Autumn: One
Timothy Tang
Despite the arrogant, uninviting, cold weather, nothing would stop Autumn from marching onto the beaches, tossing off her multi-coloured flip flops, and observe the gentle waves smooth the wet sand with tender pats in perfect tempo. She would carry a picnic basket decorated with everyday organics from flora to fuchsia; within the confines were a freshly home-baked loaf of cheese bread and a small 512ml bottle of lemon spritzer. This was all part of a daily ritual which would commence precisely at the dawn (the exact time differing from each day) and would last for the greater portion of the morning. It was not uncommon for her to extend the practice for longer periods of time as she would usually lose herself in the harmony of the sun’s warmth and the ocean’s quench. If she wasn’t running up and down Race Point Beach, Autumn could be found balancing on the rock path high above the parched sand and glistening shallows. In the fall however, rarely would she not be laying in the shelter of one of the many maple trees as they slowly unravelled before her feet. It was during this season that she would spend the light of days describing her thoughts through character, setting, plot and emotion.
One particular morning, a great gallop could be heard from a distance as British redcoats lined in formation just outside her front door. Autumn took no time at all to reach for her journal and jumping down the entire flight of stairs where she soon found herself sitting on the porch recording every minute and detail of the action. Everything from the smoke from the muskets to the barely visible bloodstains on the red jackets made it onto one of the two hundred and thirty pages in Autumn’s periodical.
“Bloody Americans! Every single one of ‘em!” yelled out a British private as Autumn tended to a bullet wound in his left bicep.
“Hold still would you?” She went onto treat the wound.
“I’m sorry my dear, I do not know where my manners have gone,” he smiled awkwardly, trying to make light of the situation. Autumn replied similarly, but only going onto tick the wounded soldier even more. “Curse ‘em all! Curse ‘em all!” He shouted to the heavens as he shrugged her away with a great push.
Autumn was shocked at first, but soon recollected herself, “Sir, if you don’t keep still, it’ll only be a matter of time before you bleed to death, alon-“
Autumn stared at the unfinished word for a moment, realizing the poor man’s fate if she were to leave his side. She felt compassion for everything, including the very characters she created in her work.
“Sir, I do not want another motionless soldier lying on the dirt, neither does your family.” He looked at her with wide open eyes.
“My family... if only...” he struggled to pronounce. He began to weep as did the sky, “let me be girl, let me be...”
Autumn placed down the quill and ink filled pages by her beside, as she slowly revealed her eyes and tears.
The rhythm rippled through my body, soul, and mind. It was the perfect mix of harmonies that filled the hall with a chorus from the heavens. It was a sanctuary, a haven, my home. Nowhere else did I feel so at peace and focused in “the here and now”. I breathed in deeply. I was here. The bass boomed under my feet; the drum’s snare snapped as clear as thunder; the piano player lays out a chord, highlighting the root, major third and nine to create a calming tone that keeps the audience wanting more. Inspired, I sat down in a pew and started to write. In my head, I painted an image so deep that even the philosophers of the century could not fully portray. I stopped, took another breath, and put down the pen that had cultivated the fruit of my labour. I closed my eyes, and listened to the melodies of my writing.
I spend most of these days observing. I especially enjoy observing people enjoying themselves. In one corner of my eye, someone is sipping hot cocoa, taking pleasure in the company of another. They smile, their eyes lock, nothing else seems to matter to them. In the other, a mother is tending to her most precious child, and the father making exhilarating conversation with his nephew. They smile. Directly in front of me, a large crowd of people are all laughing. Every. Single. One. They are heading towards the town centre for a most pleasurable evening of theatrical antics and some highly influential drinks. They smile too. I sit on the hard pavement, my back against the side of a lofty office building. People must be smiling in there. Sometimes, I wish, I could smile too. I close my eyes for a second, sometimes two, rarely three. When I open them, it is raining heavily. Thick clouds pile the sky, and Mother Nature is definitely not in the welcoming mood. The streets are deserted, everyone is smiling indoors. Not a sign of life, but one, her. Her clothes are torn, her face… as if it was foreshadowing. She wields a knife, clenching onto it tightly, and slowly, step by step, she comes towards me. The knife is stained with many things. Distrust, dishonesty, and discontent. Doubt, disturbance, and distress. Disbelief, disillusion, and desperation. I want to tell her that I loved her, but nothing could stop what was to happen. She weeps, but I almost couldn’t tell. Her tears are invisible. I wish mine were too. She definitely isn’t smiling. She stops at my feet, still holding onto the knife. I close my eyes once more, this time, for longer. My heart is pounding, but I do not flinch, not even in the slight. One Second Goes by, and another and one more. My eyes reveal themselves. I am blind at first. The couple takes off to somewhere else; the family is meeting another for a large reunion and the mob marches like ants onto the intercity bus. They are still smiling. Smiling
Person A falls in love with Person B. Person B receieves the honor and returns the love presented by Person A. Person A and B take their time to explore the relationship between them and cherish what they can. Person A grows tired of Person B while Person B is unsure about what the future holds for Person A and B. Person C enters the story and Person A is taken by such an event. Person A communicates with Person C and Person B is left out of this section of the paragraph. Person A and Person C feel like they should furthur explore the possibitlities of a relationship and Person A and C leave Person B out of the story altogether. Person B is left to wander alone search for a potential replacement for Person A as his part of the story is left empty and unattended. Eventually Person A and C realize their misconceptions of each other and leave their parts of the story out of the picture. Person B looks at Person A with a grim face, simply thinking to himself, "If only love was as easy as ABC"
Humans are born, released, and put into the world as imperfect beings always flawed by human guilt, sin, indulgence, and overall a need to want. If only the world was perfect.. some might sigh, such a utopia to be made in their mind is a distant dream in lala land never to be acheived on the physical world, without the intervention of a higher power or, according to many persons, God.
Humans desire many things, objects, power, wealth, land, knowledge, and a general sense of well being. But most of all, they desire the affection of others according to their own wants. The world does not revolve around a single person, but the unending desire to acheive something so wanted by many in the world.
It is a rare oppurtunity to be content, and should be cherished when the moment arrives.
For some, it is the acheivement of a long life goal, to others, it is earning the respect of everyone around them, and for most, it is finding the one person you are able to cherish your time on this earth for the rest of time.
It wont be easy to achieve such prospects, yet the rewards are endless, but, in most cases, short lived.
If only life was ABC
Part I: Memories
The war was supposed to end yesterday... Nothing seemed to change in the world, nor did it really matter... Resistance was futile and only strong managed to cope with the horrors of the night and the walking dead. The fires still burn as homemade explosives are used in self defence, and sometimes self-infliction. It is usually cold at night, but the fires attract them, making sleep almost impossible. I try to sleep during the day, but the threat will not sleep, nor do they need to. World governments crumble one by one with each passing day, and the world’s military power disappears in a blink of an eye. Life is scarce these days, but I live on to tell about my tales.
Today is another day, ‘another day...,’ I tell myself, another day of death, pain, and a countdown to the time I will finally be put to rest in my grave. I remind myself about the past, and what I used to have; a job, a house, wife, three kids, and even the odd vacation here and there. I had ‘the good life’ as one might refer to as, needless to say I was happy with what I had; I never did want it to change.
I was waiting for one of my company’s business partners; Joe, George, or whatever his name was. I was lounging on the reception area’s couch, reading the paper and helping myself to a cup of Americano, when I heard a few mutters across the room. It was the receptionist and the boss’s personal secretary; they were discussing something on the news it had seemed. I wondered what the fuss was about, and turned to the front page that I had skipped ahead of to read the daily sports article. On the front was a cartoon depicting the Roswell incident decades ago. The headline read, ‘What you don’t know,’ and it smaller subtitles, ‘-courtesy of the US Government.’ The article told about a leak in a confidential letter sent to the president. The letter had been traced back by unknown investigators to an unknown address in Nevada. Suspicions rose among those he first knew about this and went to decode the letter that was sent. The private investigators eventually came out to the public just yesterday to announce their collected findings of the private message. They were to hold a press conference later on the date of Tuesday, March 15th 2019 when their offices were raided by New York City police. The two investigators were taken into custody for questioning and were charged with treason against the US government. On the 2nd page were people’s opinions on the subject, and the results were of no surprise. Many people are now withdrawing support from the government in fear that they may turn ‘corrupt’; while others voiced that it was of no right for the investigators to ‘peek’ in on private matters of other people, including the subject of today. Most of the population however, were simply apathetic and went about their daily lives as usual on this apparent not-so-eventful Wednesday afternoon. “Creighton!” I heard my name as the main office doors swung open. It was George after all.
These days, things are different. I never carried a gun with me, nor did I ever own or want to fire one. I was never an irrational American civilian who acted upon gut rather than thought. I had found the small .357 sig cartridge which incidentally fit perfectly into the Glock 17 pistol that was found not a foot away. I had never fired a gun before, but my life now depended on a natural instinct.
“C’mon son, just pull it back,” I followed the instructions carefully; I had never felt such a rush before in my life. I pulled, closed my eyes, and released. A satisfying sound of a direct hit filled my mind. “Good hit!” the balloon was no longer filled with water, nor will it ever hold anything else, ever. It was my first day with any sort of a weapon, an old sling shot that was passed down for generations from my father, and his line. The rubber strips had been replaced over the years, but the integrity of the wood still held firm.
I searched through my closet for it, unable to remember where I had left it in my haste. The mess of clothes and supplies always seemed to work as a system of organization for me; probably why I was still alive...perhaps... I finally found the small shoe box that once held my first pair at size 2. I pried open the cover that was sealed tight with super glue as a sort of time capsule till when I was older. It was the first time I had looked through the objects of this treasure cache since twenty years ago. In the box were several pictures of me my parents had taken of me at the many ‘first times’ of my childhood. I scanned them quickly; ‘first day out of the womb, first day at kindergarten, first day at baseball practice...’ and then finally, I found the picture I was looking for.
“Craig!” people used ‘Craig’ in preference rather than my actual name, it was simpler after all, to say and spell; an economically productive, one syllable, simple transformation. I turned around to gaze into the eyes of her. I still remember those eyes to this date; a perfect combination of blue and green to attract one’s attention such as myself. Her smile as well, perfectly symmetrical on all angles, and the voice that came with it; I could hear harmonies and melody in perfect sync. But to sum it up fairly economically, in a one syllable transformation, ‘Rebecca’.
I had lost track of time over the period of which I spent gazing at the picture. I lifted my hand to look at my watch as the hour hand grazed the bottom of the circumference. ‘Another night,’ I thought to myself. Walking over to my old rotten dresser; I had managed to peer out of my apartment window to catch a glimpse of a commotion outside on the streets. This certainly wasn’t going to be another night.
I could hear gunfire outside of the suite as I woke up to another day. I slowly crawled out of the sheets to take a look at the street fifteen stories below me. It must have been the night guard on duty, as it was still only two hours into Friday. I opened my closet to gather what I needed. Slowly, I pieced the one of a kind jigsaw puzzle until it was viewed in its entirety. I carefully place it on the window seal. I peer through the circle of glass, and then fired. The bullet was dead on, as I aimed to take another shot. Soon there were more guards on the street. They held behind a barricade of chunks of metal, debris, and the odd overturned semi.
“What the hell is going on outside?”
“More of them,” I took another shot as soon as I could. Yaris closed the door behind him as he left the room, swearing under his breath.
“And I thought I would be getting some sleep tonight,” Rachel leaned over the window sill, like she did on most nights. Her sarcastic tone lightened the mood just a little. “How many are we talking here?”
“Two hundred, maybe three,” I quickly glanced.
“There are more of them every night, I wonder how long we are going to last…” it was a rhetorical question, especially with the inactivity of government troops in the area. The firefight was over fairly quickly. We regrouped as soon as we could at the main lobby of the hotel.
“Role call, state your assigned aliases, specific order, you all know the drill.” The men and women of 61st street hotel lined up in order. There stood 12 of us, each, a different code name; the names mostly resembled their role in the party and personal traits.
“Overseer.” (Charlotte Noel)
“Talker.” (Malcolm West)
“All nighter.” (Ted Bell)
“Keg Master.” (Akemi Yoshida)
“Glass eyes.” (Blake Rink)
“Tank.” (Kgosi Koroma)
“Leapfrog.” (Jun Lu)
“Campfire.” (Jason Rink)
“Shooter.” (Me)
“Steering.” (Jack Rent)
“Red Cross.” (Rachael Moon)
And last but not least…
“Full House.” (Frank Weld)
No one really understood why we used codenames rather then our actual names, but it definitely helps the new comers.
The sun rose between the once crowded streets of Broadway and Main, but not today, like most other days. These streets were never safe, and they certainly aren’t safe these days ether. I try to understand why no one goes out anymore; it isn’t all bad these days, you just have to be careful. The cafes in Soho never open, nor do the churches or the businesses of New York City. ‘Where did everyone go?’ I ask myself.
The day was clear for most of the morning, a true blessing to the 61st company of New York. The day went on as one would expect when finding him or herself in a worldwide holocaust, struggling to survive and get through the day to see another dawn.
The creatures slept during the day, or at least they chose to remain unseen. But the threat was always present. Government forces were to be avoided as well. The white house had ordered full lock down on as many infected areas as they could, and encouraged other world leaders to follow. Other remaining armies on the face of the earth were ordered to ‘cleanse’ anything that moved within these areas. It was suicide to wander towards the borders of the lockdown zone, as the areas are heavily guarded with military and police units, carrying more then enough firepower to fend off any threat before them. New York was never truly a safe place, housing the world’s most organized crime. The title still stands.
“What’ve we got here?” Charlotte observed the nearby incident not too far up 42nd street. Miss Noel was a young woman at the age of twenty-four and was previously working for human resource management of a small manufacturing company stationed in the suburbs of Brooklyn. She had found herself star-crossed when they blew the bridges to contain the civilian population on a routine check-up with her sick Grandmother living in an “after-retirement-complex” as she would refer to as. Charlotte never did like her all too well, but was obligated as much of her family’s debt had been repaid by the old hag herself. There were very few people they could’ve evacuated on that fateful day…
“What the hell is going on?!” I could hear an enraged civilian in the backdrop. The cops had quarantined part of a large part of the city, every street from 76th to the Harlem district. Never had I been so close to a police blockade before.
“Nothing to see here folks, please return to your homes and let us continue our work,” the young lady officer stood behind the yellow tape. Her facial expression predicted that this was nothing more then a minor inconvenience to the city.
“What seems to be the problem here Craig?” Charlie Dent finally decided to come out of the office.
“Seems to be a quarantine operation sir, or at least that’s what they label it as,” we could see more cruisers rolling in from Main Street to the 66th parallel.
“That’s odd, why didn’t they evacuate the people living in those homes?” He had obviously been watching for quite sometime, he was situated in a decent sized townhouse two blocks down the road at the corner of 64th and 5th avenue. “Fascinating…” He took another glance, “possibly a biohazard? This could be serious…” He was always an imaginative one.
“What have we got here?” Jack got out of the truck for closer examination.
“Another poor soul as it seems…” Kgosi towered above the victim; of what seemed to be, bullet wounds.
“Impossible… unless….” I was quickly interrupted.
“It’s Five thirty, we best be heading back,” Miss Moon was always the cautious type; but indeed, it was already getting dark. I looked over at the body, still curious as to what could’ve brought down the victim and forced him to his bloody end.
“We’d best take this one back to the lab,” we quickly agreed and stowed away the luggage in the back of the truck safely tucked in a black body bag, the blood still dripping off the unzipped teeth.
“Sir, please step away from the yellow--,”
“You expect me to leave me wife and two children in that apartment?! What the hell is going on anyway?!” The man was around his mid thirties, had three daughters and a lovely wife. Frank was as stubborn as usual, but no one could blame him; what would you do when you find out your family has been quarantined off because of an apparent bio hazard?
“Sir, everything’s under control, the area should--,” the officer was stunned; everyone was, and in a matter of seconds the homes on the corner of 66th and 5th instantly malformed into a cloud of dust and moulder.
The sunset was a refreshing break from the day’s roving. The glimmer on the city’s skyscrapers reflected off each other, filling the dark streets below with the last bit of light for the day. It wasn’t usually safe to laze on the hotel’s roof at night, as helicopters would routinely fly through on patrol around the park. They were on the lookout for breeding grounds, and an occasional bomber would make a fly by to drop if its payload.
“Care for a drink?” Frank was always the social type, and never lost it. He was in his late fifties and age hadn’t played a part in his character. If there was a phrase out there to describe Frank fairly briefly, “forever young” might be an understatement.
“Just like most nights Frank,” I said with a grin.
“Damn capital hill bureaucrats, if only they had been infected first,” he pointed to a black hawk chopper in the distance. “And that is why I don’t vote,” he began to rant, and I quickly lost any trace of thought or familiarity towards the topic of conversation.
The National Guard was all over the scene in an instant, a chaotic painting of despair and turmoil, a masterpiece of disaster and mayhem. Any scourge was preferable to this, please, any other. Frank had an abysmal expression, the crowd was in an uproar, the building still burning before my eyes. People screaming, and not a moment of peace in the frantic disorder. Some officers about to enter the building before the blast were thrown metres from the epicentre, sometimes in more then one place. It was a trailer from the next horror movie, and it opened that night.
The night was quiet tonight, ‘peace at last’, I thought to myself. Rachael was on watch tonight, and the dawn was to come soon. I always was a nighthawk, and almost independent of sleep. But then again, who can sleep in times like these? I marched over to the dresser once more, to gaze at the photo. I missed her, and I still do.
“C’mon Craig! Let’s go!” She wouldn’t let go of my hand, or my ear. I had promised her to take her to the florist to pick up some lilies for our friend’s wedding. I never understood why I needed to accompany her, but that’s an argument I might never win. She immediately marched over to the florist to get a second opinion on color choice, ‘so why am I here again?’ And then in hit me. I soon after handed over my debit card for the necessary transaction. Oh the things I would have done against my will for her.
“Do you think we will ever get married?” she asked as we stopped at the traffic light. I now had time to ponder the question, but realized there was only one acceptable answer to such a question.
“Perhaps, where will we have it?” the marriage, or at least that’s what I hoped to imply.
“Florence doesn’t sound like a bad area,” if you had the money.
“If we had the money.”
“Of course we will, I made sure of that,” so are we switching roles all of a sudden? Why don’t you go ahead and put on the suit then while I stay home, moping to myself about how fat I’ll probably get.
“Really now?” she was only a desk clerk after all; the girl must be damn good at pleasing the boss. I hoped I was wrong. It turns out she had been working another job at a local bookstore, managing the shelves and helping them sort out for the coming Christmas season. I soon learn that she had been busy with two other small part time jobs, and to think she was avoiding me for the past month. I felt guilty in a sense, for a change. I wouldn’t let go of her after.
I was briefly interrupted by Jun, and immediately an unrecognizable dialect flowed from his mouth like water to sandpaper. It was two in the morning, and his yells w could be heard from the four corners of the earth.
“Jun, what the hell you yelling ‘bout? Kgosi burst into the room, picking up the considerably smaller twenty-four year old exchange student from Nara. He wasn’t brusque, he just lacked grace. It didn’t help the situation; Jun was now in a high pitched frenzy.
“Put him down Koro!” Rachael exclaimed as she barged through my door. He did eventually, and when the dust settled finally, Rachael translated the obscured message. There was an awkward silence; something definitely wasn’t right.
The nights to come
Timothy Tang
Part I: Memories
The war was supposed to end yesterday... Nothing seemed to change in the world, nor did it really matter... Resistance was futile and only strong managed to cope with the horrors of the night and the walking dead. The fires still burn as homemade explosives are used in self defence, and sometimes self-infliction. It is usually cold at night, but the fires attract them, making sleep almost impossible. I try to sleep during the day, but the threat will not sleep, nor do they need to. World governments crumble one by one with each passing day, and the world’s military power disappears in a blink of an eye. Life is scarce these days, but I live on to tell about my tales.
Today is another day, ‘another day...,’ I tell myself, another day of death, pain, and a countdown to the time I will finally be put to rest in my grave. I remind myself about the past, and what I used to have; a job, a house, wife, three kids, and even the odd vacation here and there. I had ‘the good life’ as one might refer to as, needless to say I was happy with what I had; I never did want it to change.
I was waiting for one of my company’s business partners; Joe, George, or whatever his name was. I was lounging on the reception area’s couch, reading the paper and helping myself to a cup of Americano, when I heard a few mutters across the room. It was the receptionist and the boss’s personal secretary; they were discussing something on the news it had seemed. I wondered what the fuss was about, and turned to the front page that I had skipped ahead of to read the daily sports article. On the front was a cartoon depicting the Roswell incident decades ago. The headline read, ‘What you don’t know,’ and it smaller subtitles, ‘-courtesy of the US Government.’ The article told about a leak in a confidential letter sent to the president. The letter had been traced back by unknown investigators to an unknown address in Nevada. Suspicions rose among those he first knew about this and went to decode the letter that was sent. The private investigators eventually came out to the public just yesterday to announce their collected findings of the private message. They were to hold a press conference later on the date of Tuesday, March 15th 2019 when their offices were raided by New York City police. The two investigators were taken into custody for questioning and were charged with treason against the US government. On the 2nd page were people’s opinions on the subject, and the results were of no surprise. Many people are now withdrawing support from the government in fear that they may turn ‘corrupt’; while others voiced that it was of no right for the investigators to ‘peek’ in on private matters of other people, including the subject of today. Most of the population however, were simply apathetic and went about their daily lives as usual on this apparent not-so-eventful Wednesday afternoon. “Creighton!” I heard my name as the main office doors swung open. It was George after all.
These days, things are different. I never carried a gun with me, nor did I ever own or want to fire one. I was never an irrational American civilian who acted upon gut rather than thought. I had found the small .357 sig cartridge which incidentally fit perfectly into the Glock 17 pistol that was found not a foot away. I had never fired a gun before, but my life now depended on a natural instinct.
“C’mon son, just pull it back,” I followed the instructions carefully; I had never felt such a rush before in my life. I pulled, closed my eyes, and released. A satisfying sound of a direct hit filled my mind. “Good hit!” the balloon was no longer filled with water, nor will it ever hold anything else, ever. It was my first day with any sort of a weapon, an old sling shot that was passed down for generations from my father, and his line. The rubber strips had been replaced over the years, but the integrity of the wood still held firm.
I searched through my closet for it, unable to remember where I had left it in my haste. The mess of clothes and supplies always seemed to work as a system of organization for me; probably why I was still alive...perhaps... I finally found the small shoe box that once held my first pair at size 2. I pried open the cover that was sealed tight with super glue as a sort of time capsule till when I was older. It was the first time I had looked through the objects of this treasure cache since twenty years ago. In the box were several pictures of me my parents had taken of me at the many ‘first times’ of my childhood. I scanned them quickly; ‘first day out of the womb, first day at kindergarten, first day at baseball practice...’ and then finally, I found the picture I was looking for.
“Craig!” people used ‘Craig’ in preference rather than my actual name, it was simpler after all, to say and spell; an economically productive, one syllable, simple transformation. I turned around to gaze into the eyes of her. I still remember those eyes to this date; a perfect combination of blue and green to attract one’s attention such as myself. Her smile as well, perfectly symmetrical on all angles, and the voice that came with it; I could hear harmonies and melody in perfect sync. But to sum it up fairly economically, in a one syllable transformation, ‘Rebecca’.
I had lost track of time over the period of which I spent gazing at the picture. I lifted my hand to look at my watch as the hour hand grazed the bottom of the circumference. ‘Another night,’ I thought to myself. Walking over to my old rotten dresser; I had managed to peer out of my apartment window to catch a glimpse of a commotion outside on the streets. This certainly wasn’t going to be another night.
I could hear gunfire outside of the apartment as I woke up to another day. I slowly crawled out of the sheets to take a look at the street fifteen stories below me. It must have been the night guard on duty, as it was still only two hours into Friday. I opened my closet to gather what I needed. Slowly, I pieced the one of a kind jigsaw puzzle until it was viewed in its entirety. I carefully place it on the window seal. I peer through the circle of glass, and then fired. The bullet was dead on, as I aimed to take another shot. Soon there were more guards on the street. They held behind a barricade of chunks of metal, debris, and the odd overturned semi.
“What the hell is going on outside?”
“More of them,” I took another shot as soon as I could. Yaris closed the door behind him as he left the room, swearing under his breath.
“And I thought I would be getting some sleep tonight,” Rachel leaned over the window sill, like she did on most nights. Her sarcastic tone lightened the mood just a little. “How many are we talking here?”
“From estimation, maybe two hundred,” I quickly glanced and added.
“There are more of them every night, I wonder how long we are going to last…” it was a rhetorical question, especially with the inactivity of government troops in the area. The firefight was over fairly quickly. We regrouped as soon as we could at the main lobby of the hotel.
“Role call, state your assigned codename, specific order, you all know the drill.” The men and women of 61st street motel lined up in order. There stood 12 of us, each, a different code name; the names mostly resembled their role in the party and personal traits.
“Overseer.” (Charlotte Noel)
“Talker.” (Malcolm West)
“All nighter.” (Ted Bell)
“Keg Master.” (Akemi Yoshida)
“Glass eyes.” (Blake Rink)
“Tank.” (Kgosi Koroma)
“Leapfrog.” (Jun Lu)
“Campfire.” (Jason Rink)
“Shooter.” (Me)
“Steering.” (Jack Rent)
“Red Cross.” (Rachael Moon)
And last but not least…
“Full House.” (Frank Weld)
No one really understood why we used codenames rather then our actual names, but it definitely helps the new comers.
The sun rose between the once crowded streets of Broadway and Main, but not today, like most other days. These streets were never safe, and they certainly aren’t safe these days ether. I try to understand why no one goes out anymore; it isn’t all bad these days, you just have to be careful. The cafes in Soho never open, nor do the churches or the businesses of New York City. ‘Where did everyone go?’ I ask myself.
The day was clear for most of the morning, a true blessing to the 61st company of New York. The day went on as one would expect when finding him or herself in a worldwide holocaust, struggling to survive and get through the day to see another dawn.
The creatures slept during the day, or at least they chose to remain unseen. But the threat was always present. Government forces were to be avoided as well. The white house had ordered full lock down on as many infected areas as they could, and encouraged other world leaders to follow. Other remaining armies on the face of the earth were ordered to ‘cleanse’ anything that moved within these areas.
Timothy Tang
17
Rockdige Secondery
Jan 13th 1992
[[ The Wishlist ]]
I could use a new set of headphones...
More guitars?
Maybe a grand piano...
and the will power to write my books
If only life was a fantasy story...
A weekend away with my extended family perhaps? (You know who you are) (^_^)
Fantasy of Darkness (A book project of mine)
Da creater
[[ Don't talk crap, it's ****ng rude ]]
Autumn: One
Timothy Tang
Despite the arrogant, uninviting, cold weather, nothing would stop Autumn from marching onto the beaches, tossing off her multi-coloured flip flops, and observe the gentle waves smooth the wet sand with tender pats in perfect tempo. She would carry a picnic basket decorated with everyday organics from flora to fuchsia; within the confines were a freshly home-baked loaf of cheese bread and a small 512ml bottle of lemon spritzer. This was all part of a daily ritual which would commence precisely at the dawn (the exact time differing from each day) and would last for the greater portion of the morning. It was not uncommon for her to extend the practice for longer periods of time as she would usually lose herself in the harmony of the sun’s warmth and the ocean’s quench. If she wasn’t running up and down Race Point Beach, Autumn could be found balancing on the rock path high above the parched sand and glistening shallows. In the fall however, rarely would she not be laying in the shelter of one of the many maple trees as they slowly unravelled before her feet. It was during this season that she would spend the light of days describing her thoughts through character, setting, plot and emotion.
One particular morning, a great gallop could be heard from a distance as British redcoats lined in formation just outside her front door. Autumn took no time at all to reach for her journal and jumping down the entire flight of stairs where she soon found herself sitting on the porch recording every minute and detail of the action. Everything from the smoke from the muskets to the barely visible bloodstains on the red jackets made it onto one of the two hundred and thirty pages in Autumn’s periodical.
“Bloody Americans! Every single one of ‘em!” yelled out a British private as Autumn tended to a bullet wound in his left bicep.
“Hold still would you?” She went onto treat the wound.
“I’m sorry my dear, I do not know where my manners have gone,” he smiled awkwardly, trying to make light of the situation. Autumn replied similarly, but only going onto tick the wounded soldier even more. “Curse ‘em all! Curse ‘em all!” He shouted to the heavens as he shrugged her away with a great push.
Autumn was shocked at first, but soon recollected herself, “Sir, if you don’t keep still, it’ll only be a matter of time before you bleed to death, alon-“
Autumn stared at the unfinished word for a moment, realizing the poor man’s fate if she were to leave his side. She felt compassion for everything, including the very characters she created in her work.
“Sir, I do not want another motionless soldier lying on the dirt, neither does your family.” He looked at her with wide open eyes.
“My family... if only...” he struggled to pronounce. He began to weep as did the sky, “let me be girl, let me be...”
Autumn placed down the quill and ink filled pages by her beside, as she slowly revealed her eyes and tears.
The rhythm rippled through my body, soul, and mind. It was the perfect mix of harmonies that filled the hall with a chorus from the heavens. It was a sanctuary, a haven, my home. Nowhere else did I feel so at peace and focused in “the here and now”. I breathed in deeply. I was here. The bass boomed under my feet; the drum’s snare snapped as clear as thunder; the piano player lays out a chord, highlighting the root, major third and nine to create a calming tone that keeps the audience wanting more. Inspired, I sat down in a pew and started to write. In my head, I painted an image so deep that even the philosophers of the century could not fully portray. I stopped, took another breath, and put down the pen that had cultivated the fruit of my labour. I closed my eyes, and listened to the melodies of my writing.
I spend most of these days observing. I especially enjoy observing people enjoying themselves. In one corner of my eye, someone is sipping hot cocoa, taking pleasure in the company of another. They smile, their eyes lock, nothing else seems to matter to them. In the other, a mother is tending to her most precious child, and the father making exhilarating conversation with his nephew. They smile. Directly in front of me, a large crowd of people are all laughing. Every. Single. One. They are heading towards the town centre for a most pleasurable evening of theatrical antics and some highly influential drinks. They smile too. I sit on the hard pavement, my back against the side of a lofty office building. People must be smiling in there. Sometimes, I wish, I could smile too. I close my eyes for a second, sometimes two, rarely three. When I open them, it is raining heavily. Thick clouds pile the sky, and Mother Nature is definitely not in the welcoming mood. The streets are deserted, everyone is smiling indoors. Not a sign of life, but one, her. Her clothes are torn, her face… as if it was foreshadowing. She wields a knife, clenching onto it tightly, and slowly, step by step, she comes towards me. The knife is stained with many things. Distrust, dishonesty, and discontent. Doubt, disturbance, and distress. Disbelief, disillusion, and desperation. I want to tell her that I loved her, but nothing could stop what was to happen. She weeps, but I almost couldn’t tell. Her tears are invisible. I wish mine were too. She definitely isn’t smiling. She stops at my feet, still holding onto the knife. I close my eyes once more, this time, for longer. My heart is pounding, but I do not flinch, not even in the slight. One Second Goes by, and another and one more. My eyes reveal themselves. I am blind at first. The couple takes off to somewhere else; the family is meeting another for a large reunion and the mob marches like ants onto the intercity bus. They are still smiling. Smiling
Person A falls in love with Person B. Person B receieves the honor and returns the love presented by Person A. Person A and B take their time to explore the relationship between them and cherish what they can. Person A grows tired of Person B while Person B is unsure about what the future holds for Person A and B. Person C enters the story and Person A is taken by such an event. Person A communicates with Person C and Person B is left out of this section of the paragraph. Person A and Person C feel like they should furthur explore the possibitlities of a relationship and Person A and C leave Person B out of the story altogether. Person B is left to wander alone search for a potential replacement for Person A as his part of the story is left empty and unattended. Eventually Person A and C realize their misconceptions of each other and leave their parts of the story out of the picture. Person B looks at Person A with a grim face, simply thinking to himself, "If only love was as easy as ABC"
Humans are born, released, and put into the world as imperfect beings always flawed by human guilt, sin, indulgence, and overall a need to want. If only the world was perfect.. some might sigh, such a utopia to be made in their mind is a distant dream in lala land never to be acheived on the physical world, without the intervention of a higher power or, according to many persons, God.
Humans desire many things, objects, power, wealth, land, knowledge, and a general sense of well being. But most of all, they desire the affection of others according to their own wants. The world does not revolve around a single person, but the unending desire to acheive something so wanted by many in the world.
It is a rare oppurtunity to be content, and should be cherished when the moment arrives.
For some, it is the acheivement of a long life goal, to others, it is earning the respect of everyone around them, and for most, it is finding the one person you are able to cherish your time on this earth for the rest of time.
It wont be easy to achieve such prospects, yet the rewards are endless, but, in most cases, short lived.
If only life was ABC
Part I: Memories
The war was supposed to end yesterday... Nothing seemed to change in the world, nor did it really matter... Resistance was futile and only strong managed to cope with the horrors of the night and the walking dead. The fires still burn as homemade explosives are used in self defence, and sometimes self-infliction. It is usually cold at night, but the fires attract them, making sleep almost impossible. I try to sleep during the day, but the threat will not sleep, nor do they need to. World governments crumble one by one with each passing day, and the world’s military power disappears in a blink of an eye. Life is scarce these days, but I live on to tell about my tales.
Today is another day, ‘another day...,’ I tell myself, another day of death, pain, and a countdown to the time I will finally be put to rest in my grave. I remind myself about the past, and what I used to have; a job, a house, wife, three kids, and even the odd vacation here and there. I had ‘the good life’ as one might refer to as, needless to say I was happy with what I had; I never did want it to change.
I was waiting for one of my company’s business partners; Joe, George, or whatever his name was. I was lounging on the reception area’s couch, reading the paper and helping myself to a cup of Americano, when I heard a few mutters across the room. It was the receptionist and the boss’s personal secretary; they were discussing something on the news it had seemed. I wondered what the fuss was about, and turned to the front page that I had skipped ahead of to read the daily sports article. On the front was a cartoon depicting the Roswell incident decades ago. The headline read, ‘What you don’t know,’ and it smaller subtitles, ‘-courtesy of the US Government.’ The article told about a leak in a confidential letter sent to the president. The letter had been traced back by unknown investigators to an unknown address in Nevada. Suspicions rose among those he first knew about this and went to decode the letter that was sent. The private investigators eventually came out to the public just yesterday to announce their collected findings of the private message. They were to hold a press conference later on the date of Tuesday, March 15th 2019 when their offices were raided by New York City police. The two investigators were taken into custody for questioning and were charged with treason against the US government. On the 2nd page were people’s opinions on the subject, and the results were of no surprise. Many people are now withdrawing support from the government in fear that they may turn ‘corrupt’; while others voiced that it was of no right for the investigators to ‘peek’ in on private matters of other people, including the subject of today. Most of the population however, were simply apathetic and went about their daily lives as usual on this apparent not-so-eventful Wednesday afternoon. “Creighton!” I heard my name as the main office doors swung open. It was George after all.
These days, things are different. I never carried a gun with me, nor did I ever own or want to fire one. I was never an irrational American civilian who acted upon gut rather than thought. I had found the small .357 sig cartridge which incidentally fit perfectly into the Glock 17 pistol that was found not a foot away. I had never fired a gun before, but my life now depended on a natural instinct.
“C’mon son, just pull it back,” I followed the instructions carefully; I had never felt such a rush before in my life. I pulled, closed my eyes, and released. A satisfying sound of a direct hit filled my mind. “Good hit!” the balloon was no longer filled with water, nor will it ever hold anything else, ever. It was my first day with any sort of a weapon, an old sling shot that was passed down for generations from my father, and his line. The rubber strips had been replaced over the years, but the integrity of the wood still held firm.
I searched through my closet for it, unable to remember where I had left it in my haste. The mess of clothes and supplies always seemed to work as a system of organization for me; probably why I was still alive...perhaps... I finally found the small shoe box that once held my first pair at size 2. I pried open the cover that was sealed tight with super glue as a sort of time capsule till when I was older. It was the first time I had looked through the objects of this treasure cache since twenty years ago. In the box were several pictures of me my parents had taken of me at the many ‘first times’ of my childhood. I scanned them quickly; ‘first day out of the womb, first day at kindergarten, first day at baseball practice...’ and then finally, I found the picture I was looking for.
“Craig!” people used ‘Craig’ in preference rather than my actual name, it was simpler after all, to say and spell; an economically productive, one syllable, simple transformation. I turned around to gaze into the eyes of her. I still remember those eyes to this date; a perfect combination of blue and green to attract one’s attention such as myself. Her smile as well, perfectly symmetrical on all angles, and the voice that came with it; I could hear harmonies and melody in perfect sync. But to sum it up fairly economically, in a one syllable transformation, ‘Rebecca’.
I had lost track of time over the period of which I spent gazing at the picture. I lifted my hand to look at my watch as the hour hand grazed the bottom of the circumference. ‘Another night,’ I thought to myself. Walking over to my old rotten dresser; I had managed to peer out of my apartment window to catch a glimpse of a commotion outside on the streets. This certainly wasn’t going to be another night.
I could hear gunfire outside of the suite as I woke up to another day. I slowly crawled out of the sheets to take a look at the street fifteen stories below me. It must have been the night guard on duty, as it was still only two hours into Friday. I opened my closet to gather what I needed. Slowly, I pieced the one of a kind jigsaw puzzle until it was viewed in its entirety. I carefully place it on the window seal. I peer through the circle of glass, and then fired. The bullet was dead on, as I aimed to take another shot. Soon there were more guards on the street. They held behind a barricade of chunks of metal, debris, and the odd overturned semi.
“What the hell is going on outside?”
“More of them,” I took another shot as soon as I could. Yaris closed the door behind him as he left the room, swearing under his breath.
“And I thought I would be getting some sleep tonight,” Rachel leaned over the window sill, like she did on most nights. Her sarcastic tone lightened the mood just a little. “How many are we talking here?”
“Two hundred, maybe three,” I quickly glanced.
“There are more of them every night, I wonder how long we are going to last…” it was a rhetorical question, especially with the inactivity of government troops in the area. The firefight was over fairly quickly. We regrouped as soon as we could at the main lobby of the hotel.
“Role call, state your assigned aliases, specific order, you all know the drill.” The men and women of 61st street hotel lined up in order. There stood 12 of us, each, a different code name; the names mostly resembled their role in the party and personal traits.
“Overseer.” (Charlotte Noel)
“Talker.” (Malcolm West)
“All nighter.” (Ted Bell)
“Keg Master.” (Akemi Yoshida)
“Glass eyes.” (Blake Rink)
“Tank.” (Kgosi Koroma)
“Leapfrog.” (Jun Lu)
“Campfire.” (Jason Rink)
“Shooter.” (Me)
“Steering.” (Jack Rent)
“Red Cross.” (Rachael Moon)
And last but not least…
“Full House.” (Frank Weld)
No one really understood why we used codenames rather then our actual names, but it definitely helps the new comers.
The sun rose between the once crowded streets of Broadway and Main, but not today, like most other days. These streets were never safe, and they certainly aren’t safe these days ether. I try to understand why no one goes out anymore; it isn’t all bad these days, you just have to be careful. The cafes in Soho never open, nor do the churches or the businesses of New York City. ‘Where did everyone go?’ I ask myself.
The day was clear for most of the morning, a true blessing to the 61st company of New York. The day went on as one would expect when finding him or herself in a worldwide holocaust, struggling to survive and get through the day to see another dawn.
The creatures slept during the day, or at least they chose to remain unseen. But the threat was always present. Government forces were to be avoided as well. The white house had ordered full lock down on as many infected areas as they could, and encouraged other world leaders to follow. Other remaining armies on the face of the earth were ordered to ‘cleanse’ anything that moved within these areas. It was suicide to wander towards the borders of the lockdown zone, as the areas are heavily guarded with military and police units, carrying more then enough firepower to fend off any threat before them. New York was never truly a safe place, housing the world’s most organized crime. The title still stands.
“What’ve we got here?” Charlotte observed the nearby incident not too far up 42nd street. Miss Noel was a young woman at the age of twenty-four and was previously working for human resource management of a small manufacturing company stationed in the suburbs of Brooklyn. She had found herself star-crossed when they blew the bridges to contain the civilian population on a routine check-up with her sick Grandmother living in an “after-retirement-complex” as she would refer to as. Charlotte never did like her all too well, but was obligated as much of her family’s debt had been repaid by the old hag herself. There were very few people they could’ve evacuated on that fateful day…
“What the hell is going on?!” I could hear an enraged civilian in the backdrop. The cops had quarantined part of a large part of the city, every street from 76th to the Harlem district. Never had I been so close to a police blockade before.
“Nothing to see here folks, please return to your homes and let us continue our work,” the young lady officer stood behind the yellow tape. Her facial expression predicted that this was nothing more then a minor inconvenience to the city.
“What seems to be the problem here Craig?” Charlie Dent finally decided to come out of the office.
“Seems to be a quarantine operation sir, or at least that’s what they label it as,” we could see more cruisers rolling in from Main Street to the 66th parallel.
“That’s odd, why didn’t they evacuate the people living in those homes?” He had obviously been watching for quite sometime, he was situated in a decent sized townhouse two blocks down the road at the corner of 64th and 5th avenue. “Fascinating…” He took another glance, “possibly a biohazard? This could be serious…” He was always an imaginative one.
“What have we got here?” Jack got out of the truck for closer examination.
“Another poor soul as it seems…” Kgosi towered above the victim; of what seemed to be, bullet wounds.
“Impossible… unless….” I was quickly interrupted.
“It’s Five thirty, we best be heading back,” Miss Moon was always the cautious type; but indeed, it was already getting dark. I looked over at the body, still curious as to what could’ve brought down the victim and forced him to his bloody end.
“We’d best take this one back to the lab,” we quickly agreed and stowed away the luggage in the back of the truck safely tucked in a black body bag, the blood still dripping off the unzipped teeth.
“Sir, please step away from the yellow--,”
“You expect me to leave me wife and two children in that apartment?! What the hell is going on anyway?!” The man was around his mid thirties, had three daughters and a lovely wife. Frank was as stubborn as usual, but no one could blame him; what would you do when you find out your family has been quarantined off because of an apparent bio hazard?
“Sir, everything’s under control, the area should--,” the officer was stunned; everyone was, and in a matter of seconds the homes on the corner of 66th and 5th instantly malformed into a cloud of dust and moulder.
The sunset was a refreshing break from the day’s roving. The glimmer on the city’s skyscrapers reflected off each other, filling the dark streets below with the last bit of light for the day. It wasn’t usually safe to laze on the hotel’s roof at night, as helicopters would routinely fly through on patrol around the park. They were on the lookout for breeding grounds, and an occasional bomber would make a fly by to drop if its payload.
“Care for a drink?” Frank was always the social type, and never lost it. He was in his late fifties and age hadn’t played a part in his character. If there was a phrase out there to describe Frank fairly briefly, “forever young” might be an understatement.
“Just like most nights Frank,” I said with a grin.
“Damn capital hill bureaucrats, if only they had been infected first,” he pointed to a black hawk chopper in the distance. “And that is why I don’t vote,” he began to rant, and I quickly lost any trace of thought or familiarity towards the topic of conversation.
The National Guard was all over the scene in an instant, a chaotic painting of despair and turmoil, a masterpiece of disaster and mayhem. Any scourge was preferable to this, please, any other. Frank had an abysmal expression, the crowd was in an uproar, the building still burning before my eyes. People screaming, and not a moment of peace in the frantic disorder. Some officers about to enter the building before the blast were thrown metres from the epicentre, sometimes in more then one place. It was a trailer from the next horror movie, and it opened that night.
The night was quiet tonight, ‘peace at last’, I thought to myself. Rachael was on watch tonight, and the dawn was to come soon. I always was a nighthawk, and almost independent of sleep. But then again, who can sleep in times like these? I marched over to the dresser once more, to gaze at the photo. I missed her, and I still do.
“C’mon Craig! Let’s go!” She wouldn’t let go of my hand, or my ear. I had promised her to take her to the florist to pick up some lilies for our friend’s wedding. I never understood why I needed to accompany her, but that’s an argument I might never win. She immediately marched over to the florist to get a second opinion on color choice, ‘so why am I here again?’ And then in hit me. I soon after handed over my debit card for the necessary transaction. Oh the things I would have done against my will for her.
“Do you think we will ever get married?” she asked as we stopped at the traffic light. I now had time to ponder the question, but realized there was only one acceptable answer to such a question.
“Perhaps, where will we have it?” the marriage, or at least that’s what I hoped to imply.
“Florence doesn’t sound like a bad area,” if you had the money.
“If we had the money.”
“Of course we will, I made sure of that,” so are we switching roles all of a sudden? Why don’t you go ahead and put on the suit then while I stay home, moping to myself about how fat I’ll probably get.
“Really now?” she was only a desk clerk after all; the girl must be damn good at pleasing the boss. I hoped I was wrong. It turns out she had been working another job at a local bookstore, managing the shelves and helping them sort out for the coming Christmas season. I soon learn that she had been busy with two other small part time jobs, and to think she was avoiding me for the past month. I felt guilty in a sense, for a change. I wouldn’t let go of her after.
I was briefly interrupted by Jun, and immediately an unrecognizable dialect flowed from his mouth like water to sandpaper. It was two in the morning, and his yells w could be heard from the four corners of the earth.
“Jun, what the hell you yelling ‘bout? Kgosi burst into the room, picking up the considerably smaller twenty-four year old exchange student from Nara. He wasn’t brusque, he just lacked grace. It didn’t help the situation; Jun was now in a high pitched frenzy.
“Put him down Koro!” Rachael exclaimed as she barged through my door. He did eventually, and when the dust settled finally, Rachael translated the obscured message. There was an awkward silence; something definitely wasn’t right.
The nights to come
Timothy Tang
Part I: Memories
The war was supposed to end yesterday... Nothing seemed to change in the world, nor did it really matter... Resistance was futile and only strong managed to cope with the horrors of the night and the walking dead. The fires still burn as homemade explosives are used in self defence, and sometimes self-infliction. It is usually cold at night, but the fires attract them, making sleep almost impossible. I try to sleep during the day, but the threat will not sleep, nor do they need to. World governments crumble one by one with each passing day, and the world’s military power disappears in a blink of an eye. Life is scarce these days, but I live on to tell about my tales.
Today is another day, ‘another day...,’ I tell myself, another day of death, pain, and a countdown to the time I will finally be put to rest in my grave. I remind myself about the past, and what I used to have; a job, a house, wife, three kids, and even the odd vacation here and there. I had ‘the good life’ as one might refer to as, needless to say I was happy with what I had; I never did want it to change.
I was waiting for one of my company’s business partners; Joe, George, or whatever his name was. I was lounging on the reception area’s couch, reading the paper and helping myself to a cup of Americano, when I heard a few mutters across the room. It was the receptionist and the boss’s personal secretary; they were discussing something on the news it had seemed. I wondered what the fuss was about, and turned to the front page that I had skipped ahead of to read the daily sports article. On the front was a cartoon depicting the Roswell incident decades ago. The headline read, ‘What you don’t know,’ and it smaller subtitles, ‘-courtesy of the US Government.’ The article told about a leak in a confidential letter sent to the president. The letter had been traced back by unknown investigators to an unknown address in Nevada. Suspicions rose among those he first knew about this and went to decode the letter that was sent. The private investigators eventually came out to the public just yesterday to announce their collected findings of the private message. They were to hold a press conference later on the date of Tuesday, March 15th 2019 when their offices were raided by New York City police. The two investigators were taken into custody for questioning and were charged with treason against the US government. On the 2nd page were people’s opinions on the subject, and the results were of no surprise. Many people are now withdrawing support from the government in fear that they may turn ‘corrupt’; while others voiced that it was of no right for the investigators to ‘peek’ in on private matters of other people, including the subject of today. Most of the population however, were simply apathetic and went about their daily lives as usual on this apparent not-so-eventful Wednesday afternoon. “Creighton!” I heard my name as the main office doors swung open. It was George after all.
These days, things are different. I never carried a gun with me, nor did I ever own or want to fire one. I was never an irrational American civilian who acted upon gut rather than thought. I had found the small .357 sig cartridge which incidentally fit perfectly into the Glock 17 pistol that was found not a foot away. I had never fired a gun before, but my life now depended on a natural instinct.
“C’mon son, just pull it back,” I followed the instructions carefully; I had never felt such a rush before in my life. I pulled, closed my eyes, and released. A satisfying sound of a direct hit filled my mind. “Good hit!” the balloon was no longer filled with water, nor will it ever hold anything else, ever. It was my first day with any sort of a weapon, an old sling shot that was passed down for generations from my father, and his line. The rubber strips had been replaced over the years, but the integrity of the wood still held firm.
I searched through my closet for it, unable to remember where I had left it in my haste. The mess of clothes and supplies always seemed to work as a system of organization for me; probably why I was still alive...perhaps... I finally found the small shoe box that once held my first pair at size 2. I pried open the cover that was sealed tight with super glue as a sort of time capsule till when I was older. It was the first time I had looked through the objects of this treasure cache since twenty years ago. In the box were several pictures of me my parents had taken of me at the many ‘first times’ of my childhood. I scanned them quickly; ‘first day out of the womb, first day at kindergarten, first day at baseball practice...’ and then finally, I found the picture I was looking for.
“Craig!” people used ‘Craig’ in preference rather than my actual name, it was simpler after all, to say and spell; an economically productive, one syllable, simple transformation. I turned around to gaze into the eyes of her. I still remember those eyes to this date; a perfect combination of blue and green to attract one’s attention such as myself. Her smile as well, perfectly symmetrical on all angles, and the voice that came with it; I could hear harmonies and melody in perfect sync. But to sum it up fairly economically, in a one syllable transformation, ‘Rebecca’.
I had lost track of time over the period of which I spent gazing at the picture. I lifted my hand to look at my watch as the hour hand grazed the bottom of the circumference. ‘Another night,’ I thought to myself. Walking over to my old rotten dresser; I had managed to peer out of my apartment window to catch a glimpse of a commotion outside on the streets. This certainly wasn’t going to be another night.
I could hear gunfire outside of the apartment as I woke up to another day. I slowly crawled out of the sheets to take a look at the street fifteen stories below me. It must have been the night guard on duty, as it was still only two hours into Friday. I opened my closet to gather what I needed. Slowly, I pieced the one of a kind jigsaw puzzle until it was viewed in its entirety. I carefully place it on the window seal. I peer through the circle of glass, and then fired. The bullet was dead on, as I aimed to take another shot. Soon there were more guards on the street. They held behind a barricade of chunks of metal, debris, and the odd overturned semi.
“What the hell is going on outside?”
“More of them,” I took another shot as soon as I could. Yaris closed the door behind him as he left the room, swearing under his breath.
“And I thought I would be getting some sleep tonight,” Rachel leaned over the window sill, like she did on most nights. Her sarcastic tone lightened the mood just a little. “How many are we talking here?”
“From estimation, maybe two hundred,” I quickly glanced and added.
“There are more of them every night, I wonder how long we are going to last…” it was a rhetorical question, especially with the inactivity of government troops in the area. The firefight was over fairly quickly. We regrouped as soon as we could at the main lobby of the hotel.
“Role call, state your assigned codename, specific order, you all know the drill.” The men and women of 61st street motel lined up in order. There stood 12 of us, each, a different code name; the names mostly resembled their role in the party and personal traits.
“Overseer.” (Charlotte Noel)
“Talker.” (Malcolm West)
“All nighter.” (Ted Bell)
“Keg Master.” (Akemi Yoshida)
“Glass eyes.” (Blake Rink)
“Tank.” (Kgosi Koroma)
“Leapfrog.” (Jun Lu)
“Campfire.” (Jason Rink)
“Shooter.” (Me)
“Steering.” (Jack Rent)
“Red Cross.” (Rachael Moon)
And last but not least…
“Full House.” (Frank Weld)
No one really understood why we used codenames rather then our actual names, but it definitely helps the new comers.
The sun rose between the once crowded streets of Broadway and Main, but not today, like most other days. These streets were never safe, and they certainly aren’t safe these days ether. I try to understand why no one goes out anymore; it isn’t all bad these days, you just have to be careful. The cafes in Soho never open, nor do the churches or the businesses of New York City. ‘Where did everyone go?’ I ask myself.
The day was clear for most of the morning, a true blessing to the 61st company of New York. The day went on as one would expect when finding him or herself in a worldwide holocaust, struggling to survive and get through the day to see another dawn.
The creatures slept during the day, or at least they chose to remain unseen. But the threat was always present. Government forces were to be avoided as well. The white house had ordered full lock down on as many infected areas as they could, and encouraged other world leaders to follow. Other remaining armies on the face of the earth were ordered to ‘cleanse’ anything that moved within these areas.