End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  “Meet me here, later, before the End of Gray Skies. I’ll ask then, and… well, maybe we can light my candle again,” she said, hinting with a wry smile. She thought from his expression that he understood.

  As if in response, his fingers stroked the back of her hand. “An hour after check-in, meet me here. Okay?”

  Sammi nodded, and he added, “That will give us plenty of time before the End of Gray Skies.” Sammi’s heart felt fuller. Within hours, her life was going to change forever. It wasn’t just the End of Gray Skies, either: it would be the beginning of the rest of her life with Declan.

  They crawled back through the wall, meeting a heavy pocket of fog that quickly surrounded them. Sammi gripped Declan’s hand, linking their fingers together, and guided them back to the morse lines, then toward their dwellings. Though she thought they would make it in time without being late, they ended up missing the Community check-in by one ring of the bell. The floor advisors marked them for their tardiness; but to both Sammi’s and Declan’s relief, that only meant a little cycle time to support recharging the building’s energy cells. It was nothing compared to the bigger things that were on their minds.

  6

  AMID THE BUSTLE AND commotion of their building’s courtyard, Sammi squeezed Declan’s hand and mouthed, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” Hearing Sammi’s words aloud felt good. Declan pulled in a breath, preparing to share the fond thought, but before he spoke again, she’d let go of his fingers. Remains of her warm touch stayed with him as she started the walk across the courtyard—the yard, as they liked to call it. She turned back once, raising a single finger high above her, signaling for one hour. Declan nodded and waved. When she turned away, her figure melted into the crowd. If not for her red hair bouncing along with her graceful gait, he would have all but lost sight of her. He glanced around at all that was familiar to him: the people, the smells. He was home.

  A workman yelled, pulling Declan’s attention to the upper floors. Some of the workers hung from balconies—tethered for safety—busily adding a new coat of resin. The End of Gray Skies didn’t alter their routine: sun or no sun, the protective coating was put on. Even from where Declan stood, he could smell the hot resin. He clutched his upper arm where the sleeve of his coveralls was still bare. By this time next year, he’d be wearing his first arm band. That meant it could be him hanging up there, applying the resin. After all, their building had survived centuries, but only through the accumulation of resin-coated concrete and steel.

  Declan’s stomach jumped into his throat as he tried to imagine himself hanging up there. He shook his head, knowing that he’d have to find some other work. Maybe he’d work in the lower levels, managing the communications, or he could work the Commune’s energy distribution. He wiped his brow, suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed about his future… about their future. Sammi’s secret. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be starting a family.

  “I’ll find something, Sammi,” he mumbled, stretching on his toes to catch a glimpse of her. When he couldn’t find her, he dropped back down, and chuckled then, thinking that he could always work for the bureau that recorded births and deaths. Suddenly hanging from the balconies didn’t seem all that bad. “Whatever it takes, Sammi.”

  But, while there was a thrill in knowing Sammi’s secret, at the same time there was something that concerned him. Couples were struggling to get pregnant—for many, their time to conceive was ending without a child. There were fewer babies in the Commune, with some stolen, still wearing the swaddling blankets they’d been wrapped in. Declan knew the story about one baby being fought over on the infirmary floor after the death of another infant; both couples had tried to claim the surviving child. There were even a few couples that had been exiled from the Commune, banished to live among the Outsiders, for taking a child that wasn’t theirs.

  In the past year, Declan had often heard his father and mother talk about problems with the Commune’s population. He’d heard them speak about pregnancies that had abruptly ended, leaving couples grief-stricken and heartbroken. They’d also talked about the shortage of pregnancies, as though there had been some unreachable number that had been set generations before them. Declan clearly remembered one evening when his mother talked of a report that she’d developed. The Commune’s population was dropping, she said, and the discrepancy was large. And she claimed that within the next couple of decades, there wouldn’t be enough of a younger generation to sustain the Commune.

  Declan wiped his brow, ridding his face of any worry. Sammi didn’t need to know what he’d heard his parents talking about. She didn’t need to worry, either. Instead, he thought of past celebrations: the announcements and the births. A birth in the Commune was always celebrated. On the rare occurrence of the birth of twins, the news even reached as far as the end of their region. He hoped that one day it would be Sammi and him celebrating.

  A chaos of children’s footsteps thundered past him into the yard. Squealing and playing, free of tether straps and of parents guarding over them, the kids ran in circles, kicking off a game of fast-tag. Small hands wrapped around Declan’s legs when two children decided to use him as an obstacle in their chase. He cringed when a hand pushed off from his knee, but was still quick to laugh at the collection of happy feet pattering against the slate floor.

  The yard was filled with traders and market sellers, pushing their crafts and wares onto anyone who was willing to swap goods, or make a purchase using food vouchers. Every worker received a weekly stipend, and most of it went toward food. Declan’s mom had been masterful at the art of buying and trading. Fond memories warmed him as he pictured her moving from table to table, haggling over prices and making deals.

  He recognized some of the folks behind the tables. They came from different floors, and spent part of their days working the yard. At one table, a worker from the engineering floor showed off fluoro-phosphor lamps; a nearby toddler tethered to his father giggled and clutched his fists at the air, trying to grab a glowing lamp, while the engineer juggled it up and down out of his reach.

  Another table sold fresh vegetables and fruit. Declan sought out the red apples from the table, and his stomach grumbled. He was hungry. Declan’s eyes lifted when he saw the goat cheese: a massive chunk, ready to be served. He could almost smell it from where he stood. Another gnawing turn in his belly spurred a hunger pang and his mouth watered at the sight. It wasn’t often that cheese was available, and he was sure that it would be gone by the End of Gray Skies.

  The yard was different today. Declan quickly felt the same buzz here that had stirred in their classroom earlier. The declaration of the End of Gray Skies had reached a fevered pitch, and everyone had something to buy or trade before the world changed forever. One of the trading tables had a considerable number of buyers waiting in line. Declan immediately recognized the small bags that were passing over the table. They were selling potato juice, which had been a particular favorite of his father’s ever since his mother and sister had died. Although it was illegal, there was plenty of it available today.

  “They’re planning a celebration,” he mumbled, and the thought of a celebration lifted his spirits even more. He searched for Sammi in the crowd; by now she was far across the courtyard, beyond most of the crowds, and he could see her again. He watched as a trader jumped in front of her, pushing a feeble basket full of sheep-yarn gloves. Her tall red hair bounced and shivered while she negotiated the price.

  She’s gonna trade, he thought, knowing her affinity for anything soft that would cover her tender skin.

  “I’ll wear it, as long as it’s not scratchy,” she’d told him more than once. And just as he’d guessed she would, Sammi picking through the pile of gloves and settled on a pair. When the trade was over, she offered a polite nod of her head. Declan looked to the other side of the yard, where she was headed. Just a few people were waiting for the next carry-cage. If she hurried, she wouldn’t have to wait. The urge to yell out and te
ll her to rush was trumped when a market seller bumped his arm, shoving a plate of dried lizard tails in front of him, blocking his view.

  “Can I offer you some—” the merchant started to say.

  “Not now,” Declan snapped, stretching his neck past the man. But immediately, he regretted his tone. He offered a quick apology and turned his attention back to the old merchant.

  “Liz-tails? Good for them young bones,” the market seller wheezed. He was an older, stout man, with straggly hair that hung past his ears. He grinned at Declan, baring a few stray teeth, and eagerly jabbed his tongue, anxious for an answer. With beady, sunken eyes, the merchant stepped back, sizing Declan up. When he was done, he pushed the plate up again, winking an eye at him, and puckering his thin, crinkled lips.

  “Liz-tails are good for keeping things up those nights after you get chosen,” he exclaimed in a way that whistled some of his words. Declan rested his eyes on the plate of lizard tails, and then smiled at the old man. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to what the old merchant claimed.

  “No. No, thank you,” he answered, and pushed the fleshy lizard smell away from his nose. The merchant moved on to greet another passerby, just in time for Declan to see Sammi’s pile of red hair nearly at the carry-cage.

  “More rope!” one of the workers yelled from above as Sammi disappeared.

  Declan recognized the floor the man was hanging from. As a child, Declan had been introduced to a hidden world. He’d been shown a loose vent cover, allowing him to get behind the walls and move across the building’s floors.

  “I’d barely fit in there today,” he laughed to himself, and then thought, what if he and Sammi had kids playing in the ventilation system? He stopped laughing then, and realized why his mother was quick to scold whenever she’d found soot and dust on his coveralls.

  Living a lifetime in the same building didn’t hold much in the way of mystery. There were no secrets to be uncovered, and no treasures to seek in an adventure. He and Sammi knew just about every floor, and every great place to hide and play—except for the executive floors, of course. Those were off limits: reserved for workers with four or more bands on their arms. Declan lifted his chin until his eyes neared the top of their building. Protected by barriers, guarded at the entrance. Declan followed a path from the top balcony to the hard floor of the courtyard below. He grimaced, imagining the remains of the executive who’d recently leaped to his death.

  Why would he jump? Being an executive was a privilege. The floor was said to have polished metal, clean of the pitted reminders of what was outside. They also had private water closets, with smooth, round sinks, and an endless supply of clean, flowing water. Why jump? Executives even had their own farming and food reserves, with meats and cheeses and sweets. Or so he heard, and then wondered if it was true at all. Maybe it was all just rumors. He’d never heard his mother talking of such luxuries. Most days, she returned from the executive floors with nothing more than a weary look, her eyes often adrift, deep in thought.

  Behind him, Declan heard the attendant of the building’s second carry-cage call out. This one led to his floor, and he was anxious to get up to his dwelling, and then back to the theater. The salvaged stainless-steel-and-wood frame was just big enough for a handful of people. The floor of the carry-cage wobbled once before the ropes became taut. Then with the creaking sound of hard pulls, they were in the air and moving to the first floor. The attendant turned to ask Declan for a floor number, but then pushed his chin up when he recognized him. The attendant turned his head, noting the bruise on Declan’s face.

  “Celebrating today?” he asked, and then licked his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue.

  “Isn’t everyone?” Declan answered him. “It is the End of Gray Skies, after all.”

  “Right, you are,” the man answered with a nod, stabbing his lips with his tongue again. “And in case you were wondering, the carry-cages will be down during the End of Gray Skies, so you’ll have to take the back stairs.”

  Declan shrugged a quick thank-you, thinking that he wouldn’t need the carry-cages or the back stairs. He’d be in the theater with Sammi.

  When they reached his floor, the heavy tone of a man’s scream echoed across the floor’s balcony, drawing Declan’s eyes up. He stepped clear of the carry-cage, and stopped to listen. As the doors of the carry-cage closed behind him, the clash of wood and metal momentarily interrupted the man’s cry. But as the carry-cage continued on its way upward, Declan saw the source of the yelling. His heart sank, and his mouth went dry.

  It was his father.

  Standing outside of their dwelling, Declan’s father clutched something against his chest while four guards from the executive floor held him against the wall. Two of the larger guards had pinned his father, while the others were prying at his arms.

  Declan started running, and he tried to yell when he saw a guard reaching for a battering club. The guards towered over his father; they towered over everyone in the Commune. No one ever chose to be a guard for the executive floors: they were chosen for their size and strength. Dressed in their formal black coveralls, with thick belts hanging from their hips, they carried enforcements that only guards were allowed to have; they were an ominous sight. But why would they want his father? His mother was dead; so what business did the executive floor have with them now?

  They’re going to hit him. Knock him down for resisting. Declan tried to wave and yell again, but his father was hidden by the guards poised around him. Declan lifted his feet higher. Pain in his knee yawned awake, but he pushed against it and quickened his step. He heard his father’s raised voice again, hollering at the guards, declaring that they had no right to take what wasn’t theirs. Declan tried to swallow the dryness in his mouth, to say something, but these were the executive floor guards: a single word could demote you to a no-band citizen, or, even worse, have you exiled from the Commune.

  Blood covered his father’s nose and mouth, dripped from his chin. They’d already hit him. Heat flushed Declan’s cheeks, and he rediscovered some of his adrenaline from the earlier scuffle. His knee fell sideways once, and a rattle of what felt like crushed stone ground inside his kneecap, causing him to slow. Biting his lip, he held back a scream, and pushed on.

  One of the guards reared back and threw his hands into Declan’s father’s chest. The force pushed his father back against their dwelling. His balding head bounced against the wall, echoing with a dense thud. Declan picked up his legs and ran faster.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled at the guards. “Let him go!” His father’s body crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Blood trickled from his face, and Declan could see a bruise forming around his eye.

  “Declan, no!” his father wheezed. “You don’t understand.”

  The guard that had held his father against the wall didn’t say a word. He didn’t offer an explanation, or a nod of his head. Instead, the moment Declan arrived he pushed his gloved hand up and gripped Declan’s neck. All motion stopped as the guard squeezed his fingers. It was stronger than anything Declan had ever felt, and at once, the air he needed was gone, cut off.

  “Now, you should know better than to charge an executive guard,” the guard stated in a flat tone. “I remember that they used to teach courtesy and respect in class.” Pin-lights were forming in Declan’s view as the other guards rocked their heads up and down, agreeing. Two of the guards chuckled, while the third held an objection in his expression, but said nothing.

  The guard relaxed his grip just enough to let a shallow breath come to Declan, arresting the blackness that almost closed his eyes. Declan sucked in the air and steadied his step, removing the clumsiness in his legs. His father turned over, struggling, but got back to his feet. Declan saw what it was that he held: his mother’s satchel, the one that had been issued to her when she was promoted to four bands.

  She’d carried that satchel to and from work every day. It was a symbol; it was authority. But Declan thoug
ht that for his mother, the satchel had become a burden. Each evening, she placed it carefully in the corner of their dwelling, away from everything, leaving it alone until the next day. At times, he’d caught her standing over it, staring at it, her face empty of emotion, except for maybe disdain, leaving him to wonder if she regretted working as an executive.

  When his mother and sister fell ill with the flu, the satchel had remained in the corner, untouched until now. His father clung to the stained sheepskin and leaden buckles, his arms wrapped around it, protecting it.

  “He’s just a boy, leave him be!” his father pleaded. “He was running to me, that’s all. He wouldn’t charge an executive guard! He knows better, we raised him right!” Declan gasped and choked in air. Staggering forward, he reached his father’s side, and smelled the potato juice immediately.

  “He’s just a boy… my boy,” his father blubbered. His words were shamelessly broken up by drunken slurs. “Take the satchel. Take the damn thing!” Declan’s father thrust the satchel from his arms, and it slapped onto the floor. A sharp sound echoed across the building. Declan fixed his weary eyes on the guard who’d held him by his throat. More senior than the others, the guard pressed his lips and formed a cruel smile. He sneered at Declan’s father for having thrown the satchel. With his gloved hand, he pointed down.

  “Pick it up!” he demanded. A younger guard, eager to please, began to kneel.

  “Not you,” the elder guard chided. “One of them. Now, like I said, pick it up!”

  “Not our satchel—” Declan’s father began, but then hiccupped, and gripped his mouth as if to hide a laugh. The elder guard’s lips thinned until their color disappeared.

  “I can take you both to the detention floor; no need for cause. I can do it because I want to.”

  “Not our bag. Doesn’t exist, far as we’re concerned,” his father belched, his words falling through breath that reeked of alcohol. Declan wanted his father to shut up, to quit trying to prove whatever it was that he was after. Holding his hands up between the elder guard and his father, Declan stepped forward and knelt to pick up his mother’s satchel. He brushed the dust from the back of the leather bag and placed it in the hands of the elder guard. The man’s square jaw gave up another sneer.