Chapter One - The End, Part IIA Chapter by MichaelGroverChapter
One " The End, Part II
Like
any other morning in downtown Chicago, traffic jammed the streets and people
crowded the sidewalks. The city was alive with the hustle and bustle of people
trying to get from one place to another; preferably someplace warm, as they
trudged through the light snow. Unlike any other morning in
downtown Chicago, the place people were trying to get was a place of safety, as
an enormous winged serpent rose frantically into the sky and shook dirt and
pebbles from its back. Its green scales glimmered in the late winter’s sun as it
turned back around to roar a fresh breath of fire onto the panicked crowd
fleeing down Michigan Avenue. Some victims immediately dropped dead, and those
lucky enough to survive began stopping, dropping, and rolling, simultaneously thinking
thank you, kindergarten, for this
once-thought-useless skill, and holy
s**t dragons are real?! A particularly lanky man made it safely
around the corner onto Randolph Street and hid behind the Millennium Park Plaza
tower. He breathed a sigh of relief just moments before a gigantic pale white
snake erupted forth from the pavement beneath his feet and swallowed him whole
before it crashed onto the ground. It slithered, satisfied, down an alleyway
and past a pack of two-headed dogs chasing a few bankers. It left a trail of
rubble behind from its explosive arrival. Three
friends stood atop a lonely hill in Douglas Park, a few miles west of the
carnage. “Jesus…” said Paul, the pale man who
stood in the middle of the three. He wore blue-and-grey striped pajamas and a
frown as he stared at the scene on the horizon. The details were not clear to him
from this distance, but the screams and blazes of flame told him enough of what
was happening. As his gaze drifted to his closer surroundings, he saw one of
the all-too-familiar giant white snakes making its way down 13th Street.
He ran both of his hands through his hair, and dirt fell from his head. His
lips took a break from frowning when he saw some coarse red hair in his hand. The sickly-looking blonde man next
to Paul brushed the snow and dead leaves off his hoodie. Feelings of confusion,
fear, anger, sadness, and hunger all clashed inside him when he heard the
screams and saw the monsters loose in the city. He suppressed the feelings
expertly. “Man, we sure screwed up this time, huh guys?” he said. He put his
hand up to feel a bruise on his forehead. Paul’s eyes, previously heavy with
melancholy, narrowed as his eyebrows furrowed. “’We sure screwed up’?! How can
you say that, like we’re in some s****y sitcom? God damn, Brendon, people are
dying! Earth is swarming with actual monsters, we’re hanging out with someone
from the goddamn future, and all you got is ‘we sure screwed up’?!” “Just trying to lighten the mood,
Paul.” “This mood can’t be lightened! We’re responsible for this.” “Well if it’s anyone’s fault it’s Gary’s,” said Brendon. He
shuffled his feet. “Gary saved us, you ungrateful a*s!” Their
third ally regained her composure. She brushed the dirt from her slick black
pants and her long black hair. She tried to look dignified but failed
miserably. “If
I may,” said Jenna, the aforementioned someone from the goddamn future, “I
believe I have a plan.” “Yeah…?”
“Let’s
get the hell out of here.” Jenna turned and began carefully walking down the
hill, but Paul did not follow. He stood rooted in horror. He
asked, mostly to himself, “just…how did…how did all this happen?” “You
should know, you were there,” said Jenna. Brendon nodded in agreement. “I
know that, but I mean…just a few days ago, I did not see my life going this way.” “Well
a few days ago, you weren’t even-“ Paul
cut Brendon off. “You know what I mean.” Jenna
said, “but now you’re back. Lucky you!” She turned away from Paul and continued
down the hill. “Yeah.
Lucky me…”
******* A
FEW DAYS AGO. FRIDAY. ******* Although Paul Francis Truman knew
how important he was, he did not take pride in the fact. He did not boast and
he did not gloat; he simply did his job because he knew it had to be done. He
said as much to the stranger sitting next to him at the bar. “What
is it that you do?” asked the man in response. “I
protect the president from demons,” said Paul proudly. The
man nodded in quiet understanding, clearly unimpressed and unamused. He took a sip
of his drink, set it back down on the counter, and signaled to the bartender
for his check. Lance,
the well-dressed man tending bar that night, could not get to the man yet as he
was quite busy with a crowd of strangely-shaped youngsters a few seats down. He
nodded at the man to let him know he would get to him as soon as possible. Paul
meanwhile took the hint that his barstool neighbor was not interested in what
he had to say. He averted his eyes to his half-empty glass of cheap beer on the
counter. The rest of the bar seemed like a blur around him. The
stranger sitting next to Paul turned to address him, opened his mouth, and then
closed it again. He looked as if he was having trouble remembering something
very important. And then, before he got a chance to remember it, his skin promptly
dissolved away from his body to reveal layers of muscle tissue. The muscle
tissue pulsed as blood trickled down over it, and then it too dissolved,
leaving behind a skeletal frame. The bones, no longer bound together, clattered
to the floor around the bar stool. Where a seemingly ordinary man once sat now
stood a three-foot-tall impish being, free from his disguise. He wore a filthy
brown tunic over his dark red skin. Paul watched the transformation with
self-righteous disgust. “…Demon
scum,” Paul muttered. The
creature shrugged off the last remaining sliver of fake human flesh from its
back. It pointed a small boney finger at Paul. “Blargh! For the last time, we Ichaloids
are not demons!” It
reached behind its back, drew a sharp rusty dagger, and leapt at Paul, who effortlessly
smacked the imp out of the air with his beer mug. He pressed his foot down
firmly on the defeated creature and took out his phone to call in the attack.
Instead of ringing, however, his phone beeped loudly in his ear.
The
next thing Paul saw was his bedroom ceiling. He reached over to his phone and
turned off the alarm to stop the loud beeping. “Ugh…”
Paul
always assumed he’d eventually get used to these early mornings, but this was
not the case; he never quite mastered his morning routine. He reached a long
arm down to the floor and felt around under his bed until he found a spiral notebook.
The words “dream journal VI” took up the cover, and he flipped to a fresh page.
Paul almost always remembered his dreams in vivid detail, and he frequently had
lucid dreams. People have told him he was lucky in that regard, but Paul felt
otherwise; he often found them disorienting. He began writing:
March
2nd, 2012 I sat in a strange bar and talked to a man sitting next to
me. I was a demon slayer this time, and I tried but failed to hide my pride about
it. It felt too good to be important…
Once he finished recalling the dream,
Paul prepared himself for another day of work as a software engineer. He
decided that today would take a considerable less amount of preparation, since
he also decided that today would be his last day at this job. He planned on
striding into his boss’s office at five o’clock, with his shoulders back and
his head held high, and telling him, “Hey. I quit.” He considered just not
going to work today at all and quitting in that fashion, but he decided that
wasn’t good enough. Paul wanted closure. Paul had grown up in Ann Arbor,
Michigan, but decided to stay in Chicago after he graduated from Northeastern
Illinois University; he liked the city. The city was full of loners, so doing
things alone here " going to movies, going out to eat, sitting at a bar "
wasn’t frowned upon like it was back home. Paul felt free to be Paul. As
he stepped out of his apartment building onto Roosevelt Road, the cold weather
bothered him less and the sun seemed to shine brighter that day. When he
reached his bus stop at the end of the block, the same strangers he saw every
day seemed a bit friendlier. And as he rode to work, the ride seemed to go by
faster. Paul got off the bus and walked to his office building. The
three-story grey brick of a building sat on the corner of the block, the words
“Lincoln and Associates Life Insurance” spelled out over the door in big black not-so-friendly
letters. Paul had dreaded walking into this mundane building every weekday for
the past three years, but since he knew that this would be his last time going
in, he felt that today would be a good day.
A
few hours later, Paul had to face facts and admit that today was not such a
good day after all. And when the clock finally struck five, he headed for the
exit with his shoulders slouched and his head down. “Have
a good night Paul, see you Monday!” said a co-worker whose name Paul still
hadn’t learned. She looked like a Janet.
“Yeah,
you too...” he continued to hang his head as he walked out of the building and to
his bus stop. Once
Paul got off the bus, he drudged back up to his studio apartment on the fifth
floor. He dropped his coat onto the floor, tossed his keys onto the counter,
and plopped himself onto his patchwork-covered couch in front of the TV. The
highlight of his night would be when The Daily Show came on at ten. And after that it was time for bed. The
loud sounds of aggressive sex on a creaky bed in the apartment above him made
falling asleep often difficult for Paul. At
least Bruce seemed to be having a good night. Paul sandwiched his head
between two pillows to stifle the noise. Before finally falling asleep, he
decided that Monday would be his last day at his job. Yes, things are gonna change.
A
large vulture-like bird soared aimlessly through the clear blue sky. She spread
out her long tattered wings and a few feathers threatened to fall off. The bird
looked ill, but flew triumphantly nonetheless. She looked down on the ground
and scanned the desert floor but saw nothing out of the ordinary. An occasional
dune rose out of the ground here and there, but nothing to write home about. This
was the bird’s domain, and although it was barren, she made the most of it. She
flew onwards. Wait! There, on the ground!
A body? Indeed, a red-headed young man lay in the sand below. She dipped
into a smooth dive to get a closer look. D****t.
It moved. The bird rose up into the
air once more, disappointed. As
soon as Paul woke up, he realized something wasn’t right. His first sign of
this was that instead of staring up at his bedroom ceiling, he was looking up
at the sky. His second sign was that although the sky was bright, the sun was
missing. In fact, the sky seemed entirely empty, save for a large bird flying
away. He lifted up his right arm and watched as sand fell off his skin. His
lips formed the words “what the hell,” but no sound escaped them. At least one
thing was familiar " he still had his pajamas on. Paul
planted his palms firmly on the ground, pushed himself to his feet, and
surveyed his surroundings. He attempted to take them in, but his surroundings
did not offer much for the taking. Nothing but sand and sky as far as he could
see. He wondered if perhaps he was still dreaming; he vaguely remembered having
a strange dream just moments ago. But even if that were the case, he certainly
didn’t want to just sit in one spot until he woke up. Well, no use waiting. He picked a direction and began walking. He
wished he had shoes. ******* Two
hundred and fifty miles above Earth, a team of astronauts underwent Expedition
30 aboard the International Space Station. The 837 cubic meter satellite was
currently only half-staffed, with three personnel on board. Those three were:
Dr. Lydia Wiggin, 30, docking module pilot; Dr. Harold Chiao, 29, general
flight engineer; and Dr. Thomas Poole, 33, life support specialist. They had
been onboard the station for 146 days, and in two days a full crew of six would
arrive to replace them. Thomas did not want to be replaced. Although
Thomas was blessed with the brain of a scientist, he was also burdened (or so
he felt) with the heart of an explorer. His motivation for joining the
station’s crew was fueled by this heart; space
is the final frontier, after all. He remembered literally leaping for joy
once he heard the news that he was selected for the expedition. He remembered
excitedly telling his therapist all about it and about what he would do aboard
the modern marvel. He remembered grinning during most of the flight to the
station from Houston. Thomas’s
grin, however, had long since faded. Throughout the duration of his stay, he
had been conducting research in fields such as physics, biology, astronomy, and
meteorology. Lydia and Harold, however,
chose to pursue research in fields such as romance, interpersonal relationships,
and irrational argumentation; against all recommendations, the two of them
started a relationship shortly before leaving Houston. The relationship did not
last long, as they broke up only four days into the expedition. Worse still, they
could not stay broken up. Last night they got back together for the eighth
time. Thomas
stood in his getaway room: the Cupola, the station’s small observation module
that gave astronauts a clear view of Earth. Most astronauts found the view of
Earth important to maintaining their mental health; looking at the planet they
called home gave them both relaxation and inspiration. Thomas leaned his
forehead against the borosilicate glass pane and looked not at Earth but past
it. He looked longingly out at the stars. He
sighed and whispered to himself, “I belong out there…” ******* After
an uneventful three-mile walk, Paul’s surroundings remained completely unchanged.
He grew more tired of the sand than he was of walking. Actually, he wasn’t
tired of walking at all. This surprised him at first, but he attributed it to
the possibility that he was dreaming. A rumbling
from beneath the ground surprised him even more. He looked all around himself but
saw no source of the sound. Suddenly, a patch of sand in front of him began
swirling, much like toilet water being flushed. The ground opened up to reveal
the toilet bowl, and sand poured down into the resulting hole as the rumbling grew
tremendously louder. Paul stood still like a deer in headlights. He decided to
file his fear under the possibility that he was not dreaming. A
gigantic beast of a snake erupted forth from the hole, its body initially almost
perpendicular to the ground. The creature was a pale white, but its eyes were
black as black could be. Paul gazed in awed fascination as the snake launched
into the air, then turned and ran in awed panic as it fell back to the ground.
It slammed against the desert floor with a sickening thud, but Paul didn’t bother
to turn and look. He kept sprinting. The unbelievable monster slithered closely
behind him, and Paul felt that this was the end for him; that is, until he
heard the snake let out a painful moan. It sounded like a whale crying. Paul’s
curiosity got the best of him. He stopped, spun on his heel, and looked.
The snake had a wooden arrow protruding from its face, and soon another arrow
soared brilliantly from out of Paul’s sight to join the first one. The monster
ended its rampage and burrowed back into the ground to safety. “And
that,” said a gruff voice from behind Paul, “is what we call the worst welcome
party ever.” Paul
turned and saw a short, stocky man with dirty blonde hair down to his shoulders
and a face that looked as if it took regular beatings from a shovel. He wore a
plain brown shirt which strongly resembled a burlap sack and matching pants. The
man sat perched atop a tall stool on the back of a crude motorcycle. It looked
as if the man had made the vehicle from parts he found lying around his garage.
“Name’s
Todd,” said the stranger. He lowered his crossbow and climbed down from his bizarre
vehicle. “Looks like I found you just in time.” Paul
tried to speak, but he had a million questions and didn’t want them to all come
out at once. He took the time to figure out how to prioritize them. “What was
that?” “Dunno
if they have a scientific name, but I’ve always just known ‘em as snakes. Or
big uglies.” Todd backed up to get a good look at Paul. “First time to the
afterlife, eh?” He appeared as if he was trying to hold back a grin as he said
this, but he failed. His smile looked almost as ridiculous as his bike. “Excuse
me?” said Paul. “The afterlife?” Todd’s
smile quickly vanished. “Well yeah. Naturally.” “What
do you mean by that?” “Okay,
to be specific this is the Torrid Desert, in the southern region of Kranuk. We’re
pretty stumped as to how ya ended up all the way out here.” “And
here is…the afterlife?” Paul sat down cross-legged on the ground, his legs
unable to bear how crazy this man sounded. “Sure
is. The afterlife…as in after life. Sorry about dying, kid. Happens to the best
of us.” Todd tried to sound facetious, but his tone gave away his true feelings
of concern. “But
I didn’t die. This has to be a dream. I am dreaming, right?” “Ya
know, I was once told that you can’t focus on anything for too long in dreams.
So if you ever think you’re in a dream, you just stare at your hand. I guess if
nothing happens that means you’re in reality.” Paul
raised his hand in front of his face and stared at it. He picked a line in his
palm and followed it as slowly and carefully as he could. He kept waiting " no,
hoping " for something to happen. Maybe it’d disappear, or maybe his fingers
would turn into worms. Or maybe he’d just wake up. Nothing
happened. “I
don’t think I’m dreaming,” said Paul at last. “You
aren’t,” agreed Todd. Paul
suddenly felt completely alone and abandoned. He was used to being a loner, but
this felt different. He felt as if his wife of twenty-five suddenly left him
without as much as a note. “…S**t.” “’S**t’
is right,” agreed Todd again. © 2015 MichaelGrover |
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Added on May 14, 2015 Last Updated on May 14, 2015 Tags: fiction, adventure, science fiction, fantasy, afterlife, mystery, trilogy, chapter one Author
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