End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  “You’re smarter than your old man,” he said, and then leaned forward to sniff at the air. “And more sober, too. You know, I could take your father in, but I won’t, if you get him inside. And that means get him inside, now!”

  Declan only nodded. When his father began to speak, Declan pressed his hand against his father’s chest and warned him with a shake of his head.

  The guards studied the satchel, turning it over to inspect the heavy, dimpled buckles. When they were satisfied with what they’d come for, they walked away without saying another word. Declan’s father was already opening the door to their dwelling by the time the guards left them. When Declan stepped inside, the smell of potato juice hit him, turning his stomach. Empty containers riddled their dwelling.

  His father stopped in the middle of the room, looking around as if he was expecting to see someone. Declan, too, half-expected to see his mother and sister at the center table, or in the nook getting food, but their dwelling was empty and quiet: an undisturbed space that once was home to their family. Declan’s lip quivered when he saw the picture of his sister on the table. The framed drawing sat on its side amid empty potato juice bags.

  Declan recognized the drawing immediately, and then remembered what day was coming: his sister’s birthday. Firsts were hard: first birthdays without them, first anniversaries without them, and first school days without his sister. There were many who’d joined them for his sister and mother’s cleaning, and their passing to the farming floor. They’d offered sympathies and condolences, but none of them had warned him about how utterly sad and difficult that first year would be.

  Standing and waiting for a family that wouldn’t be there, Declan laid his hand on his father’s shoulder, and felt him trembling. In a few days, it was going to be the first birthday since his sister’s passing. It wouldn’t be celebrated, or even spoken of—but it would be remembered, and the two of them would silently experience the loss all over again. It had been the same way a month earlier, on his parents’ anniversary.

  His father reached to take a drink, then hesitated. Instead, he picked up the drawing. Declan rubbed his father’s back, and without a sound, his father turned to Declan and embraced him. The only thing Declan thought to do was hold him, too. When his father was ready, he pulled back, and offered an awkward smile as a thank-you. But his smile was brief when he saw Declan’s eye. Nearly forgotten, the swelling didn’t hurt like it had earlier.

  “Did they hit you, son?” his father asked. His voice sounded shaky and he slurred some of his words. “Did I… did I cause this?”

  Declan shook his head. “No, I got this one on my own,” he offered with a prideful smile. Thoughts of the guards kept the smile brief though, and his eyes darted back to the table. His father seemed to shrink away from him then, ashamed and embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time that Declan had come home to a room full of empty containers. He didn’t think it would be the last time, either.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” his father blurted out, quickly pushing some of the containers out of sight. His father stopped then, with forfeit on his face and in his eyes. “I need it, son. I just do.”

  Declan pressed his lips until they hurt, keeping what he wanted to say to himself. “Why did the guards come for Mom’s satchel?” Declan asked instead, changing the subject. “Why now?”

  Declan’s father stepped back; the look on his face disappeared as he glanced around the room again. His eyes searched the ceiling, floors, and the corners. “I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head, his expression turning to confusion. “I don’t understand how the guards could’ve known that I opened her satchel.”

  Declan’s breath stopped for a moment. His mother’s satchel was never to be touched, let alone opened.

  “Why would you open it?” he asked, but curiosity was already pushing the next question. He quickly waved his hands, not caring to hear his father’s reasoning, and hurried ahead to what he’d been wondering since the day his mother had first brought the satchel home. “What was inside?”

  “I didn’t think it would matter if I opened it. I really didn’t.” His father lowered his head, ashamed. “I was just looking for something…”

  “You were looking for vouchers, weren’t you?” Declan cut in, his tone sharp and unforgiving. He picked up one of the empty containers, throwing it against the wall. “Dad, how are we supposed to eat if you use all of our food vouchers?”

  His father’s posture changed then: he raised his head, pushed his shoulders back. Suddenly, Declan was eleven again, and was about to be scolded for having resorted to writing on the wall after using all of his parchment allowance.

  “Don’t you talk to me in that tone!” His father tried to yell, but his impaired voice thinned, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m trying, son. I am. And I didn’t use all of our vouchers. I wouldn’t do that.”

  From the front of his coveralls, his father pulled out a few vouchers, handing them to Declan. Stamped with the Commune’s seal, the veneer resin-laminated parchment was still warm from his father’s pocket. Declan’s stomach growled, and he realized again that he was, indeed, hungry.

  His father heard the grumbling sound and chuckled. “Get yourself something to eat. Get yourself something good for the End of Gray Skies celebration, too. Go with Sammi, and spend it with her.”

  “I think Sammi’s going to choose me today,” Declan blurted, forgetting that he was angry, or at least trying to move past their discord. His father raised his eyebrows, and his lips stretched across his cheeks. Without a word, his father pulled Declan into his arms. Declan was taken by the moment, and he eased his hands up to his father’s sides. His father’s chest heaved, and Declan heard him whisper his mother’s name.

  “How I wish your mother and sister were here to see this,” his father choked, and then pulled back to kiss Declan’s cheek. His father’s unshaven growth felt scratchy.

  “Someone needs to shave,” Declan answered smartly. They were quiet for a moment, and then Declan solemnly admitted, “I wish they were here, too.”

  His father reached into his pocket and handed Declan a square parchment. It was perfectly flat and smooth, with corners that were sharp and pointed. The smell of it was crisp and fine—unlike any parchment Declan had ever held before. While most writing parchment was soft and pulpy, this was sturdy, and not at all washable. Declan pressed his finger against the thick edge. His skin creased, yet the parchment held its form.

  “What is this?” Declan asked, pushing some more. “What kind of parchment do you think this is?”

  “Careful with that. It’s a hard edge, but it will bend,” his father answered. Declan turned his face away from the smell of his father’s breath. “Your mom called it an ‘index card’, or something like that. It came from the executive floors, and I think it’s what the guards were here for.”

  “But why?” Declan asked, and then turned the card over. On the other side, he found rows of numbers. But the numbers weren’t scratched in place with a writing stone, or placed there by anyone’s hand. Instead, the glyphs were formed with tapered black ink, in strokes that were straight and squared, like the edges of the parchment they’d been put upon. Declan moved his thumb down the card, pausing at each row. He counted five sets of numbers, separated by thin blue lines and the clean off-white color of the thick parchment. He gently ran his finger over the printed numbers, feeling the small indentations and pleats. The numbers on the card had been pressed into the hard fabric, and immediately he wanted to know how. How could it be that a machine existed to make such a thing? Their Commune had a few machines, but nothing that could make what he was holding between his fingers. And what of the numbers? What could they mean? But what concerned him most was why his mother had this card. What his father mumbled next struck him with a sick feeling in his gut.

  “I’m not even sure anymore that your mother’s flu wasn’t intentional.”

  7

  SAMMI CRINKLED HER NOSE at t
he musty, dank odor of the old theater. She planned to surprise Declan, and had left their Commune early. With a rolled bed of her favorite blankets tucked under her arm, and a splash of her mother’s scented waters, she wanted the afternoon to be perfect. Giddy and anxious, Sammi couldn’t help herself, and hopped up onto her toes, eager to set things up.

  The stage where they’d shared a passionate moment earlier was where she’d put her blankets and candle. But when she caught a glimpse of the passing fog above the theater’s balcony, she thought that the seclusion and the closeness to the sky could be magical. The End of Gray Skies was promised, and it was going to happen soon. She imagined the two of them, up on the balcony, sunlight washing over their naked bodies. Sammi quickly changed her mind, and began stepping over the old seat posts in the floor. Within moments she’d made her way to the back of the theater, to the old staircase.

  Looking up into the dark, narrow pass, Sammi hesitated at the bottom of the steps. She couldn’t see all of the stairs ahead of her, and she wasn’t certain that they were intact, or even if they were all there.

  You can do this, she told herself, and eased her foot onto the first step. Shifting her weight, she wobbled and almost fell backward. She grabbed the railing that hung from rusty cleats, and jumped when a handful of spider legs scurried over her fingers. She let out an edgy laugh, and moved on to the next step.

  The staircase proved strong, but still, she continued with caution as the wood creaked under her feet. By the time she’d reached the darkest part of the stairwell, she’d begun to question the wisdom of her ascent. Should she have waited for Declan? Dust and remains of rotting carpet stirred up from beneath her, tickling her nose. She coughed and sneezed, and then was silent, regretting how loud she’d been.

  A sound stirred from the balcony, stopping her. Something was already up there, and it was moving around. For a moment, she thought it might be Declan. Sharing in her idea, maybe he’d left their Commune before her. Maybe Declan had brought food, and was trying to get everything just right. But it didn’t matter to her; she’d love anything that he did.

  Another sound came from the balcony, softer this time. As she ascended, she knew that it wasn’t Declan. It was the mewling cry of a young cat. The cry came again, adding urgency to her climb. Sammi took to the next step, but this time, the wood dropped beneath her. She yelped once, jumping over the final step until she was safely on the landing.

  What she saw was perfect: the balcony was sheltered and private, and sat just beneath the opening in the roof. It looked down into the theater like a parental mountain watching over a valley. The balcony was closer to the decorative ceiling, and she could see their gray world, their hovering misty vapor, as it passed over the theater. Soon her blankets would be rolled out across the floor, and unlike any other choosing in their Commune, sunlight would bless their new union.

  A mewling cry pulled Sammi’s thoughts from what would be. She called to the cat, searching the darker shadows of the balcony. To the far side, she found the remains of tether straps, noosed on one end and tied off above the floor: snares. Four, or maybe five, tether straps hung, empty of any captures—but the last one had caught the tiny paw of a young cat.

  “This is how Harold is getting them,” she mumbled. Sourness clenched her stomach as images of his piggy face came to her mind.

  The cat’s green eyes found her, followed by its feral hissing. Terror-stricken, the cat was very young, but it had already matured enough to be dangerous.

  Sammi crossed the balcony, taking care as some of the floorboards bowed under her. She jumped over some of the holes, and stepped around the larger ones. She steadied herself against the balcony’s railing, which was stippled in decorative etchings that felt worn and smooth under her fingers. She flinched and pulled her hand back when the railing moved and groaned, warning that it was going to break.

  Taking gentle steps, Sammi finally reached the frightened cat. A mouth full of pointy teeth hissed and spat at her, while claws flew violently in the air, swiping at her hands. Sammi reeled back when the cat’s claws opened thin red lines on her skin. The cuts immediately became puffy and itchy as she tried to rub the irritation away.

  “I’m trying to help you is all. Don’t you know that?” Sammi pleaded. Frustration grew as sweat bloomed on her forehead. She reached for the noosed end of the tether strap. The cat lashed out again, fear driving its claws into Sammi’s coveralls until she felt them pierce her skin.

  “Dammit!” Sammi yelped, the sound of her voice bouncing around the theater. She pulled her arm back, falling to the floor. Dust from the old carpets erupted around her, watering her nose and eyes. Sammi cringed and felt the ache in her back, remembering the terror of her earlier encounter.

  The floorboards creaked behind her, and Sammi felt relief. Declan could help; two sets of hands would do the job far more easily than one. Maybe they could use her roll of blankets, wrapping the cat, while they untied the snare.

  “I found where Harold’s been trapping the cats,” Sammi declared, and then sat back up. “Help me free the poor thing! The noose is just about off her leg. I just need a—”

  The balcony floor creaked under more than one set of feet. Without turning, Sammi stopped talking as her heart sank. A bitter feeling shortened her breath when she heard the snort of a piggy laugh. More snickering came then, and the urge to cry came to her. She wanted to cower in the shadows with the cat, to hide from the dangers that stood behind her.

  In her mind, she was twelve years old again, and she was backed into the farthest corner of their classroom. The four of them were huddled away in the shadows, hidden from their classmates and Ms. Gilly. Peter and Richie had tightened their hands around her arms in a grip that had left bruises and raised welts. She was so small and vulnerable that first time, and she’d wanted to scream, but Harold threatened to have the boys break her arms if she made a sound. Sammi believed that they would do exactly what he told them to. Harold towered over her like a monster preparing to devour its prey. As he pressed his hands, pinching and fondling, while she squirmed under his touch, she’d known that she was no match. When he wriggled his fingers in a way that turned her stomach, and made her cry, she pushed her mind to someplace else. It was all that she could do. She’d gone to a place far away, a place that made what was happening to her disappear. But that wouldn’t be enough now. Trapped on the balcony with the cat, Harold wasn’t going to just let her go.

  Sammi rubbed her arms as if the pain were fresh and the welts stood new. Even though it had been five years, she remembered that day as if it had happened yesterday. She could still see and smell the memory, and she could swear that she felt the pain from the grip of their hands, from the push of his piggy fingers. Her eyes darted around to find something to protect herself with. She searched the balcony floor, through the remains of hundreds of years, trying to find anything that hadn’t already been picked apart. As she poked around in the dim light, she realized that she was beginning to sob, just as she had done when she was twelve. The fear was making her weak, and this realization suddenly spurred her to anger.

  “You’re freeing our cats?” Harold sneered with another piggy laugh.

  Her hands started shaking when the boys stepped closer. Desperation gripped her heart, hurting her as it pounded in her chest. Her breath struggled, and her mind wanted to close itself off from the world around her, like it had before, when the boys had first held her captive to Harold’s molestation.

  “This is gonna be fun,” she heard Harold tell the other boys. Jibes and heckling soon followed, and her fear turned to rage. The trapped cat bowed high on its haunches and hissed at the boys standing behind her. And like the cat, Sammi was cornered in a snare of fear and anger. But this time, she wasn’t going to let him touch her. She had teeth and claws, too, and she was ready to use them.

  Without realizing it, Sammi had pulled something from the floor. She wrapped her hands around a steel rod: an old seat post. An odd view came to
her mind as she imagined a young couple sitting on the balcony hundreds of years ago. They shared one another, watching each other more than the moving pictures on the screen. She imagined that it would have been her and Declan; but Harold was changing that now, and Sammi could only hope that Declan would be late. She wished that he would forget about their date in the theater, for she knew that Harold would kill him, if given the chance.

  Rusty flakes splintered from the post, crumbling away at her touch, but it still held most of the iron and weight of its original form. She tightened her grip on the rod’s sharp edge until it cut into her skin. Sammi was ready.

  She jumped to her feet, swinging the metal rod in a wide arc. The ragged end swung around, hitting the boy closest to her. The sharp end raked over Peter’s arm, slicing open a stretch of his coveralls and tearing into his skin. He threw himself back, grabbing at his arm, and cried out from the blow. Her eyes widened, losing their hold on frightened tears. Victory made her fingers tingle as Peter collapsed to the ground, protecting his arm. Her heart skipped, and she let out a triumphant breath.

  But her achievement was short-lived. She never saw the club swinging from her right, but she felt it connect with the side of her head. The formidable blow struck her with a dizzying thud; pain echoed throughout her. She reeled back on her heels, seeing double images of the boys. Grabbing her head, she pushed forward onto her toes to try to regain her balance.

  “That’s for breaking my nose!”

  She heard satisfaction in Richie’s voice as he laughed at her. Sammi continued stumbling, and then backed away from them until she was pinned against the frail banister. The balustrade below her waist leaned away from her. She heard it moaning against her body, and, for a moment, she considered jumping over the rail. It was too high, though.