Shane Huggins
Contents
PROLOGUE
JOHN
ROSE
RYAN
CAITLIN
JOHN
RYAN
ROSE
CAITLIN
RYAN
ROSE
JOHN
CAITLIN
RYAN
JOHN
ROSE
RYAN
CAITLIN
JOHN
ROSE
JOHN
RYAN
ROSE
JOHN
CAITLIN
ROSE
CAITLIN
ROSE
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE
"Don't make a sound. It's right outside," he says.
"What is it?" his wife asks.
"Shush. Keep your voice down," he says, finger at his lips. "If it finds us ..."
"What do we do?" his wife asks, her voice as low as audibly possible.
He puts a hand on his wife's shoulder, pushes her towards the back of the cellar. "I ... I don't know. The news said they only come out in the day. I guess we wait." He remains calm, keeps his wits about him. His wife is ready to crack.
"Go sit with John." He points to a boy in the corner, young, only a month off eight years. "Keep him at ease, and keep him quiet."
His wife sits by the boy, wraps her arm around him. The boy smiles at her. He has no idea what is happening; no idea what hunts them.
The floorboards creak above them. Dust falls. The boy grunts with displeasure, but continues his game. Two cars, racing around a makeshift track drawn in the filth. More creaks. More dust. "Hey!" the boy calls.
"Silence!" he snaps, gesturing to his wife. "Keep him quiet."
His wife's hand slaps over the boy's mouth and holds. "Shhh," his wife hums softly. She runs her fingers through the boy's lengthy mane. The boy is instantly subdued.
His muscles tighten. His fists clench. He prepares himself physically. Mentally, he knows they are already dead.
His teeth clench at the noise. Grinding of brick, shredding of wood, but by what? Claws? Teeth? What are these creatures? Aliens, the news broadcasts said. Invasion, the papers said. Now, there was no more news; no one left to report.
"Can't we run?" his wife asks, returning to his side.
"Not yet," he says. "We must wait till dark."
"No!" the boy squeals from the cellar's rear.
"Quiet, John," his wife snaps.
"But my car broke," the boy whines.
"John, shut it," he hisses. "Don't say a word until I say so."
"But-" The boy is silenced by a glance. The boy knows better than to argue.
A shriek from outside silences them all. Distant, no more than a faint echo. A man.
"Poor soul," he utters. His wife does not hear. The boy returns to his game.
"How many ships did they say?" his wife asks.
His eyes dart to his wife. They say, be quiet! He answers anyway. "Thousands."
"Surely the army could-" His wife stops mid-sentence. Something is knocking. It has found the cellar. It is outside the door.
He holds his breath. The boy plays still, oblivious. Oh, to be a child, he thinks, watching the boy as he plays. Ignorance is bliss.
A lone tear streaks his cheek. His wife wipes it away. "It'll be okay," his wife whispers. He begs to differ. He smiles anyway.
The cellar stairs creak. A series of clicks echo through the narrow passage and under the door, rapid, like a hundred bones cracking within a split-second of one other. An unearthly sound. That must be how they speak, he thinks. A croaking language. The boy does not hear it. His wife creeps over to the boy. He follows her, cradles his family. He is glad for the embrace. It could be their last.
The clicks cease. The stairs creak louder. It is leaving. He sighs in relief, as does his wife. The creaks grow distant, as does his fear. He feels safe. He knows he is not.
His wife repeats her earlier question. "What is it?"
"The news said they came from the sun," he says. "That they need sunlight to survive. Solars, they called them."
"What do they want?" his wife asks.
"Does it matter?" he says. He shuffles over to the door, peaks through a tiny hole in the wooden frame. "The way is clear." His wife slides in beside him, takes a look for herself. It is nowhere to be seen. The creaks, the scratching, the clicking sound; all long gone.
His wife nestles her face in his chest. She breathes deeply. She knows these solars search in sweeps. Once they have checked, they do not check again. He and his family are safe ... for now.
"Surely they can't kill everyone," his wife says. "We'll fight back eventually."
"Will we?" he asks. "You've seen what they can do. They're bigger, stronger and faster than us. Their technology pisses all over ours." He sees the terror in his wife's eyes, a mother's fear for their son's life. "I hope you're right, darling. I hope-"
His words stop suddenly, interrupted. His eyes shoot to the boy, as do his wife's. Terror grips him, takes root deep within his gut. The boy is smiling, playing a new game.
"Turn it off!" he shouts.
"Why, dad?" the boy asks. His wife does not stop for an answer as she snatches away the boy's handheld videogame console. He takes it from his wife and throws it beneath his boot. The boy squeals, heartbroken. They were quick in their response. He hopes it was enough.
"Why did you do that?" the boy whimpers.
"Because that's how they find us," he explains. "They track us through our technology, that's what the papers said."
"I hate them," the boy huffs, his melancholic eyes falling to the scrap beneath his father's boot. "And I hate you!" The boy is young, too young to understand. If the boy had realised, he may have better chosen his words.
A bang from above, creaks from the floorboards, scratching on wood and brick and plaster. Clicks echoing from above, growing closer by the second. It is coming, and it knows where they are.
"Get John," he demands of his wife. He barricades the door. It is not enough. A knife ploughs through the wood. A lengthy blade, well over a foot long. It severs three fingers on his right hand. He recoils, clutching his digits in agony.
The door bursts open, as does his head as the knife cuts through it. He falls to the filth-ridden floor. Dust flies from under him, filling the air. His wife screams. The boy cries. The silhouette in the doorway stands firm, brandishing its blood-soaked blade.
"Close your eyes," his wife says to the boy, covering them with her hand. "Don't look."
Everything goes dark. Darkness; that is all the boy remembers. That, and his mother's screams.
JOHN
Thursday, 15:26
"John? You with us?" Cait asks. I jolt awake. Her eyes are locked on mine, her hand finds my shoulder. "Where did you go?"
My mouth opens. No sounds are made. I want to tell her, but I cannot bear to. My memories are poison, a place I dare not let my thoughts stray to for too long.
"What's that?" I ask.
"The plan," says David. "Do you agree?"
"Oh, uh, yeah," I say. I am not entirely sure what I am agreeing to.
"Good," says David. "You and Caitlin go for supplies, Ryan will get us food, and I'll stay with Rose." I nod. I would prefer Rose to stay with her mother and I, but it would only put her at risk. I know that David will keep her safe. Better that than Ryan stay with her. I have seen the way he looks at her.
"We'll take the car," I say. "Town's quite far. We won't be able to carry much on foot." David's eyes narrow. "Is that a problem?"
"No," he grunts. It is, I can tell. It is
his car after all. "Just bring her back in one piece." As if I need telling. It is the only working car I have seen in almost half a decade. I would not risk it lightly.
"So, what do we need?" I ask. I begin to jot down the essentials: clothes, blankets; anything to keep the cold out.
"If you could get some bottles ..." David's sentence trails off. He need not finish it. I have already added it to the list.
"I need some new cooking utensils," Cait says. "The ones we have are getting rusty."
"Anything else?" I ask.
"I need some gear," Ryan says. He closes his bedroom door behind him and comes to sit with us on the floor of the common room. "Anything that can put down a deer from thirty yards."
"Can't you just whittle some more arrows for your crossbow?" I say. The joke is lost on him.
"Not really," he replies. "Too many factors go into-"
"I'm kidding, Ry." I cannot believe I am having to explain it. "Just ... what do you need?"
"Arrows, a long-range rifle; anything, really." I nod. I am sure we can accommodate such needs. Weapons are easy to come by, most with full ammo. Very few managed to get a shot off once targeted.
I stand, dust myself down of the filth I have been kneeling in. This bunker needs a clean, but we are unwilling to waste even a single watt on such trivial a thing. Our propane supply is nearly at an end. It is a shame the generator cannot run on stagnant water. That seems to be the only thing we have in abundance. Lucky my homebuilt filters can purify it, or we would have died of dehydration a long time ago.
I walk to the door of Rose's room. Knock once, thump twice; that is what we have always done. That is how she knows it is me.
"Daddy, what is it?" she says as her door swings open.
"Your mother and I are about to leave. Is there anything you need?" I say. Her eyes are soft. She is sad.
"Do you have to go?" she asks. She already knows my answer.
"Rose, c'mon. Let's not do this again." I am not looking for a confrontation. I need my mind focused when I leave this bunker. I cannot have my thoughts dwelling on an sulky teenager.
"Then let me come with you," she says. "I can help you."
"Rose, we've been through this," I say. I keep my tone soft. I do not want to rile her. "You're too young. I don't want you leaving this compound."
"But Ryan's young, he gets to leave," she snaps. "Ryan gets to go out on his own."
"Ryan's eighteen," I say. My words cut no ice. Her face sours. "He's a man in his own right. You're only fifteen. When you're his age you can come and go as you please." I do not mean it. She knows it, but she also knows why. Her eyes moisten. I put my arm around her, pull her in tightly. "It's okay." My words soothe her. I feel her relax into me.
"I don't wanna stay here," she whispers.
"I know it's hard," I say. "Winter always is. Nights are too dark, too cold to sit outside, you're cooped up in here all day and night. But winter doesn't last forever, you know?"
She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. "I know," she whimpers. Her lips curl to a smile. "When will you be back?"
"Not too late," I say, stroking my hand down her long, auburn hair. "Four hours, tops." Her eyes close. She clenches them tightly. "What is it?"
"Nothing," she says. "I just don't want anything to ..."
"Don't worry," I say when it seems her sentence is too painful to finish. The thought of losing her scares me to death. For her to think of losing both her mother and I ... it does not bare thinking about. "Nothing will happen to your mum and me, Bud. I promise."
She puts her finger against my lips as she says, "Don't make promises you can't keep."
ROSE
Thursday, 22:41
I suddenly find myself awake. I am cold. It must be late into the night for it to be this cold. I wonder if Daddy and Mum have come back yet, but then realise I am being stupid. Daddy will come to me when he gets back. He always does.
I look at my door, the barricade of heavy-plate steel that symbolises my imprisonment. All I have ever known is locked doors. I start to feel sick to my stomach at the sight.
I grab a book from my bedside locker. I hope it will kill my boredom, but I do not hold my breath. I have read it dozens of times. I need some new material. I read it regardless. Time passes slowly. I find myself thinking of Ryan as I read. His dark, tousled hair. His brown, dreamy eyes. His strong, squared chin. And his lips ... I would give anything to kiss those lips. The thought sends my heart a flutter. I imagine him in my story, the prince: tall, dark and handsome, and I the damsel in distress. He would break down the door and carry me away to safety, away from the monsters that have sealed me away my entire life.
I shake the thought away. I realise that I have focused on the wrong people as my captors. I picture Daddy, Mum; the ones who have always been there for me, protected me from the real monsters. Solars. I realise that mine is not a fairytale. It is a horror story, and the monsters are very real.
One knock, two thumps. Daddy. He is back. I remove the bracing bar, open the door. My heart leaps to my throat. I am suddenly terrified.
"No, please. Not tonight, David." He does not listen. I try to slam the door in his face, but he forces his way in. "Please don't." He holds my wrists tightly, but not hard enough to leave a bruise. He has become a dab hand at this. "I'm still sore from last time." I say. Again, he does not listen.
He throws me to the bed, unbuttons his fly. He is already hard. A stare of malice consumes his face. He comes close. "Don't worry, Little Bud. I'll pull out this time." I hate it when he calls me that. Only Daddy calls me Rosebud, or Bud. When David says it, it always seems to sound seedy.
"No. Please, David," I say, pleading. He grabs my arm, pulls me closer. "Please just leave me alone. I don't want you to. Can't we just talk?"
He lets go, packs his stiffened member back into his trousers. "Okay, Little Bud. Let's talk."
I breathe a sigh of relief, but soon tremble as my mind draws a blank. What can I say to him? Should I tell him that I am late? That I have been for the last two months? That my nipples are tender, my breasts are bigger? Or should I tell him what I think of him? That I think he is a pig? That I hope a solar gets him the next time he ventures too far from the compound? I could say anything, but I settle on, "Where's Ryan?"
He smiles. His blue eyes betray the evil in his heart. For a moment, if only a fleeting one, he seems gentle. "He's gone to the woods," he says. "He's been tracking a buck for the last two nights. He says that he'll get him tonight. If he does, we'll eat well for the next few days." My stomach grumbles. I had forgotten how hungry I was. Now, I feel starved. "Why so interested in my boy?" he asks.
"Just making conversation," I say with a feeble grin. He can see through it. It is as if he can smell my fear.
"Is that all?" he says. He strokes my inner thigh with the back of his hand, moving higher. "I've seen you stare at him. Does he make you wet, Little Bud?" I catch his hand before he can reach under my skirt.
"I thought we were talking?" I say, pushing him back as hard as I can without seeming aggressive. He barely moves. He is too strong, too big, thick with bulging muscle. Everything about him is huge. That is why I fear it. That is why it hurts so much.
He chuckles. He will have his way, that is inevitable. I still hold out hope that I can stall him until Mum and Daddy get back. Or Ryan, at least.
"Have you ever seen a solar?" I ask. This is the first time we have ever really talked to one another.
He laughs loudly, as if it were a fool's question. "Of course not," he says. "Nobody has."
"Why not?" I ask.
"Because I'm not bloody stupid," he snaps. "You think I'm gonna face down a solar? Idiot girl!"
"No, I'm sorry," I say hastily, voice quaking. I am so scared. "I didn't mean it like that. How come nobody else has ever seen one?"
"They're usually dead before their eyes have time to adjust," he says. I believe him. Daddy has told me something similar.
"What do you kn
ow about them?" I ask. I do not really care for the answer. I just want to keep him talking.
"Not much," he replies. His eyes are distant, as if he searches for something beyond the ironclad walls. "I saw their ships on the news before the feeds died. They were as bright as the sun. You couldn't bear to look at them with the naked eye."
My stomach lurches. Solars were ruled by the day. The night was their nemesis. If they could use their ships to give day to the night ...
"Could they-"
David cuts me off. It is as if he can read my mind. "No," he says sternly, as if bored of my questions. This puts me on edge. "Their ships don't function in darkness, or so they say."
"How do you know?" I ask.
"I met a soldier once," he says. I lay back against the wall, settling in for what I hope is a long story. "He said that a few men from another regiment took one of their ships and held it until nightfall."
I find myself suddenly intrigued, bolting upright. "What happened?" I ask.
"Night came, and the ship fell out of the sky. They all died." I deflate with his words.
"But, if they took a ship, surely it can be done again," I say. "We can use their own technology against them."
He leans in close. I can smell the fermented apples on his breath. "There's no one left to fight them," he says menacingly. "The world isn't dying, Little Bud. It's already dead."
I slump back. My thoughts dwell on Daddy, on Mum. If we cannot win, why do we try so hard to survive? Why bother, when we can never really live?
I suddenly realise the mistake I have made. I was too deep in thought. I let my guard down. David has taken full advantage of the slip. His hand has found its way up my skirt. I grab for it. He bats my hand away, forces me back against the wall. His other hand wraps around my throat while his fingers lightly brush against my underwear.
"Please, David-" He chokes off my words. I squirm helplessly. He enjoys it.
He stops stroking beneath my skirt. His hand moves to his own crotch. He squeezes himself. I can see it grow in his hand, beneath his jeans. He unbuttons himself, slips it out, holds it for me to see.
Solar: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Page 1
