I edge towards the fire pit. The last embers are nearly spent. I crouch beside it, basking in the last waves of warmth. It approaches. I make no attempt to flee. There is nowhere to run. I can hear the others. They click in unison. A low purr, swept along on the subtle breeze. A chant from the mob, eagerly awaiting the kill.
It stops no more than an arm's length from me. I keep low, gazing up. I can see myself, my reflection in its visor. I look like shit. My bloodshot eyes are ringed with black. My lips are chapped, split and bloody. Bruises marble my face.
"What do you want?" I ask. It does not answer me. Not with words, anyway. It reaches for the handle at its flank and pulls. A blade appears, sliding from inside its armour. It bends, reaches down for me. Its fingers wrap around my throat. I do not wait for it to strike. I did not crouch here for no reason. I grab the knife from the ground beside me, stab upwards as hard as I can, up under its jaw. It makes no sound as it falls, save for the thump as it hits the dirt. The others are not clicking anymore. Now, they are screaming.
I grab Daddy's gun as I scramble to my feet, run as fast as my weary legs allow. The others are on the move. They come for me, wish to kill me. They are far from me, but much faster. The driver's door is already open. I leap inside and slam the door, throw the lever into drive. There is a window, a small opening where they are least thick. I take the chance, put my foot down. They move like insects, swarming towards us, around us, trying to close the gap. Only a few manage it. It makes no difference. I mow them down like weeds, crush them between tyre and topsoil. I look in the rear-view mirror. They tumble along after us, mangled and deformed. I take a deep breath, allow a sigh of relief.
"We did it, Mum. We got away."
CAITLIN
Monday, 11:31
My head. So much pressure. Unbearable, I feel it may explode. My body feels heavy. Every inch of it hurts. The rumble of the road below does not help. How did I get here? Where are we going?
I try to speak. I only manage a groan. My mouth is so dry, parched to the point of desiccation.
"Take it easy, Mum." I smile at hearing her voice. "Just a few more hours and we'll be there." I do not know where we are going. I do not care. I am just glad she is alright.
I force my eyes open. They struggle to adjust. Only one has full use. The other sees only black.
It is light out. Sunlight streams through the window and onto my face. It is warm, soothing. It still cannot fight the chills that have crept into my bones. My skin is clammy, but cold; oh, so cold.
My skin itches, bound by coarse fabric. Bandages. She has dressed my wounds well. She is a very good student. I hope she does not take it too hard when she realises it was all for nothing. The worst of it is not on the outside, where she can see. My stomach roils, my bowels in tatters. It is not something she can sew back together, not with her level of expertise.
I stare into the golden rays. No matter how much it hurts, I cannot take my eyes off of it. It is beautiful. It is hard to believe that such a thing could strike such fear in the hearts of men. I remember the last time I laid eyes on it. Well over twenty years ago, in town. I gazed at the sky, stunning cerulean, as one sun became two, then three, then four, and so on. They rained fire from the heavens, precise shots, dropping all but a few. There were nine of us still standing. All young, all female. It had seemed that solars had an aversion to killing little girls. Since then, I have know only darkness.
I am exhausted. My eyes struggle to stay open. It is a pleasant sight to fall asleep to, glittering, painting the morning sky a glorious gold. I allow my eyes to close, give in to the stinging lassitude. It will be dark when I wake. I am glad I got to see it again after all these years. Maybe I will see it again one day.
ROSE
Monday, 16:22
"We're here," I say. The wall is high, at least twenty feet. Nothing is getting in there with ease. I coast the car to a stop, battery completely dead. I turn to Mum. She is sleeping. "Wake up." I nudge her shoulder. "Mum, c'mon. We've made it. We're safe now."
It has been a long drive. A good thing, really. It has allowed time for me to clear my head, come to terms with all that has happened. Ryan's map was a godsend. I would never have made it here without it.
It is dark here, not a shred of sunlight since we passed the twilight belt. No stars. No moon. I now understand how the people here have stayed safe for so long, beyond the reach of solars. The sun has no power here.
I get out, walk around to the boot. Snow crunches beneath my bare feet. The cold sting is refreshing, lessening my other aches and pains. I open the hatch and pick out an apple. Mum loves apples. I know she will enjoy it. I open the back door, driver's side, where her head lies. "Mum, wake up. I've got you something." She does not move, deep in slumber. Her injuries must have exhausted her.
I gently tickle her cheek, sweep her hair away from her eyes. "I've got an apple for you," I say. "If you don't wake up soon I might have to eat it myself." Still nothing. I rock her firmly. "Mum. Wake up." My tone is abrupt, walking the fine line between concern and panic. "Please wake up." I rock her harder. "Please."
I place the apple down beside her, hover my hand over her nose and mouth. She is not breathing. "No, no, no. Please." I press my fingers to her neck. No pulse. "Please!" I yank her up, shake her violently. The seat is pooled with blood. I have sewed her up, dressed her wounds. How has this happened?
My eyes moisten as I lift her blanket. Her thighs are smeared red. "No," I whimper. "Please don't leave me, Mum. Please. Don't leave me alone."
I cradle her, lean my forehead against hers. She is so cold. Her lips are blue, face as pale as winter snow. She has been gone for a while. I had not even noticed. "I'm sorry," I say. I rock her back and forth as if rocking her to sleep. I do not know why. It is more for myself, to settle my own anguish. "I love you, Mum." I lay her down, gently lowering her head to the plush padding. I pull the blanket over her, smoothing out the wrinkles, tucking her in tight. "Say hi to Daddy and Ryan for me." I lean between the front seats, grab the gun from the passenger's side. "Tell them I'll be with you all soon."
The night is silent. No wind. No wildlife.
The castle lies ahead. I can see the lights that line the streets. The buildings have been rebuilt of late, old styles melding with the new. It is a pretty sight. I would have liked to live here.
I stagger a few paces before falling to my knees. I am shaking. Tears blur my vision. The gun feels light in my hand as I lift it, hold it to my temple. I have focused for so long on the bad. Now, here, nearing the end, I focus only on the good. Mum; teaching me to cook and sew and see to wounds. Daddy; teasing me when I have done something stupid, then cuddling me and telling me how much he loves me. Ryan; his smell, his touch, his kisses.
I clench my eyes shut. My breaths quicken. My heart beats faster, harder, rattles my ribs like piano keys. Will it hurt? Will I feel anything at all? I lay my finger on the trigger. This is it. This is how my life ends. I bite down on my lower lip. Everything inside me screams for me to stop. I should stop, I know I should. But I do not want to.
I begin the countdown in my head. Five ... four ... three ... two ... one. I pull.
I feel nothing. I had expected to feel a half-second's pain. A burst of agony, followed by a swell of complete nothingness. This is nothing like how I thought it would be. Is this what being dead feels like?
I open one eye. It darts from left, to right, to left. I see the wall, the castle, the lights. I open the other, look down at my knees. I am still me. I am still alive. I lower the gun, eject the magazine. My worst fears are realised.
It is empty.
"Fuck you!" I scream at no one in particular. "Fucking bastards!" I throw the gun. It does not go far. "Why?!" I am hysterical, inconsolable, wailing like a crazed lunatic. It takes some time to gather my thoughts. A lot of shouting, screaming, cursing; I get it all out. It seems I am not meant to die yet. I have no choice but to carry on, to see what this new home has to offer.
The wall is far taller up close. The gate is already open. They must have seen me arrive, opened it in anticipation. I look back at the car. My footprints embellish the freshly fallen powder. It feels magical in a way, like a fairytale from one of my books. I follow the trail through the gate. No one is there to welcome me. No one is anywhere in sight. I realise this is not a fairytale. There is no magic here. The streets are barren. Ransacked. The icy paths are salted with blood, trails heading north, to higher ground; to the castle.
I think to run, but to where? The car is dead. There is nothing for miles around. I am stuck here. I have no choice but to continue.
I follow the dominant road through town. Every byway offers more destruction: stalls broken to shards, smashed windows, walkways bestrewn with personal possessions of those nowhere to be seen. There is blood everywhere: on the streets, on the walls; everywhere I look there is more. But no bodies.
I finally reach the castle gate. The portcullis is raised. There is more blood within, inside the courtyard. Trails that lead to a set of large wooden doors on the far side. I walk slowly, tread carefully. I hear nothing but the night and the near silence of my bated breaths. Something wicked happened here. I shiver with thoughts of what it could be. Even though I have nothing left to lose I am utterly terror-stricken, fearful of what I will find on the other side of those doors. Luckily, I have learnt to manage my fear. Sadly, it means my curiosity wins out. I am going in. Whether I make it out or not is anyone's guess.
The doors are splintered, bludgeoned from the outside. Inside, the lights are on. Tables line the entrance hall, stocked with trays of food, drinks and an assortment of condiments. It does not look like much of a party. The spread looks as if hastily thrown together. Blood speckles everything, the food, the wine; it is everywhere. They were holed up here. This was their last stand. Evidently, they lost.
A glare catches my eye. A reflection of light on glass. I traipse over to it, kneel at its source. A flat-screen device. I have seen one before, many years ago. Daddy once had one, used to let me watch it when I could not sleep. It leans against a table leg. I pick it up, study it. It displays a media gallery, a video, newly added. There is a progress bar, 'transmitting' written at its centre. Transmitting to whom? There must be other survivors.
I press play. A man appears on the screen; a big man, a regimental look about him. He looks fretful, exhausted, like he has not slept in days. "They have come back again," he says. "There were only a few, at first. They seemed to be scoping the place out. We were able to eliminate them without much hassle. We took them out quickly to ensure they couldn't give away our position. Or so we thought. They didn't stay dead for long."
"They're coming!" a woman shouts from behind him.
He turns. "Close the door," he yells.
"What about the others?" the woman asks.
"They're on their own, now," he says as he turns back to face the camera. "More came soon after. We did the same, killed them before they could escape. We burned them that time. It seemed to work. They didn't get back up again. Still, people started to panic. It was unlikely that two scouting parties just happened upon us. They knew we were here."
"Captain, they're outside the door." There is desperation in the woman's voice.
"Barricade them," the man commands. "Use every able body you can spare."
"Yes, sir."
"Now there's thousands of them," he continues. "They climbed the wall like an army of ants, swarmed the perimeter. They killed on sight with only one clear purpose: to kill as many of us as possible." He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. Beads of sweat drip from his brow. "They are not solars. We have fought solars at the twilight belt, where they're weakest. These things are different. They're smaller, shaped like us. They wear shiny, black armour that covers them from head to toe. We call them night knights. It sounds childish when you say it out loud. But when one of them is staring you in the face and you only have a split-second before it plunges its blade into your gut, night knight is by far the quickest, easiest thing to shout as a warning to others." A loud bang startles him. He looks up. "The door isn't holding. They'll get in soon. We can't hold them."
"Daddy." A young girl runs to him, throws her arms around his neck.
"In a minute, sweetie," he says. "This will only take a sec."
"No, Daddy. We need to go. We need to hide."
Tears swell in my eyes. The scene hits close to my heart.
"Just a second, Casey," the man bellows. He returns his gaze. "They seem to work together, know what each other are thinking. We can't contend with such precision. I hope you receive this in time. I hope-"
His words are cut short by screams of others. The little girl hangs from his neck, buries her face into his shoulder.
"No!" is the last word I hear him say. The girl screams. The camera tumbles to the floor. The man falls before the lens, eyes open. A knife protrudes from his chest, face painted with his own blood. One of them stands behind him. A night knight, as he called it. It grabs the girl by her hair, drags her, kicking and screaming, through the hall, through a door on the far side. I watch in horror at the carnage that unfolds. They are relentless, slaughtering all who oppose them; all except the girl. The video ends. I look up in the direction she was dragged, to the door she was dragged through. It is still open.
I rise slowly. I should go, I should run and never look back, but I cannot. I need to know the truth.
I creep over, stand with my back pressed against the wooden frame. I see only darkness when I peek my head around it. I listen, hear nothing. Whatever had been inside is long gone. I take my chances, wander inside. I wish I had not.
I scream as it enters me: a bullet, tearing deep into my thigh. The room illuminates suddenly. A long, rectangular floor space. A banquet hall. In the absence of darkness I see them, a long line of them. They stand upon a dais at the far side of the room. The sight silences me. They are unmasked, helmets cradled in their arms.
I fall to my knees, clutching at the wound in my thigh. My fingers are sticky, slick with blood. I do not scream again. Instead, I weep. I despair at thought of what new tortures await me, and to what kind of abomination grows inside my womb. It all becomes clear; how they knew where to find us, why they allowed us to live. They knew we would eventually lead them here.
My eyes dart from point to point, glancing from face to face. They are all the same. They are all his.
They are all David's.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 Shane Huggins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover Design by Shane Huggins
Solar: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Page 14
