This was the first draft of my first workshopped story for Fiction Writing. I shortchanged it a lot by cramming such an enormous idea into such a tight space, but maybe now that the course is over it can grow and breathe a bit. This isn't the greatest story ever, technically speaking, but I felt it needed to be written.
The elevator would break down…wouldn’t it?
Jeremy really don’t like them in the first place. They’re
cramped. Too many people can be smashed in together inside them. There’s no
air. You’re moving vertically, on the strength of cables. Really tough
high-strength cables, but still, those are like ropes. And ropes…snap. And there’s no windows. Except,
really, those with windows are even worse. Because then you can see things, and
then you realize, “The ground is a long ways
down. And very bad things would happen if I fell.”
But…well, let’s just say he hadn’t fallen twelve stories just
yet. As a matter of fact, he was more stuck at the moment, almost-but-not-quite-enough
to squeeze out the door and jump/fall onto the laminate. There wasn’t really
much else to do. So he opened that little box and called the fire department or
whoever that phone line is connected to. That took a while. But eventually they
yanked the doors open enough that he could ungracefully sprawl his way onto the
sixth floor. And then it was off again, trailing the scent -
Being trapped had its perks, he had to admit. Those
muscle-bound Russian thugs had lost track of where he was, so they were probably
angrily snuffing cigarette-coated breath into their beards and pointing their
AK-47s at each other somewhere.
Right now, Jeremy didn’t really care what they were doing,
it was enough that they’d stopped shooting at him for a spell. He had to find Comet.
For all he knew, she could be getting horribly tortured, or
- Ew….let’s not think about that. Or – Nah, that’s too much like an action
movie.
Point was, she was in danger. And if it was bad enough she
needed rescuing…this was not good at all. Probably a very near-lethal
situation. How she managed to get herself kidnapped would be another story, and
it would later be told and retold and falsified to the authorities in an
appropriate manner. But for now…yeah, just had to find her first. Then the rescuing part comes in later.
He slipped out the elevator door after being rescued, making
his way through the city streets. And then he heard angry Russian threats and
obscenities from somewhere behind him. He didn’t really speak Russian, but you
kind of know what the cuss words sound like in many languages when you’re doing
the kind of things he found himself doing more and more often these days. It
was - part of life.
So he bolted, and thus the dance begun again…
He won this round of Hide and Seek, heard one of the thugs
mention something about 4207 Tait Avenue. It was a god lead, anyway.
So after taking a bus towards that part of the city, 4207
Tait Avenue turned out to be an office complex, much like the one he used to
work in at the radio station, before everything happened. Things didn’t quite
go as planned. Melissa was tied up and hanging from the ceiling by her
forearms, glaring at him. Jeremy whipped out his pistol and tagged a couple of
the soldiers; he was reaching for the Taser when something shredded in his
knee. She wrenched herself free from the restraints and took care of the last
few guys. Together, they stumbled out of the building.
About two months later they found themselves in her parents’
apartment during a lowkey visit with her family. They were concerned about the
cast on her wrist, of course; she explained that away as a rollerblading
accident. They didn’t look like they completely bought that story, but let it
slide. It was a nice evening – the board game Ticket to Ride was played, playful
insults flung around and it wasn’t awkward at all.
“Just buildin’ routes all over the Midwest?” Melissa’s dad
James asked Jeremy, laughing.
“I believe in the QuikTrip system of customer service above
everything else,” he said. “They ought to have things made easiest for them.
Profits can come later. Loyalty’s more important to build up first.”
“That’s fine, but I’m still gonna win. My train is 41 cars
long. Beat that.”
“It’s been a while since Melissa’s dated anybody. We weren’t
really sure how to react, but you seem like a pretty good guy,” her mom
Clarissa said.
Jeremy raised an eyebrow, clearly saying, “That was the cover story you came up
with?!” She rolled her eyes and picked up two cards off the top of the deck.
It was right then when the first earthquake happened.
Everyone stared into blank space for a moment before Jeremy and Melissa leaped
into action, herding her parents and brother out of the apartment. More shaking
occurred; drywall started falling, alarms wailed – they tried the elevator, but
there was a gaping maw where half the floor and ceiling had been. The wall
outlets were melting from the flames, other residents were plowing along, too –
James was rammed headfirst into a stairwell railing – but everyone stumbled
outside –
It was insane. Like a tornado, only so much worse –
buildings were pulverized, huge bonfires were burning themselves out, cars were
molten sculptures, and the streets were shredded. Springfield looked basically
uninhabitable. Elsewhere, other stunned citizens were hiking dazedly through
the wreckage. “What….what do we do now? What’s happening?” Clarissa asked.
Melissa swallowed before answering. “…Ya know how I was
always tellin’ you guys that things were gonna get really bad really soon?
Wellll….welcome to the war.”
Things didn’t get much better. The coasts had been taken
over months ago, and in a way, it was almost a relief that things were coming
to the Midwest. A lot of groups surrendered quickly, but there were a fair
amount of holdouts which formed into militias, creating encampments which were
turned into makeshift settlements. Mostly in the smaller backwoodsy parts of
the country – out-of-the-way spots about an hour’s distance from Kansas City,
Tulsa, Columbia, Little Rock, that kind of thing. Doctrinal barriers could be
forgiven as Baptists worked with Catholics and Calvinists toiled alongside
Methodists. Because life is made richer through the peculiar perspective of
those with Downs syndrome. And the Gospel can’t be snuffed out by governments
or missiles. The main area of rebellion occurred more or less without the
bounds of the old Confederacy; from the Florida Panhandle to southern Indiana,
and then most of Texas up through Kansas. Small publishers(some gleefully,
others with trepidation) reprinted unauthorized copies of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Shakespeare’s works,
Jane Austen, Mark Twain and other worthwhile novels were distributed. Some
groups called referred to themselves as Swansons, others Browncoats. More than
a few believed in using General Lee(both the man and the car) as a mascot, and
though the ending of Ambrose Bierce’s “Owl Creek Bridge” was well known, the
ideals of Peyton Farquhar were clung to. The hymns and parables were taught to
the next generations from the creatively-minded and the elderly, anxious to put
their knowledge and experience to use. For some, this meant commanding a
settlement which used to house a summer camp, such as Falls Creek and Tiger
Mountain in southern and eastern Oklahoma, or Beth-Eden or Sonrise in southwest
Missouri. For others, this meant intensive discussion of theology or classic
novels; the teaching of Latin or how to think critically And, of course, there
were the rednecks and mechanical-minded who proved their worth coming out of
the woodwork with rifles, pistols and shotguns of every description, size and
caliber, as well as ammunition and game. Times were difficult and harsh, yes.
But that was to be expected, and maybe even welcomed
Contacts and allies were made and reestablished; generally
Jeremy and Melissa found themselves working most often(and most effectively)
with the intimidating presences of his brother and father, while a fearless former
rock musician known for a never-discovered reason as “Sparkles”, a nurse named
Stephany and her sister Stacey the psychiatrist(known as “Rascal”), a tattoo
artist named Trevor and former military personnel Nate, Grant and Chloe rounded
out the main cast. Roles weren’t assigned by administration of any kind, but
Jeremy and Melissa were generally looked at as the captains, spearheading the
rest of the main leadership group of their community’s fighting crew, who would
then coordinate sub-units. It was most of this group that was stationed at a
base outside Beggs, Oklahoma, near the intersection of Highways 75 and 16. The
house which served as headquarters was sunken to the dirt road alongside, but
with plenty of trees available for snipers in lookout posts. Plans were
executed and formulated there for a time, but yet they came. The battle was
pitched, and the base wasn’t a scrap heap by the end, but it still necessitated
a hasty evacuation by four-wheelers to live another day.
“….see, then it could be like a morale boost, y’know what I
mean?” Sparkles explained to Trevor about a comic strip about a ragtag group of
rebel canines in their battle to keep North America safe from domination by
cats with mind-controlling ray guns. It was a pet project of his that he’d
never fully been able to convince anyone else of, though, so the conflict
between the International Dog Reaction Agency for World Protection(Eyedrop) and
the Feline Empire Alliance for Ruling(FEAR) had never really gotten off the
ground except for a general outline of main characters.
“…Comet could be a border collie, maybe Jeremy could be a
beagle, we could have a Lab and maybe an Airedale called Diablo-“
“Maybe….we could see if we could get a couple folks to think
up story…” Trevor nodded, chewing his lip.
“That’d be great, but right now we’re crowdin’ up the
snack-food aisle of a Dollar General, so I suggest we talk about this later?” Melissa snapped, walking into
the conversation.
“’Kay, so Steph’s in Minneapolis right now, hey?” Stacey
began, sitting on an improvised crate of ginger ale 12-packs. Stephany was skilled
in espionage, and she had contacts across the country and Canada, so she was
frequently anywhere. “Maybe we all ought
to split up; separating into subteams….”
Even if life was in a constant state of tension, there were
still lighter and pleasant moments: the intense ping-pong tournaments for
developing hand-eye coordination and reflex speed, the volleyball matches for
strengthening high-stress communication and teamwork, the church services and
Bible studies when the territory was cool enough to let the guard down for a
minute. And though the middle of a civil war is in no way conducive to kindling
a romance, general gossip knew it was going to happen…. Besides, the rest of
the team felt more confident knowing that there was some stability in Jeremy
and Melissa being a couple. And knowing that the other would usually be manning
the base while the other was on mission made things more likely that restraint
would likely prevail over stupidity-leading-to-death-in-a-blaze-of-glory
heroics. The ceremony was rather quiet, though joyous; a much-needed respite to
the tedium of improvising plans on an hourly basis.
It was why they were sent out to the Arkansas border town of
Westville, for an approximation of a honeymoon, and also to transport an
elderly woman to an assisted-living facility. Jeremy’s brother Brett and his
dad Tom were there to haul the useful(and heavy) of Miss Betty’s possessions
such as the recliner. Somehow, somehow,
they were discovered. (The gossip network of the town had always been
legendary, so it was likely just a Loose Lips Sink Ships type of thing.)
Anyway, that was how why they found themselves hurtling through the twists and
curves of Highway 62 bound for their destination of Tahlequah, while being
chased by several large SUVs. The thing
was, police forces were more or less neutral, caught in the middle of
everything….and the Adair County type were apparently the kind you ran from.
“I got a plan.” Melissa barked to Jeremy and Brett in their
pickup. Tom was driving Miss Betty in a Ford Econoline, which wasn’t very
inconspicuous at all, but provided the most comfortable ride for her arthritic
back. They quickly backed into a convenient driveway just before the hairpin at
Eldon Hill, unlocked the old U-Haul trailer, and then they swerved extra-hard
into the turn, narrowly and artfully avoiding a jackknifing effect while
spinning the trailer fully into the middle of the road. That took care of two
of the three pursuers, and convinced the third that it was in his best interest
to honor the county limits of jurisdiction and leave it to the Cherokee County
people to handle.
“Soo….what’re we doing here, again?” Melissa asked. Tom had
dropped Miss Betty off at a safehouse farm for now, and they were standing on
the brick porch of Northeastern State’s Ross Hall.
“Brett?” Jeremy directed. Several buttons were pressed on a
handy gadget designed to simulate a magnetic-strip swipe card, and the door
obligingly popped open, allowing them to enter. “Because we need to lay low for
a bit, that’s why. It ain’t the nicest
place in the world…but at least the neighbors are quiet.” He mashed a large
cockroach. “Though I walk through the shadow of death, your rod and staff, they
comfort me…”
Five stories of stairs later, they had reached the top of
the building, which from a strategic point of view was great. From the
standpoint of living, however…even
for a hideout, it wasn’t much to brag about. This had been well known as the
worst dorm of them all, which was saying something, given Northeastern’s
reputation for student housing. And the fifth floor was easily the worst part
of Ross.
Jeremy shoved the door to D-wing experimentally. “You were
right….that lock is still broke,” he
said to Brett.
“Figured,” he shrugged.
They trooped inside and claimed dorm rooms.
“Terrific…I’ve always wanted to hide in a jail cell,” she
frowned, looking around.
“Try living here,” Brett said.
“You guys know this place pretty well?” Melissa asked.
“Should. I graduated here, and they both came here for a
while,” Tom nodded.
“So….now what?”
“I guess we go exploring. Hiking’s best way to get to know
someplace,” Jeremy said. “They’ll track us down eventually, but may as well try
to relax for a bit. We can go poke around once it gets dark.”
Tom pulled out a pack of cards and passed them to Melissa to
shuffle, and so she dealt out some hands as a game of rummy began, under a
raggedy banner on which was printed Matthew 6:34: “Therefore do not worry about
tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of
its own.”
