Sunfall (Season 2): Episodes 7-12

by Tim Meyer

  But...

  He couldn't shake the feeling Brian had seen something. The whole event had been too weird to explain. The seizure. The rambling. Something odd had happened, something Soren—and anyone else in the group for that matter—couldn't rationalize, couldn't make sense of.

  A coincidence. Had to be.

  But was it?

  He was having a dream. He was having a vision. He saw this happen.

  Soren grew paranoid, and it must have shown because Mole glanced at him suspiciously. Soren snapped free from it when a strip of turkey fell from his sandwich and landed on the cracked pavement.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No,” Soren said, trying to recover. He handed him back the half eaten sandwich. “I'm sorry. Not hungry.”

  “Let's take a walk,” Mole said. “You have something to show me.”

  Mole walked beside Soren, two of The Dirty trailing them every inch of the way. Ahead, sunlight waited for them at the end of the tunnel. Even though the light was half a mile away, it still put a strain on their eyes. Soren didn't shield his eyes from the bright yellow glow. He welcomed the warmth, his blood heating with each step forward. A breeze blew, and he inhaled a breath of fresh air. In that moment, he couldn't smell the stomach-twisting stench The Dirty so prominently emanated, instead only scenting the burnt-leaf fragrance of late-October.

  “Was everyone inside the tunnel when it happened?” Soren asked.

  “Mostly. A few joined after. We're always accepting new members.”

  Soren snorted. “I think I'll pass.”

  “Most of them came from the Virginia Beach area, some farther south. Some were looking for a new place to call home, figuring the farther north, the cooler the climate. They thought cooler weather would protect them. But as we know it doesn't really matter how cool things are.” They reached a safe distance from the sun's light, and stopped. Mole put his palm out like a gorgeous woman displaying a prize to a game show audience. “We had to learn this the hard way.”

  A dozen bodies lay crumpled in the middle of the road, charred to a crisp, frozen in death. A few of them had been holding each other when the sunlight reached them, the ash-ridden corpses gripped in an affectionate pose. One body had been kneeling when the sun burnt him black, his knees bent to their breaking point, exposing bone, his legs tucked underneath his back. A woman had been crawling toward a much smaller corpse. She had been reaching when she died, and the smaller body had been reaching back.

  “A shame. We've been trying to think of less dangerous ways to test the sun. We're hoping one day it'll blow over and we'll be able to travel outside once again.”

  “Don't hold your breath.”

  “And what makes you say that?” Mole asked. “You know something I don't?”

  “This world will never be safe again.”

  Mole grimaced as if he only half-believed.

  “So about this toll...” Soren said as he turned to face him. “Spencer said he wanted our vehicles, our clothing, and our women. Seems like a lot.” He glanced at the two guards, each holding weapons designed to bash his brains in. “I think we can both agree on that.”

  “I think we can agree I have the upper hand here.”

  “Can't argue there. But I disagree with the terms and want to renegotiate.”

  Mole threw Soren a contemplative glance, placing one hand on his chin, resting his elbow on the arm tucked inside his robe. A moment later, the cordial grin reappeared. “We're not monsters,” he said finally.

  “No?” Soren asked. “One of your men shot a woman in the head.”

  “That was unfortunate and I'll punish the man responsible, you have my word.”

  “Right,” Soren said, his eyes looking elsewhere as if the conversation bored him and the tunnel walls held greater interests. “Honestly, I don't care much about that. I care about moving on from this place and getting to where I need to go. And to do that I need to get out of this goddamn tunnel. So what will it cost? The agreement I worked out with Spencer was two vials and a woman of his choosing. I'm willing to give you three vials in exchange for everyone's safety.”

  Stroking his chin, Mole thought it over. “You know, the truth is I abhor violence. Yes, I let my men hold daily bare-knuckle fights, because it keeps them entertained and quiet and calm, and those three things allow me to do what I do.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Like you, I have a vision. A plan. An end game. In my vision, we rebuild society. I don't know how many men, women, and children are left alive out there, but evidence suggests not many. We're an endangered species, Mr. Soren.” Mole thought Soren would protest, tell him there are many people alive out there, waiting for someone to come along and save them, to tell them exactly how to live. Instead, Soren said nothing and looked toward the exit. “You know where I'm headed with this, don't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know what I'll need.” It wasn't a question.

  Soren clenched his jaw. As a result, the muscles in his neck flexed, and Mole knew he had gotten to him.

  “Yes,” Soren said in a hushed voice. “But the vials—”

  “Don't mean as much to me as a place to plant my seeds.”

  Spencer paced back and forth, side to side, repeating the same three words over and over again, changing the order in which they were said, not realizing he was speaking aloud and everyone in the tunnel could hear him. “Coats, cunts, cars,” he said. “No. Cars, coats, cunts.” It was as if he couldn't decide which sounded better, more perfect. He stopped and thought he should change his wording for the next group of wanderers, maybe to something more threatening, something that meant business. “Nah,” he whispered, then shouted, “Cunts, cars, coats!”

  “Excuse me,” Susan said. “Can you mind your mouth, mister? Dana is a child and you should refrain from using that potty language in front of her.” She had attempted to put “earmuffs” on the sides of Dana's head, but the girl had slapped her hands away.

  “I've heard curse words before,” Dana said.

  “That doesn't make it okay for the man to say them.”

  Spencer approached them with a twinkle in his eye, one Susan viewed as a warning. Dana glanced at him oddly, not enjoying the attention. Mouth had moseyed his way over, watching Spencer carefully, itching for a reason to knock the man on his ass.

  “Little girl?” Spencer asked, as if the words were alien. “Yes, you are a little girl, aren't you?”

  “Dude,” Becky said, turning her nose. Her throat clenched and she almost gagged. “You kidding me?”

  Mouth stepped between Spencer and Dana. He jabbed his finger into the man's chest. “Son, you're going to take ten giant fucking steps back and let someone else pretend they're in charge, or I'm going to rip your fucking throat out.”

  Spencer guffawed heinously. Shrill and cold, a serial killer's touch. He gripped his belly as if to contain his outburst, but the laughter continued to slice through the tunnel like a police siren. He silenced himself abruptly, and stepped to Mouth like he meant to strike him.

  Mouth's reaction was lightning quick. No one saw his fist coming, only the result: Spencer bending over, his hand over his nose, catching copious globs of blood that spilled from his nostrils. Crimson leaked through his fingers, pooling on the road below. Mouth rushed to where Spencer had hunched over, ready to make good on his throat-ripping threat, when several of The Dirty intervened. One of them took the butt of his rifle and clocked Mouth on the back of the head. Mouth's vision went dark, but not black, and he kept control of his consciousness. He dropped to one knee and looked back as his chin met a powerful fist. The impact snapped his head sideways, and Mouth's vision dropped out. He lost a few seconds and found himself face-to-face with the pavement. Feet pummeled his ribs, and he could feel them breaking against the force.

  He heard Dana scream, pleading with The Dirty to stop, but they didn't negotiate with little girls. He heard Shondra's voice too, but his neck ac
hed too much to move it. After a while, his ribs went numb.

  Something cold pressed against his temple.

  A gun screamed in his ear.

  Blackness whisked him away from the world.

  Soren stood in the sun, rotating, making sure to demonstrate that this was not a game, not a trick, but the real-fucking deal. He displayed his product like a QVC special, minus the smiles. When he was sure they had had enough, he turned to them and stretched his arms, as if offering a hug.

  “Satisfied?”

  The two men standing behind Mole watched, jaws agape, unable to speak. Mole folded his arms across his chest, as if unimpressed, although he truly was. Deep down, he didn't believe a word Soren had said about the contents within the vial. But now, watching the sun sparkle in the man's eyes, he had no choice but to accept Soren for what he was—a man of integrity, a man of power.

  Soren held the vial in the air and shook the elixir inside. He dripped with sweat. Warmth tingled his neck. Damn, he thought. It had been weeks since he had taken his last dose. Was it starting to wear off, or was his mind playing him for a fool? He assumed his subconscious imagined the nerve-pricking sensation and he was in no real danger. But the feeling further manifested itself as time dragged on.

  “I can give you this power.” A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of his face. “This will make your body impervious to the diseased rays of the sun. With women you can offer them hope, yes. But with this they'll fear you. And once you are feared, you will have their undivided attention and their respect. Something more important than the prospect of rebuilding society.”

  “I guess we can strike ourselves a deal,” Mole said.

  Soren didn't waste a precious second. He practically sprinted back into the shade the tunnel provided. Mole clamped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it hard.

  “I never doubted you,” he said.

  Sure you didn't, Soren thought.

  “Your people don't know about this?” Mole pointed to the vial. “The elixir, I mean.”

  “No. And it's important that trend continues. Include that in the bargain.”

  Mole flashed an approving grin. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Soren bowed his head graciously.

  “Two vials. And two girls,” Mole announced, speaking like negotiations were no longer needed.

  “Three vials. One woman. You can have Shondra. I think she'll make a great addition here.”

  Mole curled his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “Which one is Shondra?”

  “Short hair.”

  “No.” Mole slapped the air as if a fly had buzzed near. “She's too old and not attractive. The men won't want to impregnate her. I'm also certain men aren't her flavor.” Mole squinted as if he had a terrible headache. “No, we need someone younger. And there has to be more than one. You know how long it would take to repopulate with one womb?”

  “You're forgetting what's important here. You're forgetting about the serum.”

  “I haven't forgotten, Mr. Soren. I just don't value the power associated with your elixir as much as you do. I don't need my people to fear me. I don't need them to wonder about my intentions. I don't need secrets to get what I want. See, I surround myself with people that have common goals. Common wants. Common needs.”

  “Doesn't everyone just want to survive?” Soren asked. “Isn't that the goal that unites us all?”

  “Sometimes survival isn't enough. We're human. We need more than to merely survive. We need to thrive. And your elixir can't grant us what those cunts back there can.”

  Soren was beginning to see the man for the monster he was. He knew what he'd have to do, but he was struggling to keep his temper in check.

  “In fact, the more I speak about it, the more I've decided to take three women. The three youngest.”

  Soren lunged forth and grabbed the man by the throat. His two associates drew their weapons, hands so tightly gripped their knuckles went white. They didn't swing their bludgeons, not yet, and waited for Mole to give the word. He couldn't speak with Soren's fingers clasped on his vocal chords, but waved them off instead.

  “If you think I can't snap your fucking neck before they bash my skull in, I beg you to test me,” Soren whispered. Rivulets of sweat leaked down his forehead. Some droplets ended in his eye and he fended off the stinging sensation and concentrated on the task at hand. He loosened his grip as Mole choked.

  “Two cunts it is,” he squeaked.

  A gunshot boomed, echoing through the tunnel.

  The men took one look at each other and ran. Soren followed Mole and his men back to the heart of the tunnel where screams of confusion and women crying out for help ruled over the day.

  -11-

  Pain hammered Brian's shoulder, feeling like a heavy punch at first, but seconds passed and something hot flared where the bullet entered and migrated down his arm, numbing his fingers. What felt like glass shards swam through his veins. He looked down and saw blood leaking from a tiny tear in his shirt. He tore his sleeve off at the shoulder and inspected the wound. Smoke rose from the bullet hole, little silver wisps that reeked worse than death. Placing his hand over the wound, he watched blood trickle through his fingers.

  Just a flesh wound, he thought and almost laughed. If the pain didn't feel like shark's teeth shredding his arm apart, he might have. He sat down and rested against the wall. Over the commotion, he swore he heard rats scurrying behind the tunnel's brick wall. The pain held back a laugh, but it finally broke free, and there, alone, sitting on the dirty ground with a wounded arm that wouldn't kill him unless left untreated, he cackled uncharacteristically loud.

  Exhaustion controlled his thoughts. Closing his eyes, he let the pain drift away with everything else.

  Mouth opened his eyes, surprised to find his head intact, and his brains where he last left them. He heard shouting and looked up with one eye. Mole and Soren had returned from their little discussion, along with those mopey guards Mouth knew he could kick the shit out of in a fair fight. Mole was shouting, demanding an answer for what had happened. As Mole approached, the men who had used Mouth's ribs for soccer practice backed away. It was a struggle, but he lugged himself to his knees. Shondra and Becky helped him the rest of the way.

  “He started it,” Spencer said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. The bleeding had stopped, but the red smears covering the lower half of his face told Mouth he had bled a lot. “Motherfucker tried to kill me.”

  Soren glared at Mouth. “This true?”

  Who the fuck does this guy think he is? My father?

  “He was giving Dana funny looks. I thought there was something wrong with his face so I tried to fix it for him.”

  “Fuck you, asshole!” Spencer screamed. He tried lunging for Mouth, but several of The Dirty held him back.

  “What a fuckin' jerk,” Mouth said. “Bet Dana can kick harder than you!”

  Soren grabbed Mouth by his chin. He went to slap him away, but Soren caught his wrist with his other hand. He squeezed and Mouth let out an agonizing grunt.

  “You shut your fucking mouth right now,” Soren whispered. “Get the stuff out of the SUV and throw it in the minivan. At dusk, we're all taking the van out of here. We'll camp near the exit and leave the second the sun drops.” He let go of Mouth's wrist and pushed him away. “Get going.”

  “Are we all going to fit in that fucking thing?” Mouth asked, rubbing his wrist.

  Soren growled at him. “Just. Fucking. Do. It.”

  The second Soren turned, Shondra was in his face. Her concerned features rubbed Soren the wrong way, and he wished he could tell her the truth. He'd see her reaction to their arrangement soon enough.

  “So women aren't part of the deal, right?” Shondra asked. “Tell me we aren't.”

  From the corner of his eye, Soren noticed Mole's sly grin.

  “You aren't part of the toll.” It wasn't a lie. Not completely. “I gave them something else.”

  He pushed past her and contin
ued walking, heading over to the car Mouth had been driving.

  “What?” she yelled after him.

  Power, he thought, leaving Shondra to wonder.

  A city in the clouds, a city below the streets. Two cities. One king over them both. A ruler of rulers. A king of kings. The rats are here, and they scurry about, creating mischief and carrying diseases; diseases that melted people's faces off and forced amputation of vital extremities. He walks through the crowd of people as they stroll through the city below the streets. He looks up and sees the city in the clouds and wonders how to get there, which way to meet the king. He taps the man closest to him on the shoulder and asks for directions. The man turns and half of his face is missing, burnt away by the day or consumed by rat bites. His face looks like a pizza minus the cheese, raw and bleeding, infected and oozing. The man tries to speak, but his voice malfunctions. Maybe the sun stole his vocal chords along with his appearance. He turns to a woman walking her child, hand in hand. He says, “Pardon me, miss, but how can I see the City in the Clouds?” She and the kid turn, their faces as hideous as Pizza-Face's. The woman's eyeball melted right out of its socket. The left half of the kid's face is scaly and yellow with dried pus. The right side had been burnt down to the bone. Brian didn't turn away, couldn't—the dream forced him to look. Everyone in the street turns to face him, and he finds himself the center of attention. They look at him with their eyes—those who had eyes remaining—and point to the same indiscernible object he can't see without turning his back to them. He rotates slowly, relieved to look elsewhere, viewing something other than the walking burn victims. He looks down and sees train tracks glowing underneath his feet. He turns back to the dead and they are gone. A train station replaced them. It's dusk and misty and the only light shines from a few flood lights near the end of the boarding platform. A conductor steps off the train. He tips his cap and bids Brian hello, revealing a black crusty dome that once grew long flowing curls of gold. The conductor tells him the train is leaving for the City in the Clouds in two minutes and how he needs to hustle and bustle or else he'll be left behind. The conductor's face is mutilated, baked to a bloody mess. Brian hates looking at him, but again, the dream has its way and the conductor's face fills his vision. A moment later, he is sitting on the train, surrounded by more of the sun's victims. It was getting old, the faces of the damned, their blackened skin, their smoking corpses. Brian's dream-self is resilient however, and makes it all the way to the next stop without puking once. When the train rolls into the next station, the conductor announces they have arrived at their destination, The City in the Clouds, informing all those who wish to enter to disembark. Brian stands and faces the door. When it opens, golden light fills his eyes and he feels the warmth on his face.