Thundering Sky

 

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Thundering Sky

 

I'm recording this because this will be the last thing I'll ever say. The city we once knew... Thzzz... I can still hear our bombs. Thzzz... Corporations... Thzzz... I can't... My throat... Thzzz... Emily, my love... Thzzz... Please, remember me... Thzzz... There is... no more... Thzzz... Thzzz... 

Isaiah switched off the radio and removed it from the grasp of five lifeless bone fingers. He pushed the telecom button, but no sound came. No voices. No dials. Only static and a decade's worth of dirt coating its speaker. The cadaver from which it belonged sat sloped and open-mouthed beneath a tall oak tree.

“Who is Emily?” Isaiah asked his mother.

“Someone who's been gone a long time,” Erie replied.

Isaiah checked the corpse's right pants pocket but there was nothing, just an outline of a wallet that used to be there. There was a key card in the left caked onto the polyester: Mayer Lehman, AARC Corp. His photo was as unrecognizable as his rotting skull.

"Was Emily his mother?"

"It doesn't matter." She brushed his curls over with her palm. "Leave the radio here. It has no use."

 

A screaming came across the sky at dusk. The forest was a quiet, docile creature by day but in the dark mystery of night, cries carried down through the mountains and into the trees. It was not the weeping of mothers or the dread of children. It was a terrible, gleeful sorrow—as though they had their souls burned from their bodies and they were glad for it. Their campfires lit the faraway hills ablaze with an unsettling glow. Erie often wondered what ailment could make a man carry on such an aberrant celebration.

Emily, my love... Thzzz... Please, remember me... Thzzz...

"Isaiah—"

There is... no more... Thzzz...

"Turn it off," Erie gave a sharp glance. "Now."

Isaiah switched off the radio, and tuned into the shrieks of the unknown beside his mother. They huddled together; two wild things draped in an old blue tarp. 

He turned and he looked up at his mother. His eyes glowed with the torches and fires from the hills like stars colliding in space.

"What are they, mom?" He inched closer.

"People."

"Like you and I?"

"No, of course not."

"Can I keep the radio?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Okay. Go to sleep."

Erie's son shut his eyes. She scanned the dark woods, brandishing her Bowie knife and her grit. If she nodded off, there was a piercing cry to zap her mind back to the present. A choir of discord singing the devious songs of familiar strangers.

 

Early morning. Warm sun lit crept through the canopy. Erie removed the sting of hope from her eyes and clutched her Bowie. It never truly left her hand. She breathed in the crisp air and exhaled a slow, toxic breath. She stood up wearily; her boy was still asleep.  The shrieks that filled the night were gone.

As she began packing, there was a sloshing of water from the stream below. Her stomach lurched. If it was more than two this time, she would open Isaiah's wrists and then her own before—

"Mom!"

Erie clasped her palm over his mouth, her hand streaked in  rainwater black.

She released him, pushing her damp gray hair off her face and peering over the edge. She inched near the ridge with her knife leading the way. She looked at her boy and she looked out toward the hills and she was about to hide when she saw her: A naked woman dousing herself with ditch water just below. She was facing away from them. Oil glistened atop the surface like an infectious film, spreading with each passing second.

“Hello?” the woman froze and turned her head.

Erie jumped down and pointed her knife in the woman's direction. “Out,” her voice and hands shook. "N… Now."

The woman stumbled out of the ditch without another word. She was young but she stood with a slouch. Her eyes were hazy, blue, deranged, and tinged blood red—each like a globe spinning on a dead axis. Her hair was blond, with a patch ripped from the right side of her scalp. As she drew closer, Erie noticed faded black letters beneath the golden stubble. And a small leather pack lay beside her feet at the water's edge.

“Take me with you,” the woman said, reaching out with a quivering lip. "You're not afraid, are you?"

“Afraid of you?”

"I know you heard them," she gave a perplexed smile.

"We've all her the scream—"

“No!” the woman laughed and took a step forward. "The others. Above. Please! Please, take me. Take me. TAKE ME—"

Erie raised her knife, her gaze shifting between the woman and Isaiah's hiding spot. "What is that on your head?"

“What—” 

“Don't play dumb with me you bitch.”

The woman look down and covered the patch of her hair. “I—” she couldn't find the words. Suddenly, a white noise blared from her belongings.

“Mom!” Isaiah appeared above the ditch. His radio echoed the same sound.

She examined the marking on the woman’s head. It was poorly drawn and almost blue:

“SF-2231.”

Erie shuffled through the woman’s pack, pulling out a sleek black radio.

“Please don’t let them take me back,” the woman trembled and began to cry. 

"What is the for? What the fuck is the number on your head?" Erie put the knife to her throat.

Then, a toneless voice came over the radio, reading out a single message on an endless loop:

Attenzione!... Codice: 10-45... Attenzione!... Codice: 10-45... 

Erie's hair fluttered around her chin as heavy winds shook the tall oaks. Darkness swallowed the sun overhead, but there were no clouds. The air rumbled, but there was no storm. And water fell from the canopy, but there was no rain. 

She dropped the radio and she looked up. The message loop was echoing from the thundering sky.

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