeping the image of the bloodied, face-down corpse of Abel Zelenovic company.
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
He'd picked at random.
Where would one even start when it came to this shit, anyway? Ross didn't know, so he'd just gone with the adage: lucky number thirteen. It had been a list of numbers and names, and so he'd just clicked on thirteen right away, and immediately the face that he saw on the screen was familiar.
Oh, shit. It was Abel. Baseball guy, not a total fucking asshole. They'd hung out a few times. Abel, heck - seemed as good a spot as any to start. He couldn't click through to find Ariana yet. Ross knew that he couldn't. Just in case - if something happened - so fuck it, Abel, he of the baseball team and one of the broier of bros at the school was the first person he'd follow along. As he watched Abel come to his senses, he felt a sense of dread. This all felt so wrong, so utterly off and it felt like he was about to watch a goddamn snuff film.
It didn't take very long until that was exactly what he was watching.
His mouth only stayed open long enough for him to realize that whatever lunch he'd had was about to come flooding back out. Ross darted away from his desk and out the door of his room, barely making it to the washroom before the faint sound of vomiting was the only thing keeping the image of the bloodied, face-down corpse of Abel Zelenovic company.
Friday, July 13, 2018; 9:16pm
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
At some point in the day, Ross found the live tracker and kept it open within a small window that he kept to the side of his left-most computer monitor. If nothing else, he could keep track of who had died without having to risk clicking on a feed and watching another murder take place. His throat still faintly burned at the sudden expulsion of his stomach contents and the image of Abel's body was seared in his brain.
He'd also finally found Ariana. For now, she seemed okay. Most of the first bits of her footage were in an eerie green night-vision camera, for it seemed as though she'd woken up in a cave of some sort. The people she'd found weren't bad ones, either. Ross didn't know Rhonda much, but Meka was a decent enough guy, if maybe a bit of a social justice warrior type. Dolly was weird, but so was Ariana, so hey.
For now, she was okay.
Her window never left his screen.
He'd been going back and forth on several different classmates, trying to get a live view of what was going on. It had made sense to check in on his friends, prioritize their well-being, as strange as that felt. Currently, he'd been following one particular pal with some concern. Dante Valerio had been shot earlier on in the day, and the more time went on, the more pallid and unhealthy the boy looked.
Ross hadn't been able to go back and watch who shot Dante, or what had happened, but when he'd tuned in towards the aftermath, his face had gone white and had he not already vomited his guts out watching Abel die, he might have done the same. At least Dante seemed to be cared for — Aurelien hadn't found him yet, but Blaise was helping him as the two settled down for the night. The two conversed quietly in the house they'd taken up residence in, and Ross had the window minimized on his right-most screen, listening to them converse as he both watched Ariana and absently scrolled news sites for anything on Survival of the Fittest.
It felt voyeuristic in all the wrong ways. People paid money; actually subscribed and paid a monthly fee to watch the live feeds when the reality television show Big Brother aired in Canada and the United States. This was almost like that, just far more sinister. He listened to conversations he was never supposed to hear. He watched people scratch their asses, pick their noses — at one point someone had whipped it out and taken a piss without any warning and that had jarred him almost as much as watching Abel die.
Dante had been a guy whom Ross had hit it off with pretty quickly. While not someone who was overly antagonistic, people in high school who were of higher moral quality usually ended up finding one another, and Ross figured that in the grand scheme, people would say that the two of them were both pretty good people. They'd started hanging out here and there in grade nine — or was it later? He couldn't recall. It was strange. Some people, he knew exactly how they met or when they started becoming friends. Others, like Dante? Just suddenly there, and boom, they were buddies.
"An' there's stuff for... some of the other kids. Who didn't come. Dean, an' Ross, an'... a couple of others, maybe. Don't remember."
He'd been watching Ariana's feed when he'd heard his own name from the screen. Instantly, he maximized the screen. Dante was near delirious, explaining to Blaise whom he'd purchased souvenirs for.
"Fuck, dude. Sleep already," Ross urged at the screen. Dante looked like hell, and while sleep wasn't exactly a cure-all for a gunshot, it couldn't hurt. His stomach twisted in place as he once again felt his guilt about missing the trip. Had he been there, it — well, it wouldn't have mattered, would it. He'd be as dead and damned as the rest of them. But he'd have been there. With the people he cared about, who cared about hi—
As casually as can be, Blaise took a pistol out of her bag, pressed it to Dante's temple and blew his head off.
"OH, OH FUCK," Ross screamed and pushed back from his desk with both his arms and legs, his legs offering the power that his wounded shoulder could not. His desk chair rolled backwards across the floor until it caught on a shirt that was on the ground, sending him toppling over backwards.
Pain shot through his still-recovering shoulder and took the wind out of him as he grimaced in agony and in horror.
He couldn't get up.
Ross simply stared at the screen as Blaise calmly went about her business, taking things from Dante's bag. Blaise had — oh my God she'd just with no warning and —
"FUCK!"
"You should not have seen that. Do not follow."
Feeling his blood run cold, Ross unsuccessfully tried to blink back tears. He could barely see the screen from his position on the floor. Whether it was from his own pain or revulsion for what he had just witnessed, he wasn't sure. When he finally wiped his eyes and managed to get a look once more, someone else was there. Someone else felt the same outrage as he.
It didn't matter. It was too late, now. His outrage, the girl's outrage — it wouldn't help Dante. Sweet, innocent, kind Dante, who'd trusted his friend Blaise to protect him.
Blaise had murdered him, and for what?
For the second time that day, Ross felt like throwing up.
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
At some point in the day, Ross found the live tracker and kept it open within a small window that he kept to the side of his left-most computer monitor. If nothing else, he could keep track of who had died without having to risk clicking on a feed and watching another murder take place. His throat still faintly burned at the sudden expulsion of his stomach contents and the image of Abel's body was seared in his brain.
He'd also finally found Ariana. For now, she seemed okay. Most of the first bits of her footage were in an eerie green night-vision camera, for it seemed as though she'd woken up in a cave of some sort. The people she'd found weren't bad ones, either. Ross didn't know Rhonda much, but Meka was a decent enough guy, if maybe a bit of a social justice warrior type. Dolly was weird, but so was Ariana, so hey.
For now, she was okay.
Her window never left his screen.
He'd been going back and forth on several different classmates, trying to get a live view of what was going on. It had made sense to check in on his friends, prioritize their well-being, as strange as that felt. Currently, he'd been following one particular pal with some concern. Dante Valerio had been shot earlier on in the day, and the more time went on, the more pallid and unhealthy the boy looked.
Ross hadn't been able to go back and watch who shot Dante, or what had happened, but when he'd tuned in towards the aftermath, his face had gone white and had he not already vomited his guts out watching Abel die, he might have done the same. At least Dante seemed to be cared for — Aurelien hadn't found him yet, but Blaise was helping him as the two settled down for the night. The two conversed quietly in the house they'd taken up residence in, and Ross had the window minimized on his right-most screen, listening to them converse as he both watched Ariana and absently scrolled news sites for anything on Survival of the Fittest.
It felt voyeuristic in all the wrong ways. People paid money; actually subscribed and paid a monthly fee to watch the live feeds when the reality television show Big Brother aired in Canada and the United States. This was almost like that, just far more sinister. He listened to conversations he was never supposed to hear. He watched people scratch their asses, pick their noses — at one point someone had whipped it out and taken a piss without any warning and that had jarred him almost as much as watching Abel die.
Dante had been a guy whom Ross had hit it off with pretty quickly. While not someone who was overly antagonistic, people in high school who were of higher moral quality usually ended up finding one another, and Ross figured that in the grand scheme, people would say that the two of them were both pretty good people. They'd started hanging out here and there in grade nine — or was it later? He couldn't recall. It was strange. Some people, he knew exactly how they met or when they started becoming friends. Others, like Dante? Just suddenly there, and boom, they were buddies.
"An' there's stuff for... some of the other kids. Who didn't come. Dean, an' Ross, an'... a couple of others, maybe. Don't remember."
He'd been watching Ariana's feed when he'd heard his own name from the screen. Instantly, he maximized the screen. Dante was near delirious, explaining to Blaise whom he'd purchased souvenirs for.
"Fuck, dude. Sleep already," Ross urged at the screen. Dante looked like hell, and while sleep wasn't exactly a cure-all for a gunshot, it couldn't hurt. His stomach twisted in place as he once again felt his guilt about missing the trip. Had he been there, it — well, it wouldn't have mattered, would it. He'd be as dead and damned as the rest of them. But he'd have been there. With the people he cared about, who cared about hi—
As casually as can be, Blaise took a pistol out of her bag, pressed it to Dante's temple and blew his head off.
"OH, OH FUCK," Ross screamed and pushed back from his desk with both his arms and legs, his legs offering the power that his wounded shoulder could not. His desk chair rolled backwards across the floor until it caught on a shirt that was on the ground, sending him toppling over backwards.
Pain shot through his still-recovering shoulder and took the wind out of him as he grimaced in agony and in horror.
He couldn't get up.
Ross simply stared at the screen as Blaise calmly went about her business, taking things from Dante's bag. Blaise had — oh my God she'd just with no warning and —
"FUCK!"
"You should not have seen that. Do not follow."
Feeling his blood run cold, Ross unsuccessfully tried to blink back tears. He could barely see the screen from his position on the floor. Whether it was from his own pain or revulsion for what he had just witnessed, he wasn't sure. When he finally wiped his eyes and managed to get a look once more, someone else was there. Someone else felt the same outrage as he.
It didn't matter. It was too late, now. His outrage, the girl's outrage — it wouldn't help Dante. Sweet, innocent, kind Dante, who'd trusted his friend Blaise to protect him.
Blaise had murdered him, and for what?
For the second time that day, Ross felt like throwing up.
Saturday, July 14, 2018; 1:03am
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
It hadn't taken him very long to find the information he was looking for.
Pulling his black hoodie up over his head, Ross' eyes were closed as he listened to the gentle hum. Exhaling sharply, he shut the door, stopping the hum.
He thought of Aurelien, falling in the water. Dante had missed getting it on camera.
Aurelien would be crushed.
Would do something rash.
Ross knew the feeling.
Fuck Blaise. Blaise could fuck off and die. Should fuck off and die.
Turning away, he walked to the front door, plastic bag in hand, and stared at his barely visible reflection in the glass pane of the door.
He barely recognized himself.
Usually he wouldn't actually wish death upon anyone.
Right now, he did. Oh well. So be it.
Thankfully it was his left shoulder that he'd hurt.
Not his throwing arm.
He quietly opened the door and slipped outside, making a beeline for the garage.
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
It hadn't taken him very long to find the information he was looking for.
Pulling his black hoodie up over his head, Ross' eyes were closed as he listened to the gentle hum. Exhaling sharply, he shut the door, stopping the hum.
He thought of Aurelien, falling in the water. Dante had missed getting it on camera.
Aurelien would be crushed.
Would do something rash.
Ross knew the feeling.
Fuck Blaise. Blaise could fuck off and die. Should fuck off and die.
Turning away, he walked to the front door, plastic bag in hand, and stared at his barely visible reflection in the glass pane of the door.
He barely recognized himself.
Usually he wouldn't actually wish death upon anyone.
Right now, he did. Oh well. So be it.
Thankfully it was his left shoulder that he'd hurt.
Not his throwing arm.
He quietly opened the door and slipped outside, making a beeline for the garage.
Saturday, July 14, 2018; 1:43am
The Gated Community
Chattanooga, Tennessee
He felt the cool orb in his right hand, which quivered. This was wrong. This was immature and wrong and ridiculous. His left shoulder ached.
This was stupid, he shouldn't have been in the gated community in the first place. He had Connor's back door code, from all those projects and late-night parties. Of course fucking Connor had a back door in — why wouldn't he.
He was going to get caught; get in trouble. This was wrong. There were probably cameras everywhere. It was why his hoodie was up around his face.
But you know what else was wrong? Murdering someone in cold fucking blood. That was wrong. That was really fucking wrong. Was this a bad idea? It may have been technically a hate crime.
Well, fuck it. He hated Blaise, so yeah, he supposed it was.
"Fuck you Blaise," he spat quietly through gritted teeth, and threw the orb as hard as he could.
The egg splattered across the front of the large house in front of him with a satisfying sound.
So he tossed another.
And another.
It didn't matter how many eggs he threw at the house in front of him, Ross couldn't get the sound of Dante's head exploding out of his head. Each egg brought it back to the forefront. Each egg flashed that back into his mind.
Before he knew it, he threw the bag.
Then the empty carton.
Through tears, he picked up the nearest thing he could find and hurled it has hard as he could.
Something smashed, and his eyes widened. Oh shit — he'd just thrown a rock.
Letting out a guttural cry, Ross turned around and quickly as he could with an injured arm, ran the other way, back in the direction of the Lorenzen house and the way out.
Back in the direction of what remained of his life.
Eggs on a house wouldn't bring Dante back to life, but maybe in some cosmic sense, his friend would look down and smile.
The Gated Community
Chattanooga, Tennessee
He felt the cool orb in his right hand, which quivered. This was wrong. This was immature and wrong and ridiculous. His left shoulder ached.
This was stupid, he shouldn't have been in the gated community in the first place. He had Connor's back door code, from all those projects and late-night parties. Of course fucking Connor had a back door in — why wouldn't he.
He was going to get caught; get in trouble. This was wrong. There were probably cameras everywhere. It was why his hoodie was up around his face.
But you know what else was wrong? Murdering someone in cold fucking blood. That was wrong. That was really fucking wrong. Was this a bad idea? It may have been technically a hate crime.
Well, fuck it. He hated Blaise, so yeah, he supposed it was.
"Fuck you Blaise," he spat quietly through gritted teeth, and threw the orb as hard as he could.
The egg splattered across the front of the large house in front of him with a satisfying sound.
So he tossed another.
And another.
It didn't matter how many eggs he threw at the house in front of him, Ross couldn't get the sound of Dante's head exploding out of his head. Each egg brought it back to the forefront. Each egg flashed that back into his mind.
Before he knew it, he threw the bag.
Then the empty carton.
Through tears, he picked up the nearest thing he could find and hurled it has hard as he could.
Something smashed, and his eyes widened. Oh shit — he'd just thrown a rock.
Letting out a guttural cry, Ross turned around and quickly as he could with an injured arm, ran the other way, back in the direction of the Lorenzen house and the way out.
Back in the direction of what remained of his life.
Eggs on a house wouldn't bring Dante back to life, but maybe in some cosmic sense, his friend would look down and smile.
Saturday, July 14, 2018; 10:02am
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
At any other time and in any other city in the whole of the United States, Gracie Miller would have been over the moon about school being cancelled for the remainder of the year. Getting a few extra weeks before the summer began was like a dream come true — there was no putting a price upon more time to spend with friends as the sun was shining. Her first year of high school had been a difficult adjustment and if she were being honest with herself, it had taken a lot more energy out of her than she'd ever imagined. After all, weathering the ninth grade and the trials and tribulations that came along with it was no walk in the park.
Sitting at her kitchen table with a bowl of cereal slowly turning to mush in front of her, Gracie glumly tapped her spoon softly on the table. In any other city at any other time, she would have been overjoyed. Unfortunately, in Chattanooga in the summer of 2018, joy wasn't exactly the in emotion these days.
Thanks a lot, Survival of the Fittest.
School had been over for almost a month now but the celebrations never came. How could they? Half of the city had actively lost someone they cared about, forced to endure horrors that none of them could even fathom. At least, they couldn't fathom until the video feeds came out and parents, brothers and sisters and loved ones had a front-row seat to the hell that the seniors of 2018 were living through. Her parents had tried not to extend the overprotectiveness that had gripped the city too much towards her, but Gracie was feeling it all the same. Sighing, she set the spoon down on the table. Breakfast wasn't appealing right now; she hadn't slept much the evening before as it was. This whole thing had her stomach tied up in knots.
It could have been worse. Her family was one of the lucky ones, after all. Her brother had missed the big senior trip and his own misfortune had saved his life. That should have been a consolation, but it wasn't. Some of her closest girlfriends had lost siblings. She knew some of the seniors who had gone, her math tutor was on the trip and her brother's girlfriend as well. None of this seemed real, and it put a damper on her summer. That was a selfish thing to think, but it was the truth. No one wanted to go to the mall or the movies, no one wanted to do anything but walk around in a daze and try to do everything but think about Survival of the Fittest.
Naturally, it was all that anyone could talk about.
The feeds had come live the day before, and she thanked the heavens that she hadn't been home when her brother had found out. When she'd come home from a thoroughly awkward visit on a friend's front lawn (apparently they weren't taking visitors or some nonsense), Gracie had found her mother in tears and her father looking both aghast and angry at the same time. Her father wasn't an angry or abusive man, but when he got upset he tended to be a yeller, so she had noped right out of that situation and hidden in her room.
Hindsight being what it was, she would have rather dealt with her upset parents.
All night, she could hear her brother's reactions to whatever he was watching on his computer screen — not that she needed anyone to tell her what it was. There were muffled groans, uncomfortable murmurs, and at one point she was pretty sure he retreated to the washroom down the hall to go and throw up. Which in her mind, meant only one thing: her brother had already seen at least one of his classmates die.
Pushing the half-full bowl of cereal away from her, Gracie sighed and plopped the spoon in it. She was tired and her appetite, never much on a good day, wasn't here at all. Were she being honest, she would have preferred to make an omelette, but her fridge was suffering from a distinct lack of eggs. Cereal was the next best option but it wasn't doing the trick for her. Not to mention, imagining watching her own friends die sounded like something out of a bad television show and her brother was living that as his reality now. It was his own fault, of course. He didn't have to watch, though Gracie understood why he would. Her parents obviously didn't, but she got it. Ross was alive by the skin of his teeth — rather the displacement of his shoulder — guilt was a natural part of the game.
"You all done there, sweetheart?" Gracie had a start, looking up at her mother who had seemingly appeared from thin air.
Nodding, she only layered her voice with a bit of annoyance. "Jesus, Mom — don't sneak up on me like that." Her tone softened. "Yeah, I'm done."
Swooping in, her mother made the barely-touched cereal vanish without any remarks about wasting food or using up dishes. It was almost a family routine, getting bugged about things like that, but she sensed that her mother was using all of her energy to put on a brave face under the circumstances.
Gracie appreciated it.
"Mom," she started, her tone tentative. "Do you think— is this," Gracie verbally backpedalled; her mother couldn't provide her with the answers she was looking for and she knew it. "Actually, never mind."
Placing the emptied bowl in the sink, Jane Miller turned and looked at her daughter, straightening up and not willing to let her off the hook that easily. She had been expecting some questions to come from her daughter. One of her children was hurting and at the moment she knew there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it. Ross was a teenager and he would have to deal with his pain in his own way, at least until he was ready to let his parents in. That moment wasn't right now.
But Jane had two children. So she would help the one that she could; her daughter might be able to understand, to get past this. Jane wasn't certain that she understood it herself, but dammit — she would put on her best 'understanding mother' face and she would try.
"Hold on a second, walk that back."
The teenager's shoulders slumped as her mother's authority stopped her dead in her tracks. Her mind had been ten steps away from the kitchen; if only her body had been as prepared to flee. Exhaling, Gracie ran her hands back through her hair, tightening the ponytail she'd hastily affixed that morning. "It's nothing, it's just—"
Moving across the room, Jane sat down on the chair directly beside her daughter. They were a family; this would be an incredibly difficult time for everyone, but they would only get through it by sticking together. She said nothing, but looked intently and lovingly at her daughter; one of the two most precious things in her life. Her mother's stare broke Gracie's shields down and the questions started to pour out.
"I don't understand how this could happen, I thought they checked for these things? How can so many people just disappear? Half of my friends aren't allowed outside anymore, is this going to be the way that things are from now on?"
Pausing to take a breath, she looked up at her mother with concern filling her eyes.
"Is Ross going to be okay ever again?"
While four years apart, Gracie felt like she'd won the lottery as far as older brothers were concerned. Her brother was an easygoing presence at the best of times, even if he did give her a hard time while they were children. The two had grown closer together as he had gotten older, attending sporting events together once he had gotten his driver's license and promising to look out for her during the one year they'd attend high school together. Having a senior for a brother was actually a boon to her own social life; she had a natural in with people older than her, which meant that she got to make the odd appearance at a social gathering mostly reserved for seniors.
She missed that Ross. The one who had come home after the rest of the seniors had not was bitter, resentful and guilty. He barely spoke to her and he hadn't shaved since his injury. It was disgusting, but more than that — she was concerned.
"Honey," Jane started, fighting the urge to burst into tears, "it's a lot for all of us. This is something that's a part of our history now and it's something that this community is going to feel for a long time."
Reaching across the table, Jane grasped her daughter's hand, cupping it in her own. She was so unbelievably fortunate to still be able to do that.
Some of her friends could not.
"Your brother is feeling the same things that a lot of the city is right now. He's angry that this could happen, and he's trying to make sense of it in his own way. Everyone deals with loss and grief in different ways. Some people cry, some people scream... some people shut themselves up in their room." Jane's voice cracked, but she pulled herself together quickly. "It's just going to take some time."
Seeing her mother barely keeping her own emotions together triggered Gracie's own tear ducts, and she blinked a few times, a single tear running down her face. "I know that, but Mom, he — why would he put himself through — how can he sit there and watch his friends... watch Ariana..."
Jane grasped her daughter's hand tighter as though trying to squeeze her own tears away.
"I know, Gracie. It's not what I would choose, but Ross is feeling... he's angry, he's probably feeling guilty. All we can do is be there for him when he chooses to let us in. He may not come out of there for days and that's okay. We can't force him to feel better. He knows that we're here for him, but he's got to work this out on his own."
Something flashed upon Gracie's face, a quizzical look. She withdrew her hand from her mother's, as though hiding from something — or hiding something. Sniffing, she wiped the tear away from her eyes, her composure having returned.
"What is it?"
Opening her mouth to reply, she shut it again, trying to decide what to reveal, but she was caught. She knew it. "If he doesn't want to open up to us, I get that, but... then where did he go?"
Furrowing her brow, Jane tilted her head. She didn't understand. "What do you mean?"
"Last night," she started, feeling a little like Judas, "I heard him. He went out somewhere in the middle of the night. He was gone for over an hour. Where would he go, he— there's no one left to visit."
That sounded like a horrible thing to say, but it was the truth and both women knew it. Jane was filled with concern. It was one thing for her son to seal himself in his room and subject himself to watching days straight of what boiled down to a personally-targeted snuff film, but he was not the kind of person to go off in the middle of the night. Ross had always been very responsible, always letting at least one of his parents know where he was going. It wasn't a lot to ask — a small text message or a quick phone call would always set her mind at ease.
"Oh, sweetheart. I — I don't know."
That he had gone on some mystery errand in the middle of the night on the very day that something so horribly traumatic had come out, that concerned her more than anything. Her husband had encouraged her to give Ross some space, but he was likely just as unaware of this as she was. A pit formed in her stomach, and as she looked at her daughter, she was filled with dread. Of all the possible places he could have gone, they were all invalid now. Her son's mystery outing in the dead of night disturbed her immensely.
The worst part was? Jane Miller couldn't put her finger on why.
The Miller House
Chattanooga, Tennessee
At any other time and in any other city in the whole of the United States, Gracie Miller would have been over the moon about school being cancelled for the remainder of the year. Getting a few extra weeks before the summer began was like a dream come true — there was no putting a price upon more time to spend with friends as the sun was shining. Her first year of high school had been a difficult adjustment and if she were being honest with herself, it had taken a lot more energy out of her than she'd ever imagined. After all, weathering the ninth grade and the trials and tribulations that came along with it was no walk in the park.
Sitting at her kitchen table with a bowl of cereal slowly turning to mush in front of her, Gracie glumly tapped her spoon softly on the table. In any other city at any other time, she would have been overjoyed. Unfortunately, in Chattanooga in the summer of 2018, joy wasn't exactly the in emotion these days.
Thanks a lot, Survival of the Fittest.
School had been over for almost a month now but the celebrations never came. How could they? Half of the city had actively lost someone they cared about, forced to endure horrors that none of them could even fathom. At least, they couldn't fathom until the video feeds came out and parents, brothers and sisters and loved ones had a front-row seat to the hell that the seniors of 2018 were living through. Her parents had tried not to extend the overprotectiveness that had gripped the city too much towards her, but Gracie was feeling it all the same. Sighing, she set the spoon down on the table. Breakfast wasn't appealing right now; she hadn't slept much the evening before as it was. This whole thing had her stomach tied up in knots.
It could have been worse. Her family was one of the lucky ones, after all. Her brother had missed the big senior trip and his own misfortune had saved his life. That should have been a consolation, but it wasn't. Some of her closest girlfriends had lost siblings. She knew some of the seniors who had gone, her math tutor was on the trip and her brother's girlfriend as well. None of this seemed real, and it put a damper on her summer. That was a selfish thing to think, but it was the truth. No one wanted to go to the mall or the movies, no one wanted to do anything but walk around in a daze and try to do everything but think about Survival of the Fittest.
Naturally, it was all that anyone could talk about.
The feeds had come live the day before, and she thanked the heavens that she hadn't been home when her brother had found out. When she'd come home from a thoroughly awkward visit on a friend's front lawn (apparently they weren't taking visitors or some nonsense), Gracie had found her mother in tears and her father looking both aghast and angry at the same time. Her father wasn't an angry or abusive man, but when he got upset he tended to be a yeller, so she had noped right out of that situation and hidden in her room.
Hindsight being what it was, she would have rather dealt with her upset parents.
All night, she could hear her brother's reactions to whatever he was watching on his computer screen — not that she needed anyone to tell her what it was. There were muffled groans, uncomfortable murmurs, and at one point she was pretty sure he retreated to the washroom down the hall to go and throw up. Which in her mind, meant only one thing: her brother had already seen at least one of his classmates die.
Pushing the half-full bowl of cereal away from her, Gracie sighed and plopped the spoon in it. She was tired and her appetite, never much on a good day, wasn't here at all. Were she being honest, she would have preferred to make an omelette, but her fridge was suffering from a distinct lack of eggs. Cereal was the next best option but it wasn't doing the trick for her. Not to mention, imagining watching her own friends die sounded like something out of a bad television show and her brother was living that as his reality now. It was his own fault, of course. He didn't have to watch, though Gracie understood why he would. Her parents obviously didn't, but she got it. Ross was alive by the skin of his teeth — rather the displacement of his shoulder — guilt was a natural part of the game.
"You all done there, sweetheart?" Gracie had a start, looking up at her mother who had seemingly appeared from thin air.
Nodding, she only layered her voice with a bit of annoyance. "Jesus, Mom — don't sneak up on me like that." Her tone softened. "Yeah, I'm done."
Swooping in, her mother made the barely-touched cereal vanish without any remarks about wasting food or using up dishes. It was almost a family routine, getting bugged about things like that, but she sensed that her mother was using all of her energy to put on a brave face under the circumstances.
Gracie appreciated it.
"Mom," she started, her tone tentative. "Do you think— is this," Gracie verbally backpedalled; her mother couldn't provide her with the answers she was looking for and she knew it. "Actually, never mind."
Placing the emptied bowl in the sink, Jane Miller turned and looked at her daughter, straightening up and not willing to let her off the hook that easily. She had been expecting some questions to come from her daughter. One of her children was hurting and at the moment she knew there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it. Ross was a teenager and he would have to deal with his pain in his own way, at least until he was ready to let his parents in. That moment wasn't right now.
But Jane had two children. So she would help the one that she could; her daughter might be able to understand, to get past this. Jane wasn't certain that she understood it herself, but dammit — she would put on her best 'understanding mother' face and she would try.
"Hold on a second, walk that back."
The teenager's shoulders slumped as her mother's authority stopped her dead in her tracks. Her mind had been ten steps away from the kitchen; if only her body had been as prepared to flee. Exhaling, Gracie ran her hands back through her hair, tightening the ponytail she'd hastily affixed that morning. "It's nothing, it's just—"
Moving across the room, Jane sat down on the chair directly beside her daughter. They were a family; this would be an incredibly difficult time for everyone, but they would only get through it by sticking together. She said nothing, but looked intently and lovingly at her daughter; one of the two most precious things in her life. Her mother's stare broke Gracie's shields down and the questions started to pour out.
"I don't understand how this could happen, I thought they checked for these things? How can so many people just disappear? Half of my friends aren't allowed outside anymore, is this going to be the way that things are from now on?"
Pausing to take a breath, she looked up at her mother with concern filling her eyes.
"Is Ross going to be okay ever again?"
While four years apart, Gracie felt like she'd won the lottery as far as older brothers were concerned. Her brother was an easygoing presence at the best of times, even if he did give her a hard time while they were children. The two had grown closer together as he had gotten older, attending sporting events together once he had gotten his driver's license and promising to look out for her during the one year they'd attend high school together. Having a senior for a brother was actually a boon to her own social life; she had a natural in with people older than her, which meant that she got to make the odd appearance at a social gathering mostly reserved for seniors.
She missed that Ross. The one who had come home after the rest of the seniors had not was bitter, resentful and guilty. He barely spoke to her and he hadn't shaved since his injury. It was disgusting, but more than that — she was concerned.
"Honey," Jane started, fighting the urge to burst into tears, "it's a lot for all of us. This is something that's a part of our history now and it's something that this community is going to feel for a long time."
Reaching across the table, Jane grasped her daughter's hand, cupping it in her own. She was so unbelievably fortunate to still be able to do that.
Some of her friends could not.
"Your brother is feeling the same things that a lot of the city is right now. He's angry that this could happen, and he's trying to make sense of it in his own way. Everyone deals with loss and grief in different ways. Some people cry, some people scream... some people shut themselves up in their room." Jane's voice cracked, but she pulled herself together quickly. "It's just going to take some time."
Seeing her mother barely keeping her own emotions together triggered Gracie's own tear ducts, and she blinked a few times, a single tear running down her face. "I know that, but Mom, he — why would he put himself through — how can he sit there and watch his friends... watch Ariana..."
Jane grasped her daughter's hand tighter as though trying to squeeze her own tears away.
"I know, Gracie. It's not what I would choose, but Ross is feeling... he's angry, he's probably feeling guilty. All we can do is be there for him when he chooses to let us in. He may not come out of there for days and that's okay. We can't force him to feel better. He knows that we're here for him, but he's got to work this out on his own."
Something flashed upon Gracie's face, a quizzical look. She withdrew her hand from her mother's, as though hiding from something — or hiding something. Sniffing, she wiped the tear away from her eyes, her composure having returned.
"What is it?"
Opening her mouth to reply, she shut it again, trying to decide what to reveal, but she was caught. She knew it. "If he doesn't want to open up to us, I get that, but... then where did he go?"
Furrowing her brow, Jane tilted her head. She didn't understand. "What do you mean?"
"Last night," she started, feeling a little like Judas, "I heard him. He went out somewhere in the middle of the night. He was gone for over an hour. Where would he go, he— there's no one left to visit."
That sounded like a horrible thing to say, but it was the truth and both women knew it. Jane was filled with concern. It was one thing for her son to seal himself in his room and subject himself to watching days straight of what boiled down to a personally-targeted snuff film, but he was not the kind of person to go off in the middle of the night. Ross had always been very responsible, always letting at least one of his parents know where he was going. It wasn't a lot to ask — a small text message or a quick phone call would always set her mind at ease.
"Oh, sweetheart. I — I don't know."
That he had gone on some mystery errand in the middle of the night on the very day that something so horribly traumatic had come out, that concerned her more than anything. Her husband had encouraged her to give Ross some space, but he was likely just as unaware of this as she was. A pit formed in her stomach, and as she looked at her daughter, she was filled with dread. Of all the possible places he could have gone, they were all invalid now. Her son's mystery outing in the dead of night disturbed her immensely.
The worst part was? Jane Miller couldn't put her finger on why.