Nobody Wants This
Posted: Sun Nov 18, 2018 5:59 am
(Maximilian Sawyer continued from We're Above It)
The woods had been even bigger than they looked up on the peak, and the sun was setting by the time a break in the trees showed him the town below. Down he'd gone, further and further through the undergrowth, and as greenery finally gave way to concrete and the works of civilisation darkness had fallen over the island. Nature's creeping tendrils had started their work reclaiming what was there long before Aurora found the place, and grass pushed through cracks in the shattered road only to crush under his feet. As his flashlight sent a spear through the night, allowing him to see his way just a bit, he spied mosses growing on abandoned husks of automobiles, vines creeping up lampposts and even moss on a few of the buildings, the dead sentinels that still loomed high over him in this jungle.
Silence reigned, bar the occasional gunshot off in the distance, or his own breathing and footfalls, and he had to ask what kind of people had once lived here. Had they been happy? Poor and beaten down? What made them all leave? Those yellow fliers were plastered on walls and posts almost wherever he turned his light weren't much help. EVACUATION: 10 APRIL, but evacuation to where?
There wasn't much point asking, but it distracted him from the emptiness. The summer night settled about him like a too-heavy coat, nothing but him daring to move or even breathe. Dirt, grass and stone shifted under his feet, and when any noise could be your only warning before death comes screaming out of the corner of your eye, every noise is like a gunshot or a tiger's growl.
Get off the street.
Nothing stirred save him, but still he felt countless eyes, seeing but unseen, sizing him up and waiting for an opportunity. Anything could be hiding in the night, and the line upon line of buildings and broken structures continued to stare down at him without pity. A guest, but one that would be gone in time just like all the others, never to return. Anything could come out at him from anywhere, here, and he wouldn't know until too late. The spear of light swung this way and that, finally settling on a corner store that seemed a little less run down than its neighbours, if you could ignore the fact all the letters had fallen off the sign. His skin crawled at anything less than a Sheraton, or at least somewhere with a bed, but he couldn't exactly spend the night out here.
Every step felt like it should have been interrupted with a bullet out of nowhere, and despite himself he stopped for a moment each time, listening. Step, listen, step, listen, the only sign of trouble his own pulse. He ended up swearing at himself. You're a Sawyer, damnit, stop being a mewling peasant and get inside.
He'd crossed the rest of the way and through the door at a jog, despite the pep talk. Dust kicked up and onto him, flowing around his nose and settling on his clothes, the sign of a place that hadn't seen a man in years. One hand waved it away, while the other sent the flashlight back and forth, taking in as much as could be exposed by the beam.
Shelves and shelves of records stared back at him, mournfully looking out from dust-covered sleeves. Rock, country, folk songs, a few classical... so much music, and not a soul to hear it. There was something inherently wrong about that, like a fish with no water, or a tree with no sun.
Well, at least the roof wasn't collapsing or anything, a quick nudge with his foot saw to the door and the counter to his left would keep him out of sight if anyone unseemly came in during the night. Ignore that any such folks would probably check behind the counter, too, no sense fighting for your life on no sleep.
So it was that, grumbling all the way, Maximilian Sawyer slipped behind the counter, settled down on the cold hard floor with daypack for a pillow, and dozed off thinking about home.
---
He awoke stiff and sore from his impromptu bed, and with a terrorist's droning voice filling his ears. He was still grumbling and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when the list of the dead ended and instead he was told where not to go if he didn't want to blow up. None of those places were here, and while he hadn't made out the names, the message was what mattered: people were being killed, by people they'd been around all their lives. So much for these morons being willing to band together.
Note to self, too: get up earlier. Better to wake up before the announcements so he's - urgh - actually up and alert when they go off. Just when he'd started getting comfortable, too.
Spoiler alert, Maximilian had never been a morning person. Muttering, he pulled himself to his feet with the counter's help and hoisted up his pack, coming back out and around as he opened it up and fetched some bread, water and one of those energy bar things. Hardly gourmet, but it would give him the energy to get going at least.
Thus, stood at the counter of an old record store, somewhere God knows how far from civilisation, Max Sawyer had the worst breakfast of his life.
The woods had been even bigger than they looked up on the peak, and the sun was setting by the time a break in the trees showed him the town below. Down he'd gone, further and further through the undergrowth, and as greenery finally gave way to concrete and the works of civilisation darkness had fallen over the island. Nature's creeping tendrils had started their work reclaiming what was there long before Aurora found the place, and grass pushed through cracks in the shattered road only to crush under his feet. As his flashlight sent a spear through the night, allowing him to see his way just a bit, he spied mosses growing on abandoned husks of automobiles, vines creeping up lampposts and even moss on a few of the buildings, the dead sentinels that still loomed high over him in this jungle.
Silence reigned, bar the occasional gunshot off in the distance, or his own breathing and footfalls, and he had to ask what kind of people had once lived here. Had they been happy? Poor and beaten down? What made them all leave? Those yellow fliers were plastered on walls and posts almost wherever he turned his light weren't much help. EVACUATION: 10 APRIL, but evacuation to where?
There wasn't much point asking, but it distracted him from the emptiness. The summer night settled about him like a too-heavy coat, nothing but him daring to move or even breathe. Dirt, grass and stone shifted under his feet, and when any noise could be your only warning before death comes screaming out of the corner of your eye, every noise is like a gunshot or a tiger's growl.
Get off the street.
Nothing stirred save him, but still he felt countless eyes, seeing but unseen, sizing him up and waiting for an opportunity. Anything could be hiding in the night, and the line upon line of buildings and broken structures continued to stare down at him without pity. A guest, but one that would be gone in time just like all the others, never to return. Anything could come out at him from anywhere, here, and he wouldn't know until too late. The spear of light swung this way and that, finally settling on a corner store that seemed a little less run down than its neighbours, if you could ignore the fact all the letters had fallen off the sign. His skin crawled at anything less than a Sheraton, or at least somewhere with a bed, but he couldn't exactly spend the night out here.
Every step felt like it should have been interrupted with a bullet out of nowhere, and despite himself he stopped for a moment each time, listening. Step, listen, step, listen, the only sign of trouble his own pulse. He ended up swearing at himself. You're a Sawyer, damnit, stop being a mewling peasant and get inside.
He'd crossed the rest of the way and through the door at a jog, despite the pep talk. Dust kicked up and onto him, flowing around his nose and settling on his clothes, the sign of a place that hadn't seen a man in years. One hand waved it away, while the other sent the flashlight back and forth, taking in as much as could be exposed by the beam.
Shelves and shelves of records stared back at him, mournfully looking out from dust-covered sleeves. Rock, country, folk songs, a few classical... so much music, and not a soul to hear it. There was something inherently wrong about that, like a fish with no water, or a tree with no sun.
Well, at least the roof wasn't collapsing or anything, a quick nudge with his foot saw to the door and the counter to his left would keep him out of sight if anyone unseemly came in during the night. Ignore that any such folks would probably check behind the counter, too, no sense fighting for your life on no sleep.
So it was that, grumbling all the way, Maximilian Sawyer slipped behind the counter, settled down on the cold hard floor with daypack for a pillow, and dozed off thinking about home.
---
He awoke stiff and sore from his impromptu bed, and with a terrorist's droning voice filling his ears. He was still grumbling and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when the list of the dead ended and instead he was told where not to go if he didn't want to blow up. None of those places were here, and while he hadn't made out the names, the message was what mattered: people were being killed, by people they'd been around all their lives. So much for these morons being willing to band together.
Note to self, too: get up earlier. Better to wake up before the announcements so he's - urgh - actually up and alert when they go off. Just when he'd started getting comfortable, too.
Spoiler alert, Maximilian had never been a morning person. Muttering, he pulled himself to his feet with the counter's help and hoisted up his pack, coming back out and around as he opened it up and fetched some bread, water and one of those energy bar things. Hardly gourmet, but it would give him the energy to get going at least.
Thus, stood at the counter of an old record store, somewhere God knows how far from civilisation, Max Sawyer had the worst breakfast of his life.