The Valkyrie_Genesis

by LK Walker

  I grab her chin and pull her face to look at mine.

  “I'm coming back. I'll check the way first, okay?” I get a nod. That's good enough. I pass her hand off to another to hold. They can reassure each other.

  “Be careful,” I hear, before the ground starts to shudder again. My heart beats like a drum. Adrenaline is pumping. My fear is under control—just.

  The shaking releases more dust into the air, tickling my throat. Without permission, my lungs start to spasm, forcing me into an unwelcome coughing fit. The hacking from my throat is unsettling, it’s too loud. My impractical mind thinks it might mask something important, something I need to hear coming, as if peril announces itself upon arrival. Ludicrous, I know. But I still wait until the coughing has subsided before moving closer to the debris. The material doesn’t shift anymore. Let’s hope that means there is nothing left to fall.

  On hands and knees, I line up with the hole and start to crawl through. My phone is wedged uncomfortably in my mouth, one end between clenched teeth, the main screen lighting the way ahead. Shards of concrete and fragments of wood litter the path. I sweep them off to the side with the back of my sleeve. The bits I miss dig into my knees causing spikes of agony. There must be blood coming from them by now, but they’ll only be small cuts. I can survive small cuts.

  The ground rattles.

  The shaking isn’t as intense. It doesn’t matter though, it’s already done its damage. I take a deep breath of air and dust as my urban tomb moves around me. Metal grinding on metal. Something crashes. All I can do is cringe, waiting for pain to strike. Nothing rains down on me and the shaking again subsides.

  “Are you okay in there?” someone calls into the hole.

  “Yes, nearly there,” I yell back. Well, at least I think I am.

  The backlight display on my phone keeps timing out, forcing me to continually pluck it out from my mouth unlock the screen. Each time it goes dark the acid in my stomach tries to lurch out. This tunnel scares me, in the darkness—I’m terrified. I try to tell myself that seeing will make no difference, it will make me no safer, but I can’t talk myself round, so I keep pulling the phone out of my mouth and unlocking it to make it shine.

  As I inch my way forward, I find the end of the tunnel is blocked.

  Damn it. I want to scream it aloud. But those waiting for me will hear.

  My head drops and I want to give up.

  The phone goes dark.

  “No.” I whisper in the darkness.

  It’s enough to snap me out of my self-pity. “No.” I repeat, this time forcefully. I light my phone up and move closer to the blockage to take a better look. The light is weak as I run it over the rubble like airport security with a scanner. The main blockage was once a ceiling panel. Not too hefty. By itself, it could easily be moved. The rest of the roof weighing down on it, holding the panel in place, is going to cause the problem.

  I want to turn my body around to kick at it, but the area is too tight to maneuver. I whack it with the heel of my hand, it moves, but not enough. There’s a gap at the bottom where daylight is shining through. I must be close to freedom. Pushing out doesn’t work. In my next attempt, I slide my hand into the gap and push the panel upwards. It shifts a hand’s width before halting. As soon as I release it, it falls back down. I try again. My arms are too weak to lift it far enough to get any real purchase.

  I wiggle backwards out of the hole.

  “The way is blocked.” I announce.

  They all stare at me, waiting for more.

  “Have you seen outside?” Someone breaks the uncomfortable silence.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Buildings are falling down.” An older man, with dark curly hair, points towards a window on the far side of the room. One of the arms of the man’s glasses has been broken clean off and they sit lopsided on his face. He continually adjusts them while he talks. “They are collapsing under their own weight. Piles of dust are pouring into the air. Huge billowing clouds. Whole buildings are gone.” His voice shakes. He swallows hard trying to steady it. “There will be people in those buildings.” The comment is met by a wimper from the woman standing next to him.

  “Now’s not the time to think about it,” I say.

  It’s too late, though, the thought is already implanted. In my head, I’m watching a short movie involving the building we are in. There is a horrific ending. If their eyes are anything to go by, those around me are seeing the same.

  “Our building is still standing. We get out first and then we worry about everyone else.”

  There is a clear path into the weights room. It’s on the same floor as the spin studio but further back in the building. I no longer feel depleted of energy as I did when I finished the class. Checking my watch, I see the class ended twenty minutes ago. That’s it—twenty minutes and my world is unrecognisable. But the adrenaline is coursing. I fling myself through the gym door and look around. Nothing much but big shiny machines. I’m looking for anything that might help me break through that last part of the tunnel.

  The building groans around me. The ground is relentless.

  My eyes trail around the room before settling on the weights bench. I run up to the weight bar and remove the plates that sit on either end. They slide off and fall, smashing to the floor, denting the polished wood surface.

  Moving is good. Moving, I can’t feel the smaller aftershocks. I only know they’re happening because of the screams from down the hall.

  With the bar over my shoulder and a medicine ball in the crook of my arm, I run back through to the waiting group. The bar weighs twenty kilos on its own. It isn’t the easiest weapon to wield, but it will have to do.

  I slide back into the tunnel, my tools ahead of me. I shimmy along, pushing them out in front until the bar stops dead. I’ve reached my destination. I use the medicine ball as the fulcrum and lie the bar over it, pushing one end into the small gap my hand has made. It’s a tight fit.

  I use my body weight to swing on the lever. There is so little room, it’s hard to get any leverage. Initially, the blockage holds tight. I use all the force I can muster to make it move. All my body weight is being forced onto the bar. Finally, it gives—quickly and I smash down onto the floor with an almighty crack. The blockage clears, light spills in. Then the material above me moves, I can see it shift. I watch it, holding my breath.

  Dust and rubble sprinkle down, but that’s all. The twisted mess holds. Not wanting to tempt fate, I slide the rest of the way out of the tunnel and into the light as swiftly as I can.

  Freedom is spectacular.

  I jog the rest of the corridor and peer down the stairwell. It’s holding up. It has a few decent cracks that a pen could be poked into but otherwise it appears sturdy. Looking up, there are a lot of stairs above this level. I can imagine them concertinaing down. I shake the thought off.

  At least there is a way out.

  How easy would it be to run down those stairs now? If only I didn’t have a conscience. Moving back to the hole I made in the debris, I give the rubble around the exit a couple of swift kicks to see if it will fall. A few small fragments sheer off and drop to the ground, but nothing of consequence, so I slide back through the tunnel to the waiting crowd.

  Eyes stare back in anticipation as my head emerges from the tunnel. Hands grab hold of my arms, pulling me to my feet, some attempt to dust me off. It’s a token gesture considering the state I’m in.

  “All clear.” I tell them.

  There are some who don’t hesitate, their feet the only things I see as they escape their captivity. Others are less enthusiastic about crawling into the darkness. Some, even in their fear, are still being polite and letting the impatient go first.

  The huddle of people at the blockade is starting to diminish when new faces appear around the corner behind us.

  “How's it going?” It’s JT. He takes a pump class at the same time as spin. I’ve been in a few of his classes and he’s a true instructor. A re
al motivator. Even now he has a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. It falls away when he sees the heap of debris.

  “There's a way through.” I don't need to point to the tunnel. A set of legs slither out of sight, showing the way.

  “Thanks for getting us out JT,” an older woman in purple leggings, hugs him fiercely.

  Another man pats him on the shoulder. “Yeah, thanks. Are your arms gonna be okay?”

  “No worries mate, they'll be fine. Just a couple of scratches.” JT’s arms are pretty cut up and blood streaks them.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Had a bit of a road block ourselves. Needed to find a way through. We moved the blocks. You ain't exactly blemish free yourself.” He uses his thumb to wipe at something on my forehead. I wince at the contact. I dab at the same spot and my hand comes away bloody. It blends in with the cuts all over my hands and knees.

  “Oh yeah, I smacked it in the tunnel.”

  “Nothing like a kick of adrenaline to make you forget the pain.” He mindlessly wipes at his own cuts.

  JT turns to the others behind him. They appear to be waiting for instructions.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here. Everyone in the tunnel.” His actions large, both hands pointing to the tunnel like a ground marshal landing a plane. This young man, around the same age as me, can command. The people do as he says, without question.

  The last of his class are in the tunnel.

  “After you.” JT puts a hand on my lower back, ushering me forward.

  “Don't mind if I do.”

  Looking down at the cave, the way is now completely clear of debris, the others clambering through have cleared all the fragments. It’s much less daunting than the first time I had to crawl through. Light is leaking in the other end providing more visibility than my phone could. I make sure the phone is tucked safely in my front pocket then I drop to my hands and knees and start the shuffle again.

  The ground chooses this moment to give a massive heave, before writhing around beneath me. It’s vigor tears at my world like a sadist.

  “Go. Move it,” I scream over the rattle of concrete. I have no idea if the person in front doesn't hear or can't move. I never saw his face as he went in. I try to lunge forward to push him as a shower of concrete rains down. My feet can’t find any traction. Hands lock around my ankles. I’m torn back out of the tunnel, just in time to see it collapse in front of my face.

  JT has dragged me out. I lie on my stomach, gasping for air amongst the dust, and I stare at where the tunnel had been. I picture the shoes of the man in front of me. Just his shoes, that’s all I have to remember him by. I want to believe that he might still be alive, trapped by the debris on his legs. But if that was true then we would be able to hear him calling for help, wouldn’t we?

  “You okay, Doll Face?”

  If JT’s voice didn’t sound so sorrowful, I might have turned and booted him for calling me that. Even so, my voice is full of animosity. “Cara.” I say, turning onto my back to look up at him.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Cara. My name is Cara. If I'm going to die in here, I do not want the last name I’m called to be ‘Doll Face’.” I stare him down, then grimace a little at the absurdity of my complaint. He can call me whatever he wants. He probably saved my life.

  “Lucky us. Looks like we might have a bit of time to get to know each other.”

  My chance to reply is lost as my lungs spasm with the dust I’ve inhaled, launching me into a coughing fit.

  Chapter 9

  The tunnel isn’t the only area that’s caved in. The door to the women’s dressing rooms no longer swings open and the weights room has collapsed to the floor below. I don’t want to think about the harm that might have caused if there was anyone below.

  JT and I seek out a refuge amongst the rubble. The only room left whole is the spin room and it becomes our haven, the huge window at it’s far end is a picture frame to the ravaged city. The threat isn’t man-made, there’s no one to confront, no one to blame and no way to stop it. I can't work out if this makes it more frightening or less. On the skyline, there are spaces where buildings used to stand. In seconds, they ceased to exist, just like our tunnel. I try to stop myself imagining the people who were in them. It’s selfish, but I hope they’re someone else’s friends and loved ones, not mine. My skin has only just begun to thicken, without death again peeling back the layers.

  My adrenaline is draining away. Fear has been patient. It waits for me, along with my grief.

  The earth shudders continually with aftershocks. Who knew there would be so many? The ground hasn't stilled for more than a minute since this all started. My family and friends are out there somewhere, living through the same hell. My phone is trashed. It was in my pocket when JT ripped me out of the tunnel. The tender spot it’s left behind on my hip reminds me that I should be grateful, happy to be still in the land of the living. But I desperately want to talk to Jack, to Eli, to Dad, to make sure they’re all alright.

  JT has his phone and, although the cell service is sketchy, he has managed to get a few texts through. So far, his family and friends are all accounted for. My stupid SIM card won’t work in his phone. If only I could remember someone’s phone number. That was my phone’s job, so I never bothered to learn them. I am left to hope. Hope that my loved ones are still with me.

  JT walks up beside me, a reassuring hand rests on my shoulder. He has seen where my tears have cleaned the dust from my face.

  He pulls me in close, hugging me tight. He smells of dust and sweat, like I do. “They'll be fine. Everything will be alright,” he whispers.

  My mother’s face drifts into my consciousness. It’s already gone wrong. I know this world better than to believe his optimism. Your loved ones aren’t saved just because you need them.

  Eight hours have passed since the first quake, and the ground still trembles. Each time, an image of our building falling to the ground forces its way into my mind. My nerves are raw. JT has conveyed our predicament to the right people. At least they know we’re trapped here. It provides us a bit of hope. It’s just the longest waiting game of my life.

  Hundreds of aftershocks have hounded us. We sit in the middle of the ring of spin bikes we arranged near the window, a few feet back in case it implodes or something. The windows are still intact. I can’t understand how they survive the building’s torque. Admittedly, I can’t understand, either, how the roof is staying up. If it comes down, the spin bikes might give us enough space to survive. Who knows? Anything is worth a try. So, we sit in our protective circle and we wait. There is nothing else to do. Sitting, doing nothing, is torturous.

  JT won't stop fidgeting. We have discussed families, friends, the schools we went to and our futures. Jack featured heavily in my discussion of futures. I find it comforting to know that, even in this state, I see him in it for the long haul. JT broke up with his boyfriend a month ago. When I hear he’s gay, I give a wee chuckle, more from nerves than actual humor. It’s an odd thing to laugh at and he looks offended at first.

  “You’re such the perfect stereotype. You just need to drive a cute little convertible.”

  “Like a red MX-5?” he asks. “Oh, my poor car. I hope it’s okay out in the street.”

  I laugh harder and he joins in. The laughter dies away.

  “Kidding. I ride a motorbike. Sorry to disappoint.”

  Now the silence between strangers is growing. I catch a whiff of my clothes, sweat going sour. My clean clothes are still folded in my bag in the changing rooms, but there’s no way back in there. I’ll have to live with the smell.

  The temperature has been dropping as the hours go by. There are a couple of gym bags in the spin room which must have been left behind in haste. I rummage through them and find a jersey for JT. There’s only one, so I settle on a clean, dry towel to wrap around my shoulders.

  “Why don't we try and get some rest.” JT makes himself comfortable on the mats he’s d
ragged out of the equipment cupboard.

  “Sleep?” I say it like it’s the craziest thing I’ve heard all day.

  “While we can. Who knows how long we’ll be here. Let's rest. Hopefully, dreams are better than reality.”

  He has a point on all counts. Not that I think I can sleep, but rest is better than nothing. I make a bed and try to find comfort. It’s not much after 1700 hours, it’s light outside and my stomach grumbles. The big shakes are becoming less frequent. My nerves jump with each and with each I get better at controlling the fear. I calm more quickly, more in control of what’s happening inside me.

  I don’t know how, but I drift off.

  This is where my dream always starts. Same room, same building. White walls, grey bed in the middle, nothing else. The room is silent.

  That’s strange, no one is here.

  The walls, on closer inspection, seem to be false walls. I look under my bed. It’s packed with wires all tidily wrapping up the leg to a box below the head of the bed. I take a better look at the headpiece but I have no idea what it does.

  There’s no life whatsoever. “Zander, where are you?” I cry. Everything is sterile, inanimate. My subconscious appears to have forsaken me.

  This is more like a testing facility. I want to cry, but nothing happens. Reality is seeping in, ruining my escape from the world. Thoughts of this being something other than a dream plague me. I can’t deal with that now. If I’m losing it, it’s only fair that it happens today.

  The door swings open. Zander is standing in front of me, breathing heavily, like he’s sprinted here. He removes something attached to the back of my head. It’s some sort of sticky patch with a wire attachment, like they use to monitor a heart. My vision vibrates for a few seconds, before settling back down.

  “Sup, Cara. What’s the matter?” I might not be crying but my face is screwed up in anticipation of tears, except they don’t want to come out.