The Stargazer

"Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception."

THE STARGAZER

 

2030:

The rifle sounded alarmingly loud in the morning quiet.

It was an M16, after all. No kiddin'. The last working one had been locked up in the high-security sector of the DC Government Facility. It stayed there, encased in mocking bulletproof glass, until Jon decided it was time to break that damn thing out and use it for a few good deeds.

1st good deed: Shot the soldier guarding his prison, point-blank.

2nd good deed: Shot the other two soldiers guarding the exit.

3rd good deed: Fired bullets recklessly and aimlessly, as the soldiers showered him with bullets from all sides.

The escape left Jon with a limping leg, a defective arm, and a scarred face.

It also left him with the freedom he'd craved for.

The giant black bullterrier sniffed at his hand; a low growl sounded at the back of its throat when the whiff of gunpowder reached its nostrils.

"Easy, boy," Jon warned distractedly. He wiped his hand on his shabby jeans, anyway, before ruffling the dog fondly between the ears; it whined in response.

"That's my boy," smiled Jon, his eyes crinkling behind his sleek, black, Bucky Barnes-mask-goggles.

Jon Howell was a man of thirty-two, lean and muscular, with a complexion that some would call "beige" (It was an unfortunate hereditary trait, no matter how you looked at it). He had a tremendous amount of floppy brown hair covering his obstinate little head, something that Jon would've been incredibly proud of, had the hair grown down instead of out. His eyes were quick behind the cold-protection goggles, and his mouth was always crooked up on one side, giving an impression of a perpetual frown. To say that the Gods had been careless while creating Jon, would be a kindly remark.

Yet, here he was, after all these years, alive, with a loyal rifle over his shoulder and a faithful dog by his side. Not many can brag this way, not anymore.

"Come on, boy," rasped Jon, as he started walking in the direction of his fallen prey. The bullterrier followed close at his heels, a heartbeat at his feet.

 

2025:

The first time Earth struck back was in the year 2025.

All around the world, people were shoved into thunderous frenzy. News reports announced yet another earthquake in yet another part of the world, with hardly a few minutes' gap in-between. Waves crashed wildly against the shores, flooding - and eventually, drowning - the coastal areas; trees wrestled with each other, starting rapid forest-fires that degraded acres beyond into wastelands; earth opened up, brewing cracks and crevices, tearing all roads apart, deforming all railway-tracks, reducing all structures and memories to ruins. Men watched with horror as mankind's efforts over centuries dissolved in dust in front of their eyes.

Jon had been in his living-room, then. He had the TV on, the mobile tuned to any recent updates, and a mug of smoking coffee sitting at his table, waiting. His grey eyes would narrow each time he heard of another incident from another part of the world; each time, his heart would skip a beat, and he'd wonder when Carla and Sarah would return home.

The tremors had not hit DC, yet. However, geologists could no more predict an earthquake, than stop it from happening. That was the beauty of the beast: Unpredictability.

After an agonizing wait lasting ten minutes since the news reports, Jon decided he'd rather die trying to find his wife and daughter, than sit at home, staring helplessly between his woven fingers and the hot mug of coffee. So he got up, put on his brown jacket and black jeans, alongwith biker's apparel, including his favorite goggles. Once ready, he looked like a cross between a brown bear and a stormtrooper. Locking the house, he wheeled the bike down the driveway before hopping up on it. Then the engine roared to life, the bike vroomed, and Jon kicked off down the road with god-speed.

The last call from Carla had been fifty-eight minutes ago. She and Sarah had been at the supermarket, buying costumes for this year's Halloween. Jon had heard his little baby girl in the background, crying at the top of her lungs to want to talk to "Daddy". Carla had refused good-humoredly: Sarah's vocabulary primarily consisted of sounds rather than actual words, and all these sounds were amplified through speakers in the strangest fashion.

Carla promised she'd come home as soon as possible.

It was a half-an-hour drive to the supermarket from the Howell house.

Unless Carla had decided to buy the whole costumes' section for Sarah, Jon couldn't think of one other scenario where they wouldn't have returned, yet. Atleast, none that ended well.

In the end, Jon hadn't been able to get inside the supermarket. Not because of the tremors, but because of the fire swallowing up the entire store, roof to floor.

Fire-fighters had already arrived, and they were trying their best, but no best could fix the damage done, and Jon knew it. In his pocket, his phone buzzed with another update of another earthquake, somewhere along the coast of Chile.

Jon had stared into the flames for a long time, transfixed, unable to turn. That is, until he saw beyond the light. And once he saw that, it was impossible not to turn away.

 

2030:

Jon had turned Mary Anne Evans Elementary School into Howell's Palace of Ruins and Destruction.

Between then and now, somewhere along the line, he had realized that to live, one needed a family to love, who would love him back; one also needed a will - a will as strong as iron itself - that pledged that he'd be prepared to die for those precious few in his life, at all costs. However, survival - Jon found - was not that hard. You didn't need a family, for starters; all you needed was a shelter, a roof over your head, and a door standing close enough so you could escape within a few seconds whenever the earth danced. You also needed a will - a will as strong as iron itself - that pledged that you'd not be prepared to die, no matter what the cost.

Jon had learned to survive the hard way. And, over the years, he has forgotten how to live.

The abandoned building was one among many in this part of Minnesota (atleast, he thought it was Minnesota; one could never say for sure). The structures surrounding this little school had tumbled down and turned dilapidated over time, yet you could see the glossy metal among the scraps shining under the flaring heat in the afternoons. Not now, though. In the pale, dim twilight, all that was visible were the wreckage of a city lost, and the looming ruins, balanced precariously over each other like a fragile jenga. It probably used to be some hotshot town, before everything was plucked apart, piece by piece.

Jon took off his goggles, and placed them on the floor beside. In here, it wasn't that cold. The wind whistled outside, and it couldn't reach him unless he reached out for it. Not even in a million years, would Jon be able to figure out how this little building survived what the enormous couldn't. The inside was utterly destroyed, true, yet the four walls stood tall, defending what was inside from what should remain outside. Jon would've appreciated the irony once, but now it was just cruel mockery.

Far away in the woods, a wolf howled. The wind carried it across acres of wastelands back to the ruined town.

The black terrier growled softly for a moment, then lost interest. Every now and then, its ears would perk up, twitching, as they listened.

*  *  *

Jon must've dozed off for a while.

When he woke, it was dark, darker than it had been. Through the broken window, he could see the crescent moon veiled behind thin clouds; in the distance, an owl hooted. Jon looked around for a moment, dazed, wondering what had woken him up, when he saw her.

A girl. A living, human girl.

How long had it been since Jon had seen another living person?

The last time was when he'd escaped from prison. And, that time, he'd killed the humans for they were trying to kill him.

Jon reached for his M16. He positioned the rifle over the nook of his shoulder, shut one eye to take aim, and once the muzzle was pointed directly at her head, flexed his fingers on the trigger.

The girl didn't flinch.

In fact, she didn't even notice him. She was busy petting the giant, black bullterrier.

Jon sighed wearily, shutting his eyes; a muscle jumped in his jaw. This was so not going the way he'd planned. The dog was his only companion left in this wide, unreliable world (besides his M16, obviously), and he had trained him specifically to be aware of strangers, to the extent of killing them at first-sight if necessary. Yet, here it was, whining like a spoiled brat, sniffing and fondling with the girl's fingers playfully. How it was letting him down.

The only thing more dangerous than a quake in this new world, were the humans themselves. But that was no new news, was it? Humans had always been - and would always be - the most dangerous of all. And anyone capable of gaining his dog's trust could never be trusted.

Clearing his throat, Jon asked: "Who are you, girl?"

The girl wore a soft smile on her face, her dark eyes slightly unfocused as she watched the dog make a fool of itself. "Rii," she replied, voice barely a whisper.

Strange name, thought Jon. With a frown, he asked: "How old are you, girl?"

Rii grinned. "Seven years and three sixty-four days. And my name's Rii, not 'girl'."

"I'll call you by whatever name I wish, girl!" roared Jon. "You do not get to come to my place and boss me around, d'you understand that?"

Rii's eyes widened, reflecting tiny, tinted moons. "Does that mean you live here?" she asked in a hushed voice.

Jon gave her an incredulous look. "Of course, I do, girl! Why else would I be here?"

This time when Rii smiled, it stretched from ear-to-ear; it was an uncomfortably open expression to look at. "You live in an actual home," she whispered. "Wow." And she sounded like she meant it.

Jon didn't feel flattered; if anything, he felt even more suspicious. Frowning, he asked: "Where do you live, girl?"

Rii blinked. She said: "Why, I live under the stars, of course."

Now it was Jon's turn to blink. He looked at the girl then, really looked at her, seeing her for the first time. She was short for an eight-year-old, having small, shiny black curls covering her head like an oversized crown. Her skin was a rich chocolate-brown, her fingernails chewed and raw. The only indecipherable thing was the color of her eyes, which seemed to be a shade somewhere between blue and gray. A dress covered her till her knees; Jon suspected it was white once, but now it was just a brown rag, stained with dirt and blood and soot.

He narrowed his eyes at this strange little creature. "You're gonna live under a roof from now, girl," he told her in a firm voice.

Rii looked awestruck for a second; then she grinned, displaying a row of yellowed teeth.

*  *  *

"And those," said Jon quietly, "are the Three Sisters: Alnilam, Alnitak, and Mintaka."

He pointed at the three stars of the Orion, arranged in an almost-straight line. Rii craned up her neck, her mouth parted in a giant O. "How do you know all this stuff?" she mumbled, squinting.

Because, once upon a time, Jon had loved to stargaze, back when he could afford such leisure. But all he said was: "I'm not as dumb as I look, girl."

Rii giggled. "You don't look dumb, you know," she said consolingly. "You just look scary. Only a bit," she added hastily at Jon's fierce scowl.

Jon huffed. "I'm proud of how I look, girl, just so you know. Nothing you say can change that."

Rii smiled. "I know. And I like that you're scary. It feels safer."

They were outside the school, in the parched land in front that once used to be a garden. Seated between them, was roasted meat leftover from the morning. Beside Jon, stood the black dog, on guard again. The goggles were back on, as Jon rocked back and forth in his place.

When the moon reached its peak in the indigo sky, Jon surmised it was midnight. Resting an arm awkwardly around her shoulder, he sang "Happy Birthday" to the little girl, his voice a croaky whisper in the wind. He decided she deserved as much, when she'd kept count of days so religiously in a world where nobody cared about time, anymore. Jon knew from first-hand experience that you grew old faster when you lost track of time.

And when the harmless tremors shook the earth that night, Jon did not bother to open his eyes; however, when the little girl snuggled against him at night, he did hesitate ... before he thought: What else do I have to lose?

The answer came to him easily: My life.

Sighing, Jon let his raised hand fall to the ground. Perhaps, one day...

*  *  *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Suggestions would be most welcome.

Reviews

[Tomoe Tellez]

Wow! This was an exceptional story! Like Coyote said, we need more of this. There are so many things I would like to now, like what happened with earth to make it earthquake all the time. I really like how you explained everything, the way you used your talent as a poet in metaphors here was just amazing. I'm kind of creep who likes to study natural disasters and this was just like a treat for me.
I loved this lines:
"reducing all structures and memories to ruins. Men watched with horror as mankind's efforts over centuries dissolved in dust in front of their eyes."
"However, geologists could no more predict an earthquake, than stop it from happening. That was the beauty of the beast: Unpredictability."
You should make a book out of this, and if you do, please send me a message, I want to read it.

[Sally Hope]

Yeah, I'm kind of a creep who likes to study natural disasters, too. Thanks for that heartfelt review, Alondra. You're making me blush :) And I don't know if I'll make a book out of this, as this was written for a prompt contest on this very site, but ... you never know. Leaves of pages grow from the seeds of these small ideas, after all :)

[Kristin Noel]

I thought that this was fabulous -- truly. And honestly, it's hard to keep my attention, but yet, you did. I appreciate your fast pace and simple, intelligent descriptions. They were easy to follow but still creative. I thought it was interesting and exciting. Thank you for not boring me to death -- no seriously, thank you. It was refreshing.

[Coyote Poetry]

No weakness except I wanted to read more. You create strong characters, terrible world and interesting situations. You used the description making every scene come alive and real. I like the prison escape and the appreciation of the M-16. Thank you for sharing the outstanding tale.
Coyote

[Sally Hope]

Thank you for taking the time to read it.

[Coyote Poetry]

Was my pleasure and you are welcome.