Against The Darkness (Cimmerian Moon)

by A. M. Griffin

  It happened the third morning of camp, and I woke up to all hell breaking loose. Alien space ships hovered over New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Philadelphia, Miami, Boston, Washington, Detroit, Houston, Atlanta, Phoenix, San Diego, Seattle, St. Louis and Baltimore, just to name the cities in America, and it seemed as if there wasn’t anything the government could have done about it. When the mother ships opened, spewing smaller ships and began to rain bombs down on everything, it was confirmed—we were screwed. So, with camp officially over, the Camp Director and local staff high-tailed it out of there and our charter bus never returned to pick us up. In a word, we were stranded.

  Our band teachers, Mr. Steinberg, Mrs. Franklin and Ms. Burgess had us all pack up our belongings, whatever we could carry, and we set out, forty students in all, toward Michigan, with a plan of following the major highways to get there. The teachers thought we would make it home in about a week and a half, but what they hadn’t taken into consideration were the many obstacles we had to overcome.

  Mrs. Franklin and Mr. Steinberg are in their late sixties, can’t walk very fast and get tired easily. Luckily we didn’t need to worry about Ms. Burgess because she’s younger, only in her early thirties. Another obstacle was the complete destruction of everything around us. We had seen some of the damage on the camp television before the power went out, but we hadn’t known it was as bad as it actually was. City streets were uprooted, highways were no more and cities and towns we passed through were nothing but rubble. The non-stop walking was hard enough, but add climbing over bricks and blocks of pavement and it became treacherous. Four of the guys had to stay by Mr. Steinberg’s and Mrs. Franklin’s sides just to help them. But I can’t blame our slow progress solely on them. With more than forty people trying to travel together, we had more than our fair share of arguments and fights.

  But no matter how intense the fight was, the moment we heard the whiz of a ship in the sky, we all took our cue and ran for cover. These odd-appearing space ships weren’t flown by humans, they were alien occupied. Although we hadn’t seen the aliens in the flesh—lucky for us—they patrolled the sky with fervor. We could bet on hiding from their ships at least twice a day. We could only imagine where they were going, where they were coming from or what was in them.

  When we finally reached Atlanta and saw, with our own eyes, the mother ship sitting above it, looking like a cimmerian moon, the teachers decided they had to come up with another plan. For one, we couldn’t trek our way up the interstate and, two, we had to stay away from major cities. That’s when we came to the realization our march back to Michigan wasn’t going to be as straightforward as we originally thought, but it still didn’t deter us. It only forced us to change our plan. We needed to be more stealthy—which was going to be hard, with the amount of people in our group.

  It was there the teachers also came up with the scouting plan. Two students would leave at five every morning and head north, avoiding high-traffic areas—meaning other people, what used to be roads, and mainly the aliens. The scouts carried pedometers to clock the miles walked. If anyone ran into aliens or someplace where it appeared aliens had been, the scouts would find different routes.

  The idea was to scout out roughly twenty alien-free miles and then return to wherever we had made camp for the day. Then, when the night fell, the scouts led everyone else back on the same route taken earlier. It’s been working this way, but was grueling on the scouts. Especially since the teachers only trusted this job to the seniors.

  This is my second time on scout detail and my second time with Wade Hill. The first time we’d gone out we didn’t get far because Wade was heavier and slower then. Because of him we were only able to scout seven miles and he struggled to make it back from that short walk.

  This time we only covered about fifteen miles before Wade wanted to turn back. I wanted to cover more, but he said we had gone far enough. I think the downpour of rain was the real reason he wanted to stop. On top of that, it’s cold and chilly. I’m miserable, but I could have gone farther. The only reason I hadn’t pushed the issue was because I could hear him wheezing, even from five feet behind me.

  Another failed scouting mission.

  Fat rain drops come down so hard my face and body feel as though I’m being pelted with rocks. How the bun Mia put in my hair this morning is still holding up is a wonder to me. I’ve learned to embrace her messing with my hair, since I didn’t need it in my way. It’s long, going well past my bra line, and is a mop of waves and curls. Some strands are red, some blonde, but mainly light brown. It’s a hodge-podge of my African-American and Caucasian heritage.

  Some say it’s unique, just like me, while I find it too cumbersome to be bothered with. So every morning I grit my teeth as she rakes through it, twisting it into a tight bun or braid down the middle of my head. This is a necessary evil, as I equated survival to being able to see where I’m running to and what I’m running from.

  I pull the hood of my sweater up over my head. It’s soaked and dripping water, but at least it’ll stop the rain from pelting my head. I shiver as a chill runs through me. Packing my parka would have been a good idea, but with limited room in my backpack, it hadn’t made the list—something I’m regretting right about now.

  We make our way through an open field, which makes me uneasy. Without protection from overhead, we’ll be sitting ducks if a spaceship comes this way. I look up, wiping the rain from my eyes.

  All clear.

  I pull my scarf from around my mouth. The smell isn’t so bad out here, where there aren’t any dead bodies. When we we’re going through the residential areas the scarf was a much-needed commodity. The smell of rotting flesh is enough to make me want to puke. And the flies and animals feeding off of it? Urgh. I always try to avert my gaze when we pass them. I can’t look at them anymore. What’s the use? I can’t save any of them.

  I hear Wade stomping through the grass, his shoes making a sloshing sound with each step. I’m irritated. I’m irritated that it’s raining, but most of all I’m irritated that I have to go back to camp and let everyone know that we didn’t hit the twenty mile mark, but barely scouted out fifteen. Michael and Aaron did twenty-five miles yesterday. I shake my head. We’ve come up short again.

  This is hopefully my last time ever ending up with Wade Hill.

  “Keep up,” I say, my voice coming out in a harsh whisper. I don’t mean to sound the way that I do, but I can’t keep my irritation to myself.

  I can hear his heavy breathing behind me, the wheeze with each breath he takes, how dry and labored it has become, and a pang of guilt begins to surface. He hasn’t told me so, but I’ve put in enough hours at my mom’s clinic to know he must have some form of asthma. He doesn’t complain about the pace I’m setting, and didn’t the last time we went scouting either. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember one time he’s complained—ever. Realizing this, and with guilt fully formed, I stop and wait for him to catch up.

  I don’t turn around to watch him come to me. I can hear his steps quicken through the tall grass. When he reaches me, he doesn’t stop, but continues on. It takes me a minute to realize that he passed me, as I watch his retreating back.

  “Thanks for waiting for me,” I say sarcastically.

  I adjust the nylon sack on my back. The material is lightweight and water-proof, enabling me to keep it rolled up in my larger school backpack when I don’t need it. It’s serving its purpose right now. I have it filled with a couple bottles of water, bread and crackers, thinking we would need the snacks after our long trek. We hadn’t. I begin to walk again, this time following him.

  He turns his head to the side, but doesn’t face me. “I didn’t ask you to wait for me. I’m not slow. I was bringing up the rear.”

  I snort. Yeah right.

  I could have told him exactly what I thought of him “bringing up the rear” but I clamp my mouth shut. Getting into it with Wade won’t get me any closer to home. I watch him as he walks. Since he’s lost a
ton of weight he isn’t bad looking. Some girls might think he’s even cute, if they were into the farm-boy type. He’s a hulking figure, who stands just about six feet tall, with shaggy brown hair and weighing somewhere close to two hundred and fifty pounds. Without a razor his facial hair is becoming thicker every day. His skin is tanned and always seems tanned, even in the winter time. Not the kind of complexion you would find at a tanning salon, but the kind you would find on someone who worked outdoors year round.

  His jeans are looser than before and his shirt is hanging off of him. I don’t know exactly how much weight he’s lost, but what else can be expected? We’ve been rationing our food for the past twenty-three days and for the past two weeks we’ve been walking fifteen to twenty miles a day.

  I glance down at my legs to see if I’ve lost weight as well. Yes. I’m wearing sweatpants, so they’re supposed to be baggy, but not enough for me to have rolled the elastic waistband down three times. But, unlike Wade, I didn’t have any extra weight to lose. I was always thin, or as my mother used to call me, her “tenth percentile” child. No one outside of my mother and her friends would have probably understood what it meant. My mother is…was…or maybe still is a pediatric nurse practitioner.

  She used to fuss over my eating habits and how much I weighed because I was always at the bottom of the height and weight scale pediatricians use to plot how well, or in my case, how not well, a child was growing and how they stacked up to other children in their age group. I wasn’t growing to her liking. For some reason I couldn’t break out of the tenth percentile, hence the reason for my nickname.

  I assess Wade again. He’s probably in the one-hundred percentile even with his weight loss. I’m taking a guess that his parents hadn’t worried about his weight at all. That must have been nice growing up.

  His steps are slower than mine, but his stride is longer. I’m only five-foot-one, with short legs, and weigh about one-hundred and ten pounds. I find that I’m working double-time in order to keep up with him.

  Maybe he was bringing up the rear?

  He’s not walking so fast that I’m in danger of him leaving me behind, so I don’t worry about that. Even if he did decide to leave me I think I could find my way back to camp, since it’s only about five miles south of here.

  I follow him in silence. It’s quiet out here, but that doesn’t surprise me. The only sounds I hear are the dogs some distance away and his steps and mine. Later it will sound like a trampling horde as we lead the others back through this way. But I prefer how it is right now. It’s easier to hear the space ships zipping through the air. Usually they can be heard miles away, giving anyone in earshot ample time to hide.

  I keep my ears peeled to both the sky and the ground, though I don’t expect to see anyone. Running into people is becoming less and less common, as everyone is avoiding high-traffic areas or hunkering down into hiding holes. The last time we saw anyone else was a day and a half ago. It was a group of fifteen, the largest group we’d seen besides ourselves. They weren’t going home like we are. Their homes had been destroyed. They were looking for someplace to hide and ride out the invasion is what they’d said.

  Was that even possible? Ride out the alien invasion? I would like to think so. Like maybe one day the aliens would get tired of Earth or find what they came for and leave. Whatever the case may be. They would leave.

  Wade stumbles but rights his footing before he falls. Although I’m well behind him, I reach up, attempting to catch the back of his shirt, but end up empty-handed.

  “Ouch,” he cries out in pain—loudly.

  My heart skips a beat. I drop, my knees meeting the wet ground. Squinting, I look around, making sure aliens aren’t nearby to pounce on us. He’s bent over. His hands are on his left ankle, but he looks up abruptly, catching himself from saying anything else and realizing in a panic that he just yelled, possibly attracting attention to us.

  I pull out the butcher’s knife I have hanging from the drawstring of my sweatpants. Still on my knees, I shuffle, turning in a circle, keeping my eyes on the landscape, my eyes searching for the big reptilian-like aliens. I don’t really know what harm—if any—I can do with my knife, but it’s better than nothing.

  As before, I don’t see or hear anything.

  After a few minutes, Wade tries to straighten, but immediately sucks in a sharp breath and lifts up his foot. His face contorts in pain.

  “What is it?” I whisper.

  “My ankle. Ow.”

  Not good.

  I look around warily. I don’t see any aliens rushing to get us, so I ease up just a little. I lift off my knees and crawl to him on my feet and hands, closing the distance.

  I reach for his hands and try to move them from his ankle. “Let me see.”

  He uses a hand to bat mine away. “Naw, I’m fine.” But when he rises, putting weight on his ankle, he again winces and lifts his foot off the ground.

  “You are not okay.” I reach for his ankle and this time he puts his hand on mine and looks down at me. If I hadn’t known he was in pain there would be no mistaking it now. His face is dark red and his eyes are watery. “I can handle this,” he says, through gritted teeth.

  “I won’t hurt you. My mother is a nurse.”

  He grunts, but let go of my hand. “That doesn’t mean you know what to do.”

  I lower myself to a knee and lift up his dripping pant leg to assess his ankle. It’s wet, with lines of dirt on his red and swollen skin. “Yeah it does. I’ve been helping her out in the clinic since I was seven. I can take care of a twisted ankle.” I touch lightly around his skin, making sure I don’t feel any protruding bones. Feeling none, I pull away.

  “Is that the diagnosis? Twisted ankle?”

  I sit back on my heels. “That’s what it looks like. We’ll have to take it slow. We don’t want to aggravate it.” Which means it’ll take us longer to get back to the others and we’d have to stay put for the night. I take in a deep breath. We just added another day to our journey home.

  He turns and tries to walk away from me but it appears more like hobbling. “You can run ahead and tell everyone that I’m coming. I’ll be back well before darkness falls.”

  I humph. As far as I’m concerned, darkness fell the minute the aliens came.

  He waves his hand through the air. “Go on. Make sure everyone knows we can still leave on time.”

  Rising, I don’t concern myself with the mud stains on my knees. Those stains will blend in with the rest of the dirt and grime. In two strides I’m by his side, lifting up his heavy arm and putting it around my shoulder. He tries to protest and pull away, but I don’t let him go.

  “That’s not what I’m going to do. We’re supposed to split up only if you’re down and can’t move. And only then can I leave you and return with help,” I say, reciting the rules that we heard every morning before a new scouting team went out for the day.

  He peers down to me, scowling. His piercing gray eyes flicker with disappointment. “You can’t hold me.”

  I adjust my body under his weight. “Think of me as a crutch. We’ll be back in no time.”

  He takes a step and limps, leaning on me. He’s heavy, but I do my best to hold him up.

  “I thought I was the crutch. Isn’t that what you called me?”

  Argh. I did. When we returned from our first scouting mission. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

  He limps along with me helping. “You did, but it’s okay. I was…still am.”

  “No. It wasn’t nice. I was frustrated. I just want to get home.”

  “Me too.”

  I realize now that I don’t know much about him, although we’ve had band together since the sixth grade. To me he’s always been “Big Wade”, the tuba player.

  “Do you think your family survived?” I ask.

  “I know they did.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  “I am. We’re hunters. We can survive this.”

  He says “this�
� as though it’s just a mere power outage or something else we’re used to dealing with.

  “So you mean to tell me that you know how to hunt and we’ve been eating stale bread for two weeks?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  He grunts and presses down on me. My legs shake under his weight. “This isn’t going to work.”

  He tries to stop but I won’t let him. I nod toward the trees up ahead. “You can make it to the trees. I’d feel better if we got out of the open.”

  He straightens and keeps going. He can do it, but he’s having a hard time, his breaths coming out strained and hard. We make it to the trees but he passes some. I don’t say anything as he continues on, into the thick of them, until finally he stops. He lifts his arm from my shoulder and leans back against one. His face is redder and I can tell he’s holding his breath.

  I drop to the ground to view his ankle again. He doesn’t complain this time. I’m not happy with what I see. It’s still red and more swollen than before. There’s no use in getting angry or worked up about our time or progress. We won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

  “We’ll have to rest here.” I glance at my watch. One-thirty p.m. “We can take a breather for an hour to let the swelling go down and start again.”

  “No, you know the rules. I’ll stay here while you go for help.”

  I know the rules but leaving him alone out here doesn’t seem right. But I can’t help but think I would have easily done it three hours ago, when my irritation with him was at its peak.

  “Not hap’n cap’n.” I say the words my mother says when she doesn’t agree with a choice I was making.

  “Sinta, go on. You’re a fast runner. I’ve seen you in track. You can get help and be back here within the hour.”

  He’s right. I run the one hundred meter dash in ten-point-five seconds. It’ll take me no time at all to cover the five miles, and getting someone to come back with me won’t be a problem. There are a couple of guys that can easily hold Wade’s weight.