Jagged- Chapter Five

Chapter Five
I propped myself up on a crate and forced myself to look at nothing but the road ahead. In the hoary light of the closing day, I saw weren’t the only ones to have traveled this way. At first it was just a few, but then there were dozens of them: cars left abandoned right on the road. Some of the owners hadn’t even bothered to move off to the shoulder. Mr. Elsa had to maneuver the mules around the lanes like the cars were boulders scattered in a river.
Where were all the people?
Then, we passed a minivan a little too close and I wish I hadn’t wondered. The young woman in the driver’s seat was young, probably near my age. The back of her blonde head was craned against the headrest, as if she were staring up at the sunroof of her red Volvo. But as we passed, she didn’t blink. She didn’t turn at the sound of the creaking wheels. Her mouth hung open slightly, dried blood streaking down booth edges.
Bile filled my throat and I threw up over the side of the trailer. My hands felt cold and wet.
Margaret was beside me in an instant, clucking her tongue. “And here I thought you were recovering so well.”
I allowed her to clean my mouth with a scrap of cloth. “It’s not that. It’s— the cars.” I couldn’t bring myself to look back at the line of discarded vehicles.
“Oh.” Her voice dropped an octave. Gently, she coaxed me to sit back down so that my only view was the dusty wooden planks and blankets.
The shaking of my spine was from more than the potholes on the road. “What—” my voice jolted, “what happened to all those people?”
Margaret played with a threaded string. “There were more back in the city. You were unconscious— you didn’t see—”
I didn’t even want to imagine. Imagining always led me back. To the condo; with the view of the park. “But. All the way out here? In Kansas?”
Margaret twisted the sting around her thumb. “They were probably trying to drive away.”
Like us.
“The effects seem to be a lot less the further you get away from the cities.”
There was that word again. “Effects from what?” I felt incredibly naïve, everyone else seemed to know what was going on.
Margaret tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I think it is nuclear radiation.”
“Like from a bomb?” That would explain the collapsing buildings, but again, my naivety was at an all-time high.
She nodded.
“But this is the U.S. We can’t get bombed.” The frown that formed on my brow caused the bandages on my forehead to pull. “Who would bomb us? Everyone knows we would attack back ten-times worse.” Right?
Margaret’s thin lips twisted to the left. “We haven’t heard any official reports, or anything, of course. But, we talked to a woman from Washington, an elderly couple driving up from Georgia and even a teenage kid from Massachusetts. They were all hit the same. I think it might be like this all over the east coast. Every major city has been attacked.”
The words scooped a dip pit in my chest. But she wasn’t done. “This isn’t like 9-11. Whoever did this was going for more than terror. More than war. They were going for inhalation.”
I looked over the trailer, not at the road, but out at the flat land stretched tight under the gray haze. Our country. The United States of America. Sentenced to Capital Punishment.
A chilly tear tore down my cheek. “But we’re still here.” The words were just a whisper on my cracked lips.
“That’s right.” Margaret took my hand. “We’re still here.”
And there were others. Mr. Elsa’s face was bright that night as he talked about his niece and her family in Hays. He didn’t have much family around. Fortunately, Hays, Kansas wasn’t a big enough town to draw a direct attack. We wouldn’t have to spend the next night on the ground. There would be beds. Fresh food. Hot showers.
As Margaret and Mr. Elsa pulled their blankets up close to ward off the chill of the September night air that had picked up, I tucked my knees to my chest and stared at the flames. Sleep wasn’t something I did well out in the open, so exposed; the darkness a constant reminder of the darkness of that early morning in the exercise room.
I yearned to sleep. For the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. Then the muddled mess of my own life, mixed with the fresh horrors of the dying world, couldn’t haunt me.
But in the early morning hours, as sleep did finally take me, my dreams were even worse. I was back on the treadmill. Could feel my ponytail swishing against my shoulder blades as my feet pounded on the belt. Then there was a loud crack. The glass on the walls shattered and the ceiling came tumbling down.
I managed to dodge a large support beam and scramble out of the basement and up into the main level. More dry wall showered down as I passed the place where the lady was speared through by a pole and jumped out into the street.
But once on the street, everything went silent. The buildings continued to crash down around me, obliterating cars and life as they fell, but there was no sound. It was like someone had pushed a mute button during the middle of an action scene. The explosions and trembling of the ground seemed like nothing more than cheep effects.
My hands flew to my ears. Have I gone deaf? I spun around to see a lamppost fall onto the hood of a blue Taurus, smashing it into two.
The city was going to collapse upon me. Run, Catherine. Get out of there. I stepped onto the street, prepared to bolt toward 84th street and away from the silent horror, when a sound stopped me. It wasn’t the moaning of failing buildings, or the cackle of fires out the windows. It was the cry of a baby.
The tiny wale was the only other noise I heard as the city continued to crumble upon itself. I couldn’t stop. I had to get out of there. But still, the baby’s cry held me.
What is it doing here?
My eyes darted to the burning cars and dusty clouds rising up from demolished foundations. Where is it coming from?
The cry got louder. It pierced my ears and rattled my brain like a shock wave.
Get it to stop. Where was its mother?
I turned back toward 84th street, but found that there was a weight on me I hadn’t noticed before. Terrified, I looked down to see that the crying baby was in my arms.
Its little hands stretched up to me, fingers splayed. Toothless mouth wide open.
I was its mother.
“No,” I screamed and threw the baby from my arms. It fell, arms flailing like a fallen chick, inches, then feet into the open air. I tried to grab it back, but it was too late.
The baby hit the grimy pavement, and as it did, its small body knocked a hole into the asphalt. The infant disappeared into the black gap, its wails going down with it, but the fissure continued to spread. Angry arms branched out, ripping up the street, causing more asphalt to tumble into the pit. The ground between my feet split, jarring every bone in my body. Then I too was falling down, down into the blackness. Nothing to grip onto. The hazy smoke-filled sky growing more distant above me. And still the baby’s cries detonated in my ears.
Usually the rise of the sun, weak and gray on the horizon, brought a sense of relief. But after awaking from that dream, there was no relief from the guilt and horror I felt. Soon, Mr. Elsa would be feeding the mules their ration of grain and within minutes, I’d be dosing off again in the back of the bouncy trailer. But that morning was different.
Margaret and I shared a can of concentrated orange juice and a protein bar for breakfast. I didn’t have the stomach for it, but getting low blood sugar wasn’t going to help me any. I forced the food down just as I tried to force the shards of the dream away.
I was more than indebted to these two people, I realized. My entire survival depended upon it. Without them, I’d be just another body rotting on the side of the road. Their foresight and preparation were my salvation. Mr. Elsa had been storing barrels of sealed grain, jugs of purified water for decades. There were cans of peaches, apricots and applesauce he had his late wife had grown on their own land and boxes of protein bars, like the ones we subsisted upon now. It was like someone had tipped him off that something like this would happen one day. His first aid kit, combined with the one Margaret kept in her car were the only reason I hadn’t bled to death. And though his dog was more than annoying, and the rifle that he kept under his seat which was the size of a small tree made me nervous, I was grateful to be with them.
But as I forced myself to swallow the thick bar down that morning, the unease in my stomach didn’t leave. Why did that baby always have to cry? I tried to push the memory of the sound away by humming a Cold Play song. The air was tangy and metallic, and the wind only seeming to make it more rank. The road was as barren as ever, but the hair on my arms stood up. I jumped as a bunch of leaves rustled across the highway.
Fifteen minutes down the road, as we passed more darkened houses, the vibrations of the trailer on the pavement made my eyes start to droop despite myself. But before I could really drift off, Mr. Elsa reined back on the mules and said over his shoulder, “It’d be best if you stay down, ladies.” I’d never heard him use that tone of voice: tight and low. It made my stomach wring itself into a tight wad.
Before we could ask what was going on, there were voices coming up from the right side of the road. Gruff, deep, male voices.
“What ‘ya got in the back there?” one demanded, making me wish Mr. Elsa hadn’t stopped at all. That voice didn’t sound like he had very neighborly intentions. Margaret and I kept ourselves down as instructed. The sound of boots grinding on the pavement got closer. My heart beat frantically in my chest. I focused on the back of Mr. Elsa’s brown hat and his curly black hair.
He kept his voice even. “Just a couple of things I’m bringing to my sister’s family in Uma.”
“Is that right?” the same gruff voice replied. It sent shivers down my back. “Well I think we’ll just take a look for ourselves. What do you say boys?”
Deep snickers echoed. How many of them were out there?
Mr. Elsa straightened. “Now, I don’t want to cause no trouble here. If you please, I’ll just be on my way.” He brought the reins up but stopped at the man’s humorless laugh.
“We won’t cause no trouble neither.” There was a click. Like something metal. Mr. Elsa sucked in a breath. “We’ll just take a look and then you can be on your way.”
Before Mr. Elsa could answer, the clank of boots came around the right side of the trailer. My eyes shot to Margaret. Her body was rigid, unmoving; eyes wide, jaw clenched tight. I pressed my back into the planks of a crate, wishing I could melt into it.
There were five men. The first to appear at the gate was young, not more than eighteen or so. He had un-cut brown hair that fell around his face like a mop, and a shadow around his jaw; clearly an attempt at a beard. His hazel eyes pulled back at the sight of Margaret and I crouched between the crates and hale bales. “Shawn, look at what we got here,” he exclaimed.
The man named Shawn’s thick chest and curly brown beard which reached his collar bone, came into view. All I could focus on was the rifle he held up like a trophy in the air. That must have been the click I heard. “Well, well,” he smacked his tongue, his black eyes passing over Margaret and resting on me, “this is quite the load you got back here.”
The three other men, all as equally unkempt and filthy as the next, joined the first two. Wide smiles creased the dirt on their faces, a hunger in their darting eyes, like they’d just struck gold.
Shawn spoke again. “I think we’ll just take some of this off your hands.” Mr. Elsa was about to protest, but Shawn wagged the barrel of his riffle at him and Mr. Elsa sank back into his seat. “Go on boys,” Shawn snarled, and like trained dogs, his cronies jumped up into the trailer. My whole body was shaking. I scrambled to think. Margaret stood up and started shouting as they grabbed boxes and barrels of supplies and threw them down to the others on the ground. One of them slapped her cheek, causing her to fall into the hay bales, an angry red mark across her face.
“That should shut her up,” they laughed and tossed more canned goods out of the trailer. “We won’t be hungry tonight.”
“What about that one?” the young guy said, pointing at me. My heels kicked me back into the far corner, as far away as I could get. But I was pinned, without escape.
Shawn turned from the box of peaches he had cut open, his small pin-pricks of eyes on me. Just his gaze made me flinch. The men waited the command.
“Bring her here.”
The kid grinned like a puppy about to be given a bone. Two of the bigger ones came at me. Margaret and Mr. Elsa were shouting. Shawn fired a round into the air, silencing them.
“That’s enough,” he said his mouth an ugly hole. “The next shoot goes into your brain. Bring her,” he repeated. The men’s hands reached for me. I kicked the first in the shin, and thrashed my body, but I was a hooked fish. And there was Shawn’s riffle to think about. They wrenched their arms under me and dragged me out of the trailer.
“Stop,” I shouted. “Let me go.” But I was no match for them.
On the pavement, I realized just how much bigger Shawn was than me. He towered over my head by almost two feet. The skin on my arms burned as I squirmed against the men’s rough hold, but I was hopelessly weak. Like a mouse in a cat’s paw.
Shawn’s eyes roamed up and down my body. “This one’s got some spit fire,” he grinned as if he couldn’t be more pleased with my resistance. His filthy fingers touched my jaw, turning my head side to side.
“Get your hands off me,” I spat in his face.
He didn’t even blink, but wiped his nose. “Her face is a mess,” he said to his men but never took his eyes off me. Then, he grabbed the loop holes in my jeans, lurching my hips forward. “But it’s what’s in here, that matters.”
The men hollered.
“Throw her in the pickup.” He tossed me back. “We’re going to have us a good time tonight!” The thick arms pulled me back, away from Margaret and the nearly empty trailer. The men had gotten their fill of supplies and were now loading them into the bed of a rusty red truck.
My screams ripped the air. I writhed with all my might but the men were bent on taking me. I couldn’t flee. Couldn’t even get them to slow. I craned my neck to look back at the trailer. Margaret was yelling profanities, tears cutting down her chin. Mr. Elsa just stood there like a tall dark tree. Shawn kept them at bay with the aim of his riffle.
It was in their eyes as they watched me be dragged off the road and down the ditch: it was over. That truth sank into my heart. There was nothing I could do. Nothing they could do. They knew it. I knew it.
The men piled the crates of supplies into the bed until the tailgate nearly brushed the ground. Then the men got out a chord, the same pale red kind that Mr. Elsa used to bind his hay bales. They spun me around, so that I faced the road again, and tied my wrists together.
Shawn seemed pleased with their progress. He left his post, turned his back on the trailer and walked toward the truck.
A sick, self-satisfied grin spread across his face as he looked past me at his truck of stolen goods.
But an instant later, that self-satisfied smirk was replaced by his eyes pulled back wide, pupils dilated, and mouth hanging open. For a moment I didn’t understand why. His body teetered, like a cut tree, and then fell face-forward onto the pavement. A large whole was blasted into his back, red blood oozing out.
All the men in the truck turned, gaping at the fallen body of their leader. Before any of them could move, Mr. Elsa came around the trailer, his riffle still smoking from the shot, and picked up the gun out of Shawn’s still hand. The men stared, open mouthed. Mr. Elsa, a riffle in each hand now walked slowly toward the truck.
“You boys have had enough fun around here, I think. Why don’t you let the girl go and help put back those crates nice and neat the way you found them.” His words were polite, even conversational but the men took one more look at the weapons and didn’t second guess him.
The rough hands released me. Blood rushed back into my arms. I tripped a bit as I hurried toward the trailer, away from the truck and the man shot dead on the road.

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Heather

"Easy reading is damned hard writing."
Love this quote.

Need a space and moment to vent: Just found a newly published book titled "Black Wings" by Christina Henry and what is it about? You guessed it: a female angel who brings souls to the afterlife.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I guess my oh so original novel idea, is not so original after all.

Now my chances for getting that book published are like my chances of waking up on the moon tomorrow.

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Jagged- Chapter Four

Chapter Four
We weren’t on the road more than fifteen minutes when the trailer wheels started to slow again. The sun was just starting to peak over the rise of the land, grayish and pale in the haze that continually seemed to fill the sky. We were supposed to go forty miles that day. That’s what Mr. Elsa said after clucking his teeth at the hay supply. There was supposed to be a small town with a country store where we could resupply.
If it was still there, he added. But compared to the city, the land out here seemed relatively untouched by what had happened. At least the old barns and little country houses with their peeling paint and grimy windows still stood.
The trailer stopped. Margaret and I got on our feet. To the side of the highway was a huddled mass of blankets. Beneath the blankets were several pair of sneakers. I realized the blankets had pairs of eyes too; eyes that stared at us as wildly as if we were about to mug them.
Mr. Elsa was leaning over the edge of his seat to talk to them. I strained to hear the muffled conversation.
“Please,” I heard one of the taller ones say. Who were they and what where they doing on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere? Mr. Elsa nodded and then swung his long legs over his seat and joined us in the back.
“They’re trying to reach Hays,” his mustache twitched as he spoke. “It’s not far off of 1-70 and on our way to Ellis. Say they have family there. There’s more than enough room— I thought they could ride along.”
Margaret nodded and began re-arranging crates and blankets.
I looked back at the hunched figures. There was something off in the way they stared at the road, like they weren’t really seeing it and one of them wouldn’t stop swaying. They gave off an ere of illness. Like a diseased puppy, or the homeless man back in my city. Something I would rather avoid. But this wasn’t my trailer and I wasn’t in a position to decide. “Who are they?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Folk from Topeka,” was his only answer. He swung the back gate open and helped up a girl of not more than eight years old, huddled in a hand-made quilt that showed just her dirty nose and sharp eyes. Another girl of about thirteen scooted in next to her, was that blood trickling from her mouth? A brown-haired woman who must’ve been their mother and an elderly woman whose head shook uncontrollably underneath her shawl followed.
They gave Margaret and I a quick glance before settling in a tight bunch against the hay bales. Mr. Elsa got back into his seat and the trailer rocked forward once again. They seemed content to stare at the trailer’s wooden planks, but then the littlest one kept glancing at me.
At first, I didn’t understand why. Then I remembered the gash cutting across my face. I hadn’t re-bandaged it yet. I must’ve looked horrific.
Revolted at my own appearance, I turned my head so she wouldn’t have to see me, the freak show. But then Margaret put new bandages on it, and still the child stared.
Her eyes were like two dark stones set into her waifish face. Margaret had struck up something of a conversation with the mother. Something about the green fields of Hays during the spring. But the woman just mumbled and nodded, dabbing at her bleeding nose with a tissue. I noticed the little girl’s dirty fingers kept scratching underneath her quilt at her forehead.
“Don’t scratch it,” her mother whispered harshly.
“But it itches,” the child replied in a voice more like a squeak.
The trailer hit a bump and the blanket fell back revealing an oozing mound of flesh on the child’s scalp.
A gasp escaped my lips. The mother’s dark eyes flashed at me and in half a second, she had covered her child’s head again.
My stomach rolled and an odd gurgling came from my throat. But then the child’s sister tumbled forward and I realized the gurgling didn’t come from me. The girl’s skin turned several shades paler and then she was dry heaving, her stomach attempting to empty itself of its already empty contents. Nothing but a sting of bloody spit came out her mouth.
Her mother wrapped her arms which were a sick purple and blue around her trembling shoulders and tried to comforter her while she cried tearlessly, but within minutes, the mother herself was vomiting blood.
Something was seriously wrong with these women.
I tucked my knees into my chest and covered my nose with my sleeve, determined not to be the next victim. I tried to focus on anything but the sick travelers with their horrible wounds, but my eyes kept coming back to them. The children cried until they became too weak to do even that, their dirty bloodied heads falling into their mother’s lap. The mother stroked their sticky hair as she leaned her head back, closing her eyes. The elderly woman hardly seemed to notice the scene; she just stared blankly at the hay bales and continued rocking back and forth.
“I’m so sorry,” Margaret whispered. “I wish I could do something.” She rummaged through her tiny first aid kit. “I’m afraid I’m all out of anti-nausea medicine.” Her brows furrowed together into one red line.
The anti-nausea meds. She must’ve used them all on herself and me. That truth hit me like a rock as we bounced down the long dusty highway.
Margaret and I made a meal of more saltines and a packet of applesauce when the sun reached its highest point. The food seemed to bring some of my energy back. Margaret offered the women some water, but it only made them vomit more. When Mr. Elsa pulled the trailer to a stop and told us he was going to go water the Mules down at a creek he saw, I jumped to my feet and offered to help. Mr. Elsa’s bushy eyebrows rose, but he didn’t refuse me and I was grateful. I would’ve done anything to get away from the old, shaking woman and the children with their tearless eyes, even if it meant getting near the mules.
I stumbled after him, my legs wobbly from sitting so long, down a ditch and into a brown field. Connie, his little speckled dog ran circles around us, causing me to jump every time he leapt at my legs.
Mr. Elsa told me to hold the rope of one of the mules, Briggs, he called it, while he took the other down to the creek. I hadn’t noticed I’d been shaking until I reached out to take the end of the rope.
“You ok?” he asked.
I didn’t think I was, but the only other option was to go back to the trailer. So I just nodded and took the rope hoping the grunting animal beside me wouldn’t decide to make me its mid-day snack.
Images of the vomiting girls, blood dripping out their mouth and noses kept flashing in my mind. By the time Mr. Elsa’s worn hat appeared over the ridge, my body was convulsing as badly as the old woman’s. Tears streamed from my eyes, and my chest heaved for breath.
Mr. Elsa’s arm was around me. “What’s wrong?” he tried to soften the gruffness in his voice.
I tried to answer, but only more sobs came out. How was I supposed to tell him that I couldn’t go back there? Couldn’t face those eyes, that smell? But I didn’t have to answer, because as in-between one of my sobs, a scream that seemed to stab my very heart came from the trailer.
Mr. Elsa gave me one bewildered look. “We need to go back there. Can you manage?”
“Yes,” I chocked. He took the lead rope back from me and I staggered after him back up the ditch as another shrill cry rippled across the ground.
The mother was standing. I could just see the top of her head over the trailer’s side. We ran around to the back gate and then I nearly collided into Mr. Elsa’s stopped body.
Clutched in her mother’s arms, was the limp body of the child. Her blankets had fallen, revealing her thin limbs, her brown hair falling over her mother’s arms. Those dark eyes that had stared so intently at me were now closed, she could’ve been asleep, but her mouth hung open.
“My baby,” the mother wailed and then collapsed into a heap, cradling the child in her arms. “She’s gone. She’s gone.”
The sister and elderly woman behind her, were like me, too shocked or numb to move. After giving her some time, Margaret and Mr. Elsa seemed to be the only ones with any sense at all. Margaret wrapped her arms around the mother, crying tears of her own. Mr. Elsa offered to help bury the girl. He set off with a shovel into the brown field. It took a while, but then the mother finally released her clenched embrace on her child.
“Goodbye my sweet love,” she whispered through chocking moans and then kissed the girl on the forehead. Mr. Elsa took the body from her arms, wrapped it in the hand-made quilt and disappeared into the ditch. The mother, Margaret and the others fumbled after in a procession of grief and tears.
I probably should’ve followed but found myself rooted to the pavement like one of those big trees that rose up out of the flat land.
Their wails washed over me with the wind. I found myself crying again too. But it wasn’t for the death of the child. It wasn’t for the mother who was now watching dirt fall onto the body of the girl she had given life too. It wasn’t for the empty whole that soul would leave in the lives of all those who knew her.
No, my tears were for myself. Hotly and stupidly. My knees hit the pavement, my head bent. I grieved the death of my own life. My lungs burned. My lips rattled and shook as tears and snot dripped off them.
It’s all over. There’s nothing. Nothing left.
A hand touched my shoulder some time later. I didn’t have to look to know it was Margaret. She rubbed my back and stroked my tangled hair.
I was vaguely aware of Mr. Elsa’s boots on the road, the knickers of the mules, but I couldn’t find the strength to move.
Margaret’s arms were under me. “Come,” she said, heaving me up. “Come.” Half-standing she walked me to the trailer gate, then climbed up herself.
“Catherine, come,” she called, her eyes urgent, almost pleading.
“I can’t,” I mumbled, spitting out hair stuck to my lips. I was aware that the mother and other women weren’t in the trailer either. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“You can,” Margaret stretched her arm out to me. “You just have to get up into this trailer.”
The gate seemed impossibly high.
The mother’s keening in the field reached my ears. “Oh God, there’s nothing. Just death. Everyone’s died. We’re all dead.”
Nothing. That was the word I used.
“Catherine. Now.” Margaret’s words plowed into my thoughts. Somehow I pushed my hands onto the wood planks and Margaret helped pull the rest of me up. “We’re good,” she called to Mr. Elsa who cracked the reins and the trailer moved forward away from the creek with water for the mules, away from the dead girl and her family.
“They’re not coming,” I stated the obvious.
“No.” Margaret’s single word answer was like closing a casket.

Jagged- Chapter Three

Chapter Three
The scent of vomit, rubbing alcohol and— something else hit my nostrils. Good heavens, what is that stink?
Crinkling my nose, my eyes cracked open. A cream cloth ceiling above me. And a broken light, like the kind in the interior of cars, hanging by a single wire. Where am I?
Putting my hand to my head, I felt a soft bandage. I pushed on it harder. Ouch.
I sat up, but became incredibly dizzy. My feet were pressed against a door handle. Why am I in the backseat of a car?
“She’s awake,” a voice said from behind. I turned. The glass of the backseat was broken and left in shards like teeth. Cool air seeped in like the car was breathing it.
I saw a blue flannel shirt and pair of muddy jeans walking away. On a dirt road. The land, flat and yellow, lengthened on like a piece of stretched cotton until it reached a dusty-blue sky. Where are all the streets? The buildings?
Buildings. Images of collapsed gray sky scrapers came to me, an unpleasant slide show.
Gasping for breath, my hands clung to my knees. The city. The condo—
“Good, let’s get her out,” another voice outside the car said. This one sharp and somewhat familiar, liked I’d heard it once before in a dream. Or a nightmare.
The door behind me opened letting in more chill air and that awful stink. Again, the blue flannel shirt, but beside it, a wide face framed by red hair with gray roots.
“How you doing, honey?” the middle-aged woman asked, holding out a Styrofoam cup to me.
“Where are we?” my voice cracked.
“Here,” she pushed the cup into my hands. “Drink first. Talk later.”
The edges of the cup were brown, but the water inside looked clean. I put it to my lips. The water was lukewarm but it did soothe my throat a moment, before it turned to fire.
Horrified, my eyes accused the woman.
“What’s in that?” I chocked. I’d had strep before, but my esophagus burned like nothing I’d experienced.
She shook her head and I noticed the skin under her hairline down to her chin was puckered and red. As though it had been burned. She poured more liquid into the cup from a large plastic jug. More burns on her arms. “It’s the after-effects. Drink more.”
But I held the cup away like it might detonate.
“Drink,” she commanded. No. She huffed and tilted her head to the side. “You’ve been vomiting the past two days. You’re going to die from dehydration. Now. Drink.”
Vomiting? Well that explained the smell. “Two days?”
The skin around her eyes sagged a bit. She looked so horribly sad, and dirty, and tired. “Yes.” This woman had saved my life. She stopped and put me in her car.
“You didn’t have to get me.”
“I know,” she answered. I brought the cup back to my lip, flinching as the water went down.
“Good girl.” She said it like was an eight-year-old taking cough syrup. “Now, we need to get you out of here.” She backed out the door.
I just blinked and sat.
“We ran out of gas,” she explained, re-emerging.
“Gas?” I tried to put the pieces together.
“Yeah. Luckily Mr. Elsa here,” her hand motioned to the blue flannel, “came by. He’s going to take us in his trailer.”
Her hands coaxed me out with little waves. I pocked my head out the open door. Mr. Elsa was the one wearing the jeans and blue plaid. He was a massive man, his chest the width of a small car. His square jaw was covered by a curly salt and pepper beard. This Paul Bunion figure would’ve terrified me but his coal-black eyes looked down at me with kindness.
“Aint much,” his coarse voice growled from under his mustache. “But the mules are strong.”
“Mules?”
Sure enough, two tawny brown mules were hitched up to what must have been an old car-hauling trailer. Rough planks of wood were boarded up on the sides, but the top was open.
“Come now.” She took my hands, careful not to put pressure on the cuts, and helped me out.
Standing, the sky and grass started tilting to the side.
“Easy now.” Mr. Elsa took my other arm. Who are these strangers?
My head spun so bad, I thought I might pass out.
“I— I think I need a hospital.”
They half-dragged me the rest of the way to the back of the trailer. Bales of hay tied with red nylon were stacked along the sides. Blankets had been laid in the center. At the front, wood crates made a sort of seat for the driver. Jugs of water and grocery bags containing who knew what were piled beneath that.
“I’m sure you do,” the woman answered, “but I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”
A hospital not possible? They set me onto a worn rose-patterned blanket.
Mr. Elsa just gave a sad look, then went back to the car for the last jug of water.
The mules nickered and I realized theirs was the other scent I couldn’t name before. Livestock. Great. And a dog. Mr. Elsa came back around, a speckle-furred dog circling his heels.
“In,” he commanded and the mangy creature leapt up. Tail wagging, his wet tongue was soon all over my face. My arms flailed and pushed at his furry chest in a useless defense.
“Connie, off,” Mr. Elsa said with a half-laugh.
I smeared the slobber on my check with the back of my hand. “I, uh— don’t really like dogs.”
Mr. Elsa’s black eyes blinked. “Oh, okay. Connie, you ride up here with me.” He chucked the water jug next to the others then heaved his massive body onto the make-shift seat. The little dog sprang up beside him.
The woman climbed up, settling on a blanket beside me, using her hand-bag as a cushion to prop her head against a bale of hay. It occurred to me I didn’t have a single possession with me. Just the dirty, blood stained running clothes I was wearing. No cell phone. No credit cards.
The sun was sinking low in the sky, cooling the air. My legs and arms shivered. The woman handed me a blue plaid shirt and pair of gray sweats.
“They’re probably too big,” she said. They were but I put them over my running cloths. Still shivering, she tucked a worn blue blanket around me.
“Thanks.” But my gratitude was being drowned by panic.
Mr. Elsa “yipped” and slapped the reins. The mules responded and the trailer creaked forward toward a destination unknown to me.
The woman’s head rocked with the movement of the trailer. “My name is Margaret Smith.” She folded her small hands which were covered in deep cuts into her lap. “We’re headed west.”
I coughed down some of the terror. “I’m Catherine.” The bumpy road made my cheeks giggle. “Why west?”
Margaret fiddled with the rim of her blanket. “Well, honey. We haven’t heard much. Communication has been down.”
“Communication— like no cell service?” Had the earthquake done that? Even all the way out here? We were far, far from the city, that much I knew.
She huffed. “Yeah, you could say that.” Her fingers rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a silver cell phone. “I haven’t gotten a single bar since— the city. The cell towers must be down or something.” The phone beeped. “Great, and now I’m going to lose battery.”
What I wouldn’t give for my cell. My fingers practically twitched to feel the smooth plastic of it. But no service?
The trailer jostled on the bumpy dirt road. I’d never seen land so long and flat. “Where are we?”
“Kansas.” My only thought was Wizard of Oz, but I wasn’t much in the mood for playing Dorothy or Toto. “And we have to go further west?” The furthest west I ever wanted to go was Boston and that was only for their spring sales.
A wrapper rustled as she pulled out a packet of crackers. “Try to eat this,” she ignored my question and put one in my hand. “But take it slow.”
I didn’t want to eat crackers. Didn’t want to go west. I blacked out and two days later, found myself in the back of a rickety trailer on a dirt road in Kansas. “I’m sorry. But I’d really rather go back to New York.”
Her look was pure pity. Which only made me madder. “Katherine, honey, we can’t go back to the city.”
Were those tears blurring my vision? “Why?” But before she could answer, my insides started twisting. Stomach heaved. Watery vomit spewed out my mouth onto the blankets.
Little stars of light filled my vision as I stared at the bile staining the sheets. I dabbed at the wetness on my mouth with back of my hand. Margaret crawled over. She wrapped up the mess in the blanket, tucked them away in a corner and put new covers on.
“What’s wrong with me?” Stars filled the better part of my sight as I strained to focus on her brown eyes.
“Radiation poisoning. I think.”
Radiation? “I thought it was just an earthquake.”
“I don’t think it was, honey.” Not an earthquake. I slumped my forehead into my hand. Sharp pain reminded me about the gash.
Margaret scooted closer and put her hands on my knees. She smelled of dirt and sweat but there was also a faint trace of lavender. Like the kind of perfume my mom used to wear. The memory only shattered the last bit reserve of control I possessed. “I know. I know,” she crooned, “It’s a lot to take in.” Tears forced their way out my eyes as I squeezed them shut. She just let me cry, patting my leg. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had treated me like that— so nurturing.
Twenty minutes or so later, I regained some control over the sobs. I used the tissue she gave me to dry my cheeks and nose. “Radiation poisoning?” The question came out crackly.
She pulled her unruly red hair back into a messy bun. “It’s my best guess. I’m no doctor. Just a bit of nursing school ages ago.” She sighed. “I had it too. So did the others—”
“Others?”
She stared into her lap. “Yeah, back on the highway near the city. Those who were in their cars when it happened. The pavement was slick with vomit.”
I tried to imagine all those people, spewing out their cars. But if there were others, none of them were with us now.
I ran my fingertips along the soft bandage that wrapped around my forehead.
“We should probably change those,” she added. She was the one who had put them on. “Like I said, I only know a little after all these years, but the bleeding has mostly stopped. I can’t guarantee how it will look though— We just have to keep it clean now. Wouldn’t want you to get infected.”
She nibbled on her cracker, then noted mine setting untouched on the blanket. “You should be feeling better by tonight. Depending on how much exposure you got.”
Exposure. Buildings crumbling like they were made of sand and pebbles.
“What do you mean?”
She shifted her wide hips. “Well, where were you— before I found you on the street?”
My body shuddered. My mind did not want to open up that hallow place. I swallowed, but mouth still tasted like bile. I forced myself to think back. “The exercise room. In the basement.”
Her brown eyebrows rose. “That’s probably why you made it out at all. Your exposure shouldn’t have been too bad.”
She made it sound like a good thing.
“I was underground also,” she continued. “On the fourth level down in a parking garage. I’d come just for the weekend to visit my daughter—” Her voice trailed off like the dust the mules kicked up. “Good thing I filled up the car the night before.”
A sharp wind blew hay into my face and hair. The stuff itched, but what caught me was the smell of smoke that the wind brought and a tangy metallic scent. “So why are we going west?”
Margaret nodded to the driver’s seat. “Mr. Elsa says that’s the way all the animals have gone. Animals always follow clean air.” The mules nickered again as if in conformation. “And there are less cities.”
Less buildings.
The idea of some vast and terrifyingly open place bounced in my mind with every jolt of the trailer, but I was so weak— so numb, I couldn’t possibly allow myself to think of anything else. Of what had happened. Or what would happen.
Nestling my head into a pillow made up of waded blankets, I fell asleep before I could stop myself.
The creak of the slowing tires woke me later. The sun had long since set and the sky was a deep and milky black under low-lying clouds. Those were the kind of clouds that made the space between earth and the heavens feel small and musty. Like putting your head under a dusty blanket.
Margaret had fallen asleep and was just waking up as well, hay sticking out her hair like Chinese chop sticks. She rubbed her eyes as the trailer came to a stop at the side of the road by a large tree whose limbs were like gray arms. I had enough sense to notice the road we pulled off of was now pavement.
Mr. Elsa’s big head poked over the hay bales. “It’s past midnight,” he said in his low grumbly voice. “The mules need a rest. I thought we’d make camp here for the night.”
Margaret filled her arms with blankets and things. I peered over the edge of the trailer and tried to make out any form of a building in the darkness. A hotel, a house, anything. Mr. Elsa unhitched the mules and led them down a slope toward the tree.
Camp. Like camping. I’d heard some people enjoy that sort of thing: tents and food cooked on a fire, sleeping on the ground; that sort of thing. I’d never been.
“Are you ok, honey?” Margaret came over to me.
I shivered in the cool night air that still tasted metallic in my mouth. “Yeah.”
She helped me out of the trailer and kept a hand on my arm as we made our way down the grassy slant. I was left at the trunk of the tree which the mules had been tied to while Margaret helped Mr. Elsa build a fire. Tucking my blanket tighter under my chin, I kept a stiff stance, wary of the large snorting animals beside me. But Mr. Elsa must have known his animals well, within seconds it seemed their eyes were closed and their fat stomachs rose and fell evenly. But their tails still flicked once in a while, indicating that at any moment, they might charge.
“Come sit, Catherine,” Margaret called. A small fire was licking life from the wood they had gathered. The light of it flickered in Mr. Elsa’s small, dark eyes as he held his hands out to warm.
The only fire we’d ever had had been one that you turned on with the flick of a switch.
But as I sat on a blanket close to Margaret, it was warm. Soon my nose and cheeks were hot, but my backside felt like ice.
No one spoke. Margaret’s head began to bob.
“I’ll put some more wood on,” Mr. Elsa said quietly. “You two get some sleep now.”
Without question, Margaret spread a blanket out onto the grass, tossing a rock or two out into the darkness. Though thoroughly exhausted, and warmed enough by the fire, I couldn’t bring myself to do the same. Sleep on the ground?
Embers rose like ghosts into the air as Mr. Elsa put more logs on the fire. I watched them rise into the blanket of gray clouds, tiny sparks of life. Rising with such hope to take their place among the stars. But they too turned into shadows.
Eventually, Mr. Elsa’s head fell to his chest and didn’t rise again. A deep snore rumbled from his nose, but Margaret didn’t stir.
I didn’t like being awake and alone. The wind made the branches of the giant tree sway like arms pleading for help. Their creak was like a thousand voices crying. I put the blanket over my head, tucked it tight over my mouth and nose so only my eyes showed. I focused on nothing but the fire and waited for morning.
My nostrils felt like icicles when I awoke. Somehow, I had dozed off in the night, sitting, just like Mr. Elsa. The fire was a pit of ashes, all the embers just lifeless gray flecks. Mr. Elsa woke as well, but he got right to his feet and didn’t even stop to rub his neck like I did. He must be much more well-suited for this camping stuff.
He spoke in a quiet tone to his mules, rubbing their ears. His little dog was off chasing something in the brown grass.
My stomach gave an audible grumble.
“Hungry?” Margaret said, sitting now.
I nodded.
“That’s good,” her mouth cracked into a smile. “The worst of it is over now.”
But the clanging in my head, the weakness in my muscles as I stood and the metallic taste in my mouth made it hard for me to believe her. She brought us back up to the trailer and put the packet of crackers into my hand.
“You need protein,” she said, “but you’ll have to start with this.”
I mumbled a “thanks,” and tried to open the package but the plastic slipped between my fingers.
“Here.” She opened the wrapping and put the round wafers into my palm. She was about to walk off, but then, judging my condition, decided to help me up into the trailer.
“Now eat.” I followed her instructions as she helped get the mules hitched up by nibbling on a cracker.
The tiny grains of salt melted on my tongue turning my mouth into a mixture of buttery- metallic taste. What was happening? I leaned my head back against a hay bale and caught my reflection on the backside of a frying pan that was strapped to a wooden crate. Straw stuck from my tangled blonde hair. My green eyes were small in the deep shadows that surrounded them. My cheeks were hallow, skin pale and dirty. My lips were two gray lines. But that wasn’t what caught me. Shakily, my hands went to the bandages. The soft cotton peeled off, layer by layer. Each one spotted redder than the next, until the last one, soaked through and claret, fell onto my lap.
The skin puckered fatly around the gash that ran from my hairline, across the right part of my forehead, down my chin and across my right cheek. I didn’t cry. I didn’t blink. I just let the knowledge set in: my life, my face, all that remained of it was left broken, shredded— jagged.

Jagged- Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Drip. Drip. Drip. Wetness splattered the back of my hand. My eyes cracked open but there was hardly light. An exit sign glowed on its side.
Splat. Splat. A water leak? I lifted my head but a slicing pain made me instantly regret it. I moved my hand to my forehead, but my fingers came away sticky wet. Shakily, I felt along my hairline till the skin was no longer smooth.
The dripping wetness on my hand wasn’t water. It was blood.
My fingers probed the deep gash. At least three fingertips wide. It didn’t end there. I traced the line of oozing fire along my right eyebrow, across my brow bone, down the bridge of my nose until it jutted off across my left cheek.
What happened?
Despite the swimming of my head, I forced myself to sit up, keeping one hand pressed against the gash. I need a doctor.
I tried to get up, but couldn’t move my right leg.
“Help,” the word cracked out of my mouth. “Help,” I repeated, not louder than a whisper.
Where am I? Everything was so dark. Would anyone hear me?
Creaking came from above to the left, like metal on metal. I cradled my head in my arms as a crack ripped the air. Something heavy crashed to the floor. Dust showered my skin and stuck to my nostrils.
That’s when I remembered the flickering light, the shaking floor, the collapsing ceiling. In the pale light of the Exit sign I could just make out piles of rubble. Indistinguishable mounds of darkness. The whole building could fall on me. Adrenaline numbed some of the pain, but also made the blood seep out in quick little spurts.
Keeping one hand on the gash, I used the other to try and push myself out from under whatever was pinning my leg. No use. I need a bandage. No, I need like stitches. Cringing at the thought of what the cut had done to my face, I hoped there was a good cosmetic surgeon on duty when I got to the E.R. The ceiling above gave another creak.
If I ever get there.
“Help,” I found my voice and shouted. “Please. Anyone?” Just another moan from the ceiling.
Wriggled my arms out of my hoodie, I twisted the sleeves into a long line, then wrapped it across my head. The cotton was a decent enough sponge. At least the blood wasn’t in my eyes.
Using both hands, I heaved myself back to free my right leg. I pushed my left foot against what felt like a heavy support beam.
I threw all my strength into it. My head felt so woozy, I might black out. But then the beam gave just enough and my left leg slid free.
Tingling pain rushed into my ankle and foot. But I could feel it.
Panting, I sat there until my breath slowed and the Exit sign came back into focus. With blood back in my leg, I decided to try it out. It was shaky but I could keep weight on it. Must not be broken.
Standing on a concrete slab now, I heard a steady hissing above me. A busted pipe or something. The air had a twinge to it; like burnt rubber. The hair on my arms and back of neck rose.
I stared up at the black gaping hole above me. How do I get out of here? The glowing exit sign revealed several large pieces of sheet rock and debris that angled up to what I hoped was the next level.
Ground level. What about Darrin?
My head spun like a top, whirling my vision. But I had to get out of there, so I put my hands on the dusty sheet rock and crawled up it like a monkey, drops of blood splattering the dust. At the top, complete blackness.
I spread my fingers out to find a smooth patch of ground. Put only my upper body on it first. It held. Pulling my lower body up with my hands, I tried to keep my weight even. I army crawled forward until I hit a large hard object.
Still no light. Nothing to see at all.
“Hello? Anyone there?” Nothing but the hissing and a distant dripping. Tightened the bandage around my head.
Used the hard object to help me stand, but my legs were shaking. Over the rise of it though was light; faint, gray light, but enough.
Twice I blacked out as I maneuvered around the debris on the floor. The light got closer. As I stepped on the cushions of broken chairs and saw that it came from a broken window. I was in the condo foyer. That window led to the street. Freedom.
Using my hand, I swung my shaking legs over a smashed side table and my foot stepped on something soft and squishy.
Looking down, I screamed.
My foot was placed on the raw flesh of a dead woman’s face. Her body had been speared by a fallen metal rod. In the gray light, her blood was a black pool on the carpet.
I leapt off her, crashing into the broken glass of the window. More blood streaming from my hands and arms.
Still screaming, picking out shards of glass the size of knives from my palms.
“Darrin.” I turned back to the demolished foyer of the condo, my eyes searching for the place the elevator should be. Instead mounds of rubble in the darkness.
The smell of burning plastic.
I wiped the blood from my palms on my running shorts. The dead woman’s open eyes glared at me; her mouth open in her last cry.
The glass sliced my bare shoulders, but I didn’t care. Pulled myself onto the windowsill and was about to jump when I caught sight of the street.
Demolished stumps of buildings that had once been smoldered in the pale gray light. Dust and smoke poured out the windows. Car alarms went off somewhere in the fog. A loud crash as the remains of another building up the street collapsed.
More screams. From me, or others?
Yes, across the street, several small dark figures running. The windowsill beneath me shuddered like a tired machine. I leapt. Hit the concrete hard, my knees smashing. Chunks of concrete pelted my back like bullets.
The condo buckled. Blast of wind knocked me into the street.
Then deafening silence.
But I had to look back. All forty floors had fallen, compressing into a mound of gray wreckage not more than two stories high.
“Darrin!” I shrieked. 34th floor. Room with view of the park. Our room. My Darrin.
The mass of our building faded as I blacked out again. When I came to, I found myself still on hands and knees, loose pebbles digging into my cuts, crawling toward the heap.
I didn’t notice the car swerving the wreckage on the road, or register it slowing behind me. But, I did hear the cutting voice that yelled from the driver’s side.
“Honey, you got a death wish or something?”
I turned my head. It was a middle-aged woman with red hair and gray roots. Or was it ash that made her roots look gray?
“Darrin,” I mumbled, stretching an arm out toward him. But I couldn’t tell if I was getting any closer or not. The whole street seemed tipped on the side at an odd angle.
I heard a door open and an engine idling. Then there were steps on the pavement. Arms gripped me under the shoulders.
“Come on,” the lady said, heaving me back, feet dragging.
“No,” my torso squirmed, but unconsciousness was pulling at me. “Darrin’s in there.”
The arms released me. The woman crouched down, pale blue eyes level with mine. The smell of lavender mixed with smoke and ash. Her words were like pelting rain. “He’s gone, honey. They’re all gone.”

New Story-Jagged

New story I just started on. Breaking the rules of my "plan" but I couldn't get it off my mind. Hope you like.

Jagged
Chapter One
The baby was pink and round, with chubby ankles and arms; everything a baby should be. But I didn’t want it.
The nurses had bundled him in a pale blue blanket which brought out the darkness of his blinking gray eyes. Why did they have to bring him to me? My baby. With my blood, my genes running throughout his tiny body.
Lying on the bed, he began to kick off his blanket. His mouth opened like a freshly-hatched robin’s and his cry sounded like one too. His head tossed side to side, searching. Needing. Me. My comfort.
But I couldn’t soothe him. Couldn’t move my arms to even touch him. I’m sorry, my unspoken apology never reached his ears. I pulled my knees up to my chest. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want any of this.
Tears streaked down the rigid muscles of my face. And still the baby cried.
Beep. Beep. Beep. I sprung out of my bed like a taut wire. My heart pounding, breath came fast. It was just a dream. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair. The horrible crying— the baby, just a dream.
Air whooshed out my mouth. Head hung between my knees. Somehow I felt more exhausted than I did before I went to bed.
Longing to pull the covers over my head, curl up to the warmth of Darrin’s body, but the green digits of my alarm clock blared 5:02 a.m. Like it or not, time to get up.
Staying quiet for Darrin was difficult. The effects of the dream cursed through my body. I had a hard time pulling on my sports bra and running shoes without shaking.
Good grief, Catherine, it was just a baby. You’d think my nightmares were about the Grim Reaper or something.
A run. Yes, a good run was exactly what I needed. Sweat the adrenaline out of my body.
Minutes later, the exercise room in the lowest level of our condo greeted me. As usual, no one else was up this early. The cleaning staff left the lights on for me. But the room’s emptiness only deepened the dark hole in my chest that the crying baby had knocked into me.
Forget it.
I fit the earplugs of my IPod into my ears and cranked up the volume to “American Woman.”
Several songs later, I looked down at the treadmill dash.
589 calories. 5.3 miles. 34 min 35 seconds.
The cuticle of my pointer finger turned white as I pushed the red up arrow. The treadmill quickened. Seven and a half miles per hour. Hot pink and white Nikes dashed over the imported complex cotton belt. Eight and three eights. Faster. Sweat streamed down my temples and dripped off my nose like salty rain drops.
Faster. Eight miles per hour. Eight and a quarter. Only half a mile to go now. Come on. Eight and a half. Heart pounded so fast. Lungs screamed. Legs whipped. Nine miles per hour. Move. Endorphin’s released somewhere in my brain. No thoughts. No open robin’s mouth. Only uninhibited speed. Freedom.
6.1 miles. Yes. Done. Fingertip pushed the down arrow and toes squished in the Nikes to a comfortable walk. Took a blue towel to my forehead. Sweat drops splattered like liquid silver on the black belt. Felt so good. Draped the towel over the handrails. Heartbeat slowed. 110 beats per minute. Stretched each calf, long blonde hair swinging over my shoulder, the tips wet.
Checked the clock. 5:47 a.m. Still alone in the workout room. Darrin’s body was warm and sleeping, his tight chest rising and falling under Egyptian cotton sheets somewhere above me, but I wasn’t finished yet.
Spine curled back, each vertebra touching the big, blue exercise ball. Hands behind my head, palms touched the tips of my ears. My mouth made an “oh” as air rushed out and my abs contracted, lifting my upper body parallel with the ground. The fan in the corner of the room made my armpits tingle as the moisture cooled. 5 reps. 10. No words to think of. No reports to analyze. Just muscles working. Air moving. At least, for now.
5:54 a.m. In an hour and half the board meeting would start. It was a big deal. I was to present the projected plan for phase two of the nation’s third largest shopping center that was under construction just twenty minutes away from my condo on the north side of New York. Shops at Riviera had been my baby for the last three years. Couldn’t blow it now. Reviewed the teasers and tag lines I had practiced all week with each flex of my abdomen. “Brought on all the big national chains. Exponential growth. Projected sales increases of 21%.”
Over and over. This I did so I wouldn’t have to think about what really made my heart trip: the Hopkins Annual Charity Gala. Darrin was to be a key speaker. An honorary guest. It was a big achievement. That’s not what I was worried about. Smiling in my Isaac Mizrahi designer gown, tapping the point of my Gucci heals against the table, while controlling the effect of the wine, was something I could handle. It’s what I was made for: fresh water pearls dangling on my ears, a sling of soft silver around my neck and a jewel of jade just at the tip of my cleavage. That jewelry fit me like a faceted crown, but there was one piece that wouldn’t fit: a ring made of diamonds meant for only one thing.
How could I prevent it from happening? A warming sensation concentrated upon my stomach. What could I say to him? Sitting up on the ball to take a drink from the water bottle, my reflection in the mirror across the room snagged my attention. Cheeks flushed magenta pink. Brushed blonde bangs out of my eyes that were green and vibrant. Skin smooth, and suntanned, lips bright from pumping blood. Cocked my head. Abs were tight. Stomach, hips and legs were smooth, slender, strong. Would have to be sure to make it to Pan’s Yoga class next week to keep it that way. My life. My way. My boyfriend- I’d keep it that way.
He got me our condo overlooking the park with a view that even the Sononnalp would envy. Not only did it have a retro Elaine Griffin style front room, but it checked off the last mark on my seven year plan. Yes, my seven year plan. That was what was so important to me. Everything so under control. So planned.
Lowered myself down on a navy-blue mat. Full suspension sit-ups. The tips of my manicured nails touching my scalp, I could feel the muscles and tendons in my neck flex and contract. Seven years to graduate from prestigious Northeastern top of my class with a masters degree in Business Communication, land a flashy job at a forward-moving company and get a condo in Carnegie Hall in the upper east side of Manhattan. Two years ago, all were accomplished save the condo part and I soon realized that coming from a middle-class background I still did not have the proper social connections despite my success in the corporate sector. That was where Darrin came in. He was born into a family with a long Ivy League history. Getting the condo took less effort than a blink of his long brown eyelashes.
Did he feel superior to me? I don’t know.
65 reps. 70. My stomach was taut under the skin. Come on. 25 more. Besides, I had a fetish for the city. It moved for me. Or so it seemed. The blaring of cab horns, the rush of delivery trucks, the smells of wet pavement and New York style hot dogs, the sophisticated men that turned to watch me pass, all of these existed for my delight. I respected its calloused roughness tinged with a welcome embrace that gathered any and all into it.
Anyone. Yes. Even the ragged homeless man. His sign came to mind as I pushed the air out of my lungs.
“Countdown to the End of the World: 31 days. Pray to Jesus. If you don’t believe in prayer, give me $3 and I’ll pray for you.”
The cardboard was tattered at the edges and stained from the previous night’s rainstorm, causing the letters to run like the black mascara of a drama mask. His wrinkled, filthy palm was cupped and weighted, as sacred as the Holy Grail itself. Brown finger nails pleading for a spare nickel or dollar, or $3 in this case. I took a calculated step away from him, hoping I didn’t get dirt on my brand-new, fire-engine-red Prada heels. They were so wickedly glorious.
His ancient, cloudy-gray eyes looked up at my shinning, gold-chained handbag like a beaten-puppy’s. Don’t even think about it, Mr. But then my cell phone buzzed and all thoughts about the tattered bum with his fatalistic cardboard warning were driven from my mind like a brakeless freight train.
150 sit-ups. Stopped. Took another sip of water. It was lukewarm now. Why were so many people concerned with end of the world? My life was enough to think about. 5:59. Yes, Darrin was practical. He would see the nonsensicalness of pushing our relationship. Maybe he’d let me trade the rock in for a new handbag. That’d be nice.
6:02 a.m. Overhead, the florescent lights flickered twice.
Weird. Maybe an electrical short or something.
I should go upstairs and take a shower. Call maintenance about the short. I put my hoodie on and stood.
The floor trembled through the rubber soles of my Nikes. I tried to steady myself. Maybe I overdid it this morning. I tried to clear my head. Maybe I just need a drink.
The water bottle in the treadmill cup holder rattled softly. Is this an earthquake? I’d never been in one before. An earthquake in New York? Maybe the construction had started on 75th street. But it was six in the morning. A little early for that.
The trembling turned to shaking. Vibrations shot up my claves, my hips, my arms. A low rumbling sound came up from the floor.
I toppled to the left, my arms flailing out, unable to keep my balance. I hit the side of a cycling machine. Pain jolted up my right arm as it braced the impact.
The floor shook underneath my body never allowing me to get hold of it. What the heck is happening? The bum’s sign flashed in my mind. End of the world.
From my position on the floor, I realized the equipment was shifting and sliding. I gripped onto the seat of the cycling machine, but it too was moving, as though the room had been tipped on its side.
My next thought was terrorist attack. The twin towers. The whole city tumbling down.
The rumbling became deafening. My ears rang. Like my head had been stuck in a fishbowl. I didn’t even hear the crash of the TV as it fell to the floor. The lights stayed on just long enough for me to see the ceiling in the right corner of the room start to crack.
A scream ripped out of my throat but I didn’t hear it. There was no where I could go, nothing I could do fast enough as the ceiling collapsed.
Something smashed into my face, knocking me backward. All was blackness.