Hello. I am aware that this is and extremely long post. Sorry, enjoy!
One girl could make a difference. She just didn’t know it yet. The girl: Willow H. Fields. The mission: to find and destroy the one item that controls the balance of Earth within eighteen days. The punishment for failure: unimaginable.
This was the shape the world found itself in. The year was 2401, and humanity had finally dropped the bomb. Literally; in World War Four, the only war America had lost since they’d joined forces with East Amsterkranne, Russianikkl had blown the southern half of Earth into smithereens. The rest of the globe had shortly followed.
This grim environment was gray and brown, the sky no longer its pristine blue. Instead, citizens were forced to endure an orange-green glow from above in their everyday lives.
Indeed, the outlook was bleak. Fortunately, or unfortunately, there was one hope, and she was due to wake up in approximately four minutes, thirteen point eight seconds.
Three, two, one. The shrill buzz of the alarm watch caused Willow to stir in her sleeping capsule. She blinked, gazing at the ceiling through the semi-opaque glass top. Willow clicked the blue button on her right, releasing her from the atomic bonds, then used her newly-freed hand to press the yellow button that would unlatch the top before her oxygen ran out.
Stretching her vocal muscobulators, Willow gasped for air. She crossed the small, empty room and tapped her artificial-oxygen-simulator. The holograph reported normal levels of humidity and all necessary airborne gases.
It was a petite chamber, containing only her hibernation chamber and a cement bedside- table-substitute. Willow frowned, crossing the hall to the bathroom. It was larger than her chamber-room, with a toilet, a bathing tureen, and a clothing discombobulator. It was to the discombobulator Willow now walked, clambering into the rectangular box.
The inside was bigger than the outside—the magical wonders of the futuristic world—and had faintly throbbing blue walls. They were holograph walls, and, after she had secured her feet in the containment devices, Willow pressed options on the walls, selecting today’s outfit. The machine included only outfits which Willow owned, and had somewhat downloaded to, the item.
Outside, the machine whirred, beeped, flashed, and jumbled. It was a mere second later, however, that Willow stepped out, dressed in a cotton shirt with the words Recycle Your Heart! on it and some khaki shorts.
The shirt had been designed by Willow herself. She owned a line of graphic designs, which she ran herself with inheritance money. Understand that Willow thought she had the cleverest little sayings, and she printed these on everything she owned.
Willow stepped up to her bathroom mirror and said, “Casual.” The mirror glowed faintly, and when the mist cleared, Willow’s hair was in a neat part and her face was clean. “Thank you,” she nodded to the mirror politely.
Willow had pale blonde hair and messy sideways bangs. Her hair was short, reaching only to the bottoms of her small ears.
Perhaps a small clarification about Willow: She was an environmentalist. Obvious? Yes, but necessary. Her face had no makeup, her car needed no gas, she ate no meat, and she made her own paper out of cream cheese and lettuce shreds, mixed with trace amounts of vitaminF_n.
Humming to herself, Willow bustled about making breakfast. “Oh, my! I shall be late for work if I don’t hustle!” she said. Grabbing a banana and a few canvas bags, Willow rushed out the front door, through the smoggy, brown street, to the small business right across from her tiny brick home.
Willow flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN, and began turning lights on, straightening displays, and opening shutters. Finally, she sat down at her small desk, right behind the currency registrarium.
Picking up a pen and sketchbook, Willow started brainstorming ideas for new designs. Suddenly, Willow sat up. “I’ve got it! How about--Recycle!” she smiled. “Now that is what I call intelligent!” she began designing a long sleeve Tee Shirt. It was just a commentary on how pathetic Willow’s company was that her cleverest saying was ¡Crees Verde! (Also available in English!)
Willow was so absorbed in her new design that it passed her attention when the bell tolled, announcing the arrival of a tall, slender man with dark hair and no eyebrows.
“Hello—there,” he greeted her in a stinted voice. Willow gasped.
“You—you’re—you’re a robot!”
“Yes—I—am,” he answered.
Willow stirred, slipping back into professionalism. “May I ask how I can help you today, sir? We just received a shipment of very nice ballpoint writing utensils that flash between three different sayings when you click the top.”
The robot’s eyes glinted momentarily, but he remained calm. “I—will—forgive—the human—race for—enslaving—my—robotic—ancestors to—do their—bidding.” He stuttered. “Now, please—put down—my—cousin’s—niece!” Willow dropped the pen immediately.
“What do you want, Mr. Robot, sir?” she inquired.
The strange being chuckled grimly. “It’s—not—so—much--what I--want; it is--what you --want,” he explained vaguely.
Willow frowned. “Thanks for clearing that up,” she muttered under her breath.
“My--radar censors—sense—confusion,” he said. “That—is—fine. You should—listen to—my—human—counterpart. He knows—how to—communicate--with humans.”
Willow smiled awkwardly. “Okay,”
The bell tolled yet again, and a short man with purple-striped skin and a long, droopy fur tail walked into the shop. Willow was not surprised by the man’s appearance; so many people of this age had undergone genetic treatments that it was rare to find someone who was naturally normal. Willow herself had some radioactive freckles on her neck, but you couldn’t see them unless it was dark. (They would faintly glow.)
The stout man had rehearsed his entrance. Everything about it was perfectly timed, and he recited his lines with such certainty that there was no doubt in Willow’s mind.
“My name is Kenneth Prescott. Hello, Wilma Hannah Frank. I am assured that you, too, have noticed the atrocious shape the world is in. perhaps, as many are, you have been trying to reconcile with Mother Earth. Perhaps, too, you realize this is futile. There is one way to save the world, and one person who can. I am here before you now because you are that one. I’m sure you have many questions,” he stated.
“Er, yes. Why did you call me Wilma Hannah Frank?” she stuttered.
“Is that not your name, ma’am?”
“Well, no. My name is Willow Heather Fields,” she corrected.
Kenneth gasped, then turned to glower at the tall robot. “Ivan, you nincompoop! You gave me the wrong name! Have you any idea how idiotic this makes me look on the annual business report? EH!? EH!?” He took out a Laser whackor, and began beating the robot, making his eyes spark. “I’ll learn you to mess up me business, you moronic battery-charger, you!”
“STOP! STOP” Willow yelled. “No, don’t hurt him!”
“Well, give me one reason why I shouldn’t!” Kenneth demanded, not lifting his gaze or whackor off of Ivan.
“Uh—you need to finish telling me how to save the world.” She flustered.
Fortunately, this stopped him. Kenneth stood up, straightened his brown tie, and continued. Clearing his throat, Kenneth said, “Now, there has been a certain prophecy brought to my attention--”
“What are talking about? Just because we’re in the future—I mean present—doesn’t mean we’ve discovered magic or prophecies. Yeesh!”
“Okay, so it was a plan from circuit brain over there. The point is this: if we don’t get the stolen Rubber Band back around the top of Mount Cachaluge by nightfall on the twenty third of January, the entire world will explode. If we do get it back on, the whole world will be drowned in some sort of laxative that will cause the planet to purge itself of everything in its system. Namely: people, houses, cars, trash, industrial waste, plants, anything bad or good. Now, the way me and Ivan see it--”
“The way Ivan and I see it,” Willow corrected.
“Yes, yes, grammar doesn’t matter. Now, the--”
“Oh, on the contrary, sir--”
“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! Grammar matters, just let me finish, you little bugger! Now, the way Ivan and I see it, this Rubber Band deal could break or break our world. It’s got too much power riding on it, and we see fit to see it destroyed. Find the Band, destroy it somehow, and report back here to receive a lifetime’s supply of vegetables, and a surprise mystery gift! ”
Willow smiled dreamily. “What’s this mystery gift?”
Ivan sighed. “It—is—an antique—Toyota—Prius*--we salvaged from—the early—twenty—first—century. It—is—a—strange—color. We—do not—have it—naturally—on—Earth—anymore. It is—green.”
“BAAAAAAGH!!” Kenneth shouted, grabbing a ballpoint writing utensil from the cash registrarium and jousting towards Ivan. There was a deafening screech as Ivan was run through.
“No!” Willow cried.
“It was supposed to be a secret! A surprise! A mystery!” and then he started cursing in Plutish.
Ivan stood up and brushed the ink off of his cardigan. “Urrgh. I—will—be—in—the—car,” he grumbled.
Kenneth also brushed ink off of himself. “Any questions, m’dear?”
Willow tensed. “What is this Rubber thing anyway? Who put you in charge of Earth’s fate? Who exactly are you people?”
“Well, now, that didn’t exactly answer my question, did it? I shall answer one of them. The Band is a collection of all negative energy. Really, it just looks like those rubber bands that primitive humans used in the Ancient History Museum. Over the years, the band had grown, as humanity has lost their way. Indeed, now it is colossal enough to fit over even the most humongous, gargantuous, positively BIGGEST mountains in our Solar Clique. Now, Mount Cachaluge is located in Katui, the area of the sun where sun-dwellers gather to bask in the coolness of the mountain’s shadow. It is a nice resort, or so I’ve heard.”
Willow nodded. She was beginning to feel the excitement flowing through her limbs. “May I ask just one more?” she didn’t wait for an answer. “Why am I the only one who can do this?”
“Oh, m’dear, that is because you are the only one of us that really cares anymore,” he answered. “Now, you get to bring four companions, and—I cannot stress this enough—pack light! Be ready come morning. Oh, yes, and the Rubber Band must be destroyed or brought here by the twenty- eighteenth of Marctember.”
The evening was frantic. Willow had called her four closest friends, and they were all crashed out on her couches. Looking around at them, despite how exhausted she was, it was difficult not to imagine profiling them…
Stephenie Caldwell
Age: 23
Description: Tall, limber, red hair, black eyes, usually dressed
in gray. No hat.
Skills: Has wings that may be sprouted at will. (Functioning)
Chrys Anthoni
Age: 17
Description: short black hair, shifty eyes, smirk, long eyelashes,
A small person, petite, long hoop earrings.
Skills: Can make milk squirt out of her eye.
Dweezil Stenk
Age: 25
Description: Medium height, longish brown hair, tiny ears,
Pea-size glasses, in shorts, usually no shirt.
Skills: May turn invisible at will. (Causes a horrible rash to him.)
Wonderful fighter.
Nimrod Callasl
Age: 14
Description: thick ear-length brown hair, gangly limbs, quite small,
Freckly, otherwise pale skin
Skills: Invincible/ immortal. Can only be killed by
Secret weakness. (Confidential.) Has been 14 for 107 years, also is quite
Skilled with a paintbrush.
Willow must have fallen asleep sometime in the night, because she was awoken by Kenneth at six o’clock.
“Rise and shine there, Willy! Do you mind if I call you that, m’dear?”
Frankly, Willow was rather hoping she wouldn’t be seeing much of this rather erratic man, so she just yawned and nodded.
This was it. It was now time for the mission to commence; only this group would ever attempt what they were. In this mood, Willow motioned to her companions, and they gathered outside to offer a sacrifice to their deity.
In 2396, the world had been overthrown by a system that called itself The Borkjevs. The leader of this group, Harould, was demanding, yet generous, and intelligent. Often, if offered a sacrifice, Harould would grant the givers a blessing. It was a strange thing, but it was not often that his blessings didn’t work.
“Oh, great and mighty Harould! Accept our offering of concord-grape-substitution powder and a unique presentation from each of our group.” Willow cried into a tube full of boiling white liquid.
Dweezil was the first. “Oh, idol, powerful, and kind, please enjoy this elixir. My grandfather created it from the DNA of my ancestors, and it is said that if one is to drink but one sip, they will have a powerful epiphany.” He didn’t mention that, due to his elixir, he was orphaned, and his grandparents had died, too.
The ground trembled beneath their feet.
“Handsome, genius idol, please accept this shoe-shine. Three drops of this will turn the shoes into protection capsules, and you shall receive a life expectancy that is double the original.” Nimrod didn’t mention that it was experimental.
The ground trembled beneath their socks.
Stephenie stepped to the basin and dropped in a stick of soap. “This soap makes one smell like they have just had a wonderful bath,” she said.
The ground rumbled.
“Er, not that you would need it, oh, loving, merciful one,” she chuckled.
The ground trembled beneath their shoes.
Willow stepped forward with a small electrical appliance. “This is one of my lungs, the artificial one. I think that, maybe, you will just appreciate the sacrifice this took. If we succeed, I shouldn’t really need this anymore,” she stammered.
Ivan stepped up, apparently overlooking Chrys. “Alrighty, Willy, now all we need is a human sacrifice. Who’s it going to be, then?” he looked around at all of them, glancing back at Chrys.
“Well, Chrys. I think we all know who deserves it, though I am so sorry!” Willow gulped. She grabbed Ivan’s ankles and thrust him into the shallow tube. Ivan bobbed above the surface, but didn’t yell. He was, in fact, quite stiff, pale, shiny. He seemed to be heavy, too, for he sank to the bottom of the tube and began swirling underground, presumably to Harould’s lair.
Chrys took a deep breath. She hadn’t forgotten herself, of course.
Chrys grasped something from her pocket. It was dry, and crumpled. She sighed and dropped it into the tube of white, frothing liquid. It radiated golden liquid. The light from the basin grew, spreading across the ground, reaching the group’s legs. It was warm, but not solid. It reminded them of the long-forgotten caress that had been triumphed by the layers of thick smog that grew over the sky; it dimly reminded them—no, it couldn’t be—of the sun…
X X X
The land humanity now lived in was hot and dry. Snow did not exist. It simply did not. So it came as a gigantic surprise when, as the small crowd clutched themselves for warmth, that something wet and gray was falling from the sky onto the mulchy, brown ground.
“Hey, uh, guys? What is this stuff?” Stephenie asked as the flakes began drifting from the clouds.
Willow shuddered. “I don’t know, but we’d better get under cover in case it’s dangerous.”
The cluster of friends raced towards an overhang in the ground. Stephenie hesitated.
“What is it now, Stephenie?” Nimrod demanded.
“I’m wearing my nicest dolphin coat,” she explained.
Nimrod sighed and dragged Stephenie into the red mud by her sleeve.
“I know what this is,” he exclaimed. The group gasped. “It’s snow. I don’t know the exact science of it, but I know we should be all right if we brought our warm clothes.”
“Why would we?” Chrys ordered.
Nimrod sighed. “Just come on.”
And so, the group continued. It came, on the third day of their journey towards New New England, that they were out of water and sustenance. It was a miracle, then—or so they thought—when they stumbled upon a hidden spring in an even more hidden garden.
Chrys, cynic as she was, was easily suspicious.
“Something isn’t right. Since when has Earth contained natural plant life, or non-substitutional water? Something isn’t right…” she repeated.
“Oh, just loosen up, gloom ‘n’ doom!” Dweezil called, splashing water into Chrys’ face.
“Hey! Ungh!” she quivered. “This water is tainted! I know what poison tastes like!”
“Oh, please, Chrysten! It’s probably just seltzer, just—I don’t know, give it a break.” Stephenie giggled.
“My—name—is—NOT—Chrysten!” Chris yelled through gritted teeth.
“Yeah? What else would ‘Chrys’ stand for, eh?” Stephenie chided.
Chrys tensed. “No, I’d like to know, too,” Willow budded in.
Chrys sighed. “Chrysanthemum. DO NOT say a word. End of story, shut up.”
The group was silent. They glanced at each other. Then, Stephenie giggled.
“Yeah, right, and my name is Bradley O’Flannigan! Seriously, what’s your real name?”
Everyone gasped. Chrys cracked her knuckles and stepped towards Stephenie. Her eyes were narrowed, and the light dusting of snow on the ground crunched under her converses.
Just as Chrys leapt at Stephenie’s throat with her talon-sharp nails and fingerless gloves, a streak of lightning illuminated the scene. There were shadows surrounding the area where the group had made camp.
“Ee-eeepa!” Chrys shrieked as she tore into Stephenie, who lay on the ground as she was beaten.
“Hey, stop that!” she demanded. “Stop, STOP!”
But Chrys did. The rest of her comrades were also under attack—by the mysterious shadows. Without looking back, Chrys soared into the fight.
It was a colossal battle. Willow had four enemies on her, with more rushing towards. Indeed, even Dweezil, a great combatant, was out of his league.
The group of friends was quickly overwhelmed in rivals. Only Chrys seemed to realize what was required to triumph. Stephenie was just sitting under a boulder, shrieking.
“I know what these things are, Willow!” Chrys cried as she ran a monster through with her thorn-sword. It gasped, but did not die, rather, just brushed the blade out of his chest.
“Oh, yeah?” Willow answered as she attempted to keep the beasts at bay.
“Spring-Spirits!” Chrys called, as if this cleared things up. As Willow continued looking baffled, Chrys continued. “The glowing, bubbling mutants of bewitched, radiated springs. One of our group must have brought them here by drinking the water; it’s quite potent. You know, I’m surprised they haven’t brought more numbers. Usually, the more water that’s consumed, the more they bring. I wonder if there aren’t more waiting to ambush us from--”
“Please! This is fascinating and all, but what we really need to know is how to destroy them!” Willow gasped exasperatedly.
“Right. I can only hope that—oh, my.”
“WHAT NOW!” Willow cried.
“There’s only one way,” Chrys explained. When Willow made a gesture to continue, Chrys did. “If we put an acidic solution of nitriciqite, and carbonicitic dry ice in a concentrated form, it will burn anything it touches. Including them. Unfortunately, the only way to get it into a concentrated form is to squeeze it into a very small space. Fortunately, one of these is available.”
“Chrys, I don’t know what you—oh. Oh, Chrys, NO! There has to be another way!” Willow insisted as she realized what Chrys meant.
“There isn’t! I have to do this. I do!” she demanded. And, before Willow could stop her, Chrys pulled a phial filled with glistening violet liquid out of her pocket and poured it into her mouth.
Chrys concentrated on keeping the liquid inside her. She had done this hundreds of times before, to impress people, though never with such a painful mixture.
She pulled her eyelids up as the liquid scalded her tongue. She pushed through her nose, then brought the fluid up her throat, up her nasal cavities, and into her eye sockets. Everyone in the clearing paused, time seemed to slow down, and even the Spring-Spirits stopped battling to watch as Chrys shot a stream of sulfuric, acidic solution through her eyes and shot it out at the Spirits. They dissolved straight away, melting to the ground, and the sky cleared up, the greenish clouds fading to reveal the orange sky.
The acid sizzled through Chrys’ brain, through her eyes. The corneas had bubbled away, leaving only the drippy pupils. Chrys’ whole body had been disintegrated. The majority of the group didn’t even understand what she had done.
Perhaps the only hero that had lived in the group, or at least the first to reveal herself as one, Chrys had sacrificed herself to save the others.
X X X
“Chrys had a certain way of expressing herself,” Willow whispered.
“Chrys was certainly never shy. She was, well, different,” Dweezil added.
“Chrys tried to claw out my eyes,” (Stephenie.)
“None of you knew Chrys. Now she’s gone, and nobody here appreciated her! You’re all heartless frauds! I hate you each, and you’ll never miss her! I loved Chrys!” Nimrod ran back to the tent.
The group shifted uncomfortably. “He’s right. None of us ever appreciated her. You know what? To Chrysanthemum!” Dweezil raised a flower that had appeared on the ground and threw it to a mound of earth, under which Chrys now lay.
The rouge flower drifted to the ground, where it burned through the snow and onto the natural ground, spreading, apparently, heat, which melted the snow away. It revealed the ground underneath. Unusually for that age, it was green. Green, and vibrant, and alive. It was thriving with pure life and energy. Closest to the chrysanthemum was the brightest, most throbbing grass. It might have been psychosomatic, but it seemed to Willow, Stephenie, and Dweezil that the air around them had lit up, become easier to breathe, and that the clouds (and smoggy sky) had become wispier. Light seemed to have filtered in. it was beautiful. It seemed as if the blessing of Harould had been bestowed on the only person who gave a sincere sacrifice.
Stephenie gasped for breath.
“Do—we—really need to go this way?” she clutched her ribs.
“Oh, just fly up the hill!” Nimrod snapped. He muttered something under his breath.
Stephenie glowered at him, but she sprouted a pair of leathery black wings. They were glistening, with thorns on the tips. She smirked. The others watched her soar up past the clouds as they continued climbing up the huge mountain towards their goal.
“Why are we climbing this again?” Dweezil called to Willow.
“Because I have a feeling that Mount Cachaluge is going to be in the Luge Range. Just after this mountain, we’ll reach a valley that contains a special corn field that supposedly grants four wishes!”
“Oh, what a coincidence,” Nimrod mumbled.
“You know, Nimrod, it’s not my fault Chrys went and killed herself. Sheesh!” Willow grunted.
There was a sudden shriek from above. “You’re right, Willow, it was Stephenie’s fault.”
The companions stumbled up the rocky side of the mountain, to where Stephenie was sprawled in the gravel.
“What is it, Steph?” Dweezil asked.
“It—it fell from the sky!” she whimpered.
“What did?”
“This converse! It’s absolutely so cute! You know I collect memorabilia from my mistakes? Aieee!” she grinned.
The group glanced at each other, and Nimrod was trembling with rage, his fists clutched in balls.
“Why, did you think something was up?” Stephenie said.
“I certainly hoped so!” Nimrod tore towards Stephenie, the second to attack her in those 24 hours. He grabbed her neck and began throttling her, shaking her back and forth. Nimrod, despite his outward appearance, was quite strong. Stephenie’s head swelled, her eyeballs straining.
“Are you—really—wearing--”
“BAGH!” Nimrod shouted, wrestling Stephenie to the ground, where their bodies were skinned and began bleeding. Nimrod gave a tremendous squeeze, and Stephenie’s left eye popped out of its socket with a big snap!, and rolled right down the side of the mountain.
“NOOOOO!” she cried, reaching towards the ravine it had rolled off of.
Nimrod grabbed her ankles and threw her off the side of the cliff. The last thing the group heard was the fluttering of torn wings.
Nimrod rose from the ground and dusted himself off.
“Some things had to be said,” he explained as the others stared at him in disbelief.
Nimrod sighed. “Let’s get going then.”
The others followed, only exchanging a few frightened glances.
The group trekked over the mountain, and stopped when they reached the summit. Nimrod slumped to the dusty ground and pulled out a tube of sustenance. Sighing, the others plopped onto the ground, a little ways away from Nimrod.
PART TWO: THE EPIC BATTLE
Trudging through a canyon in the future—present, I mean—was probably the most dangerous thing a person could do. Glancing around at the red shadows surrounding her, Willow gulped. This canyon in particular was known for its alien/mutant attacks.
Sounds of crackling and snaps were heard from the cliffs around them. Dweezil looked behind him often, believing that he had seen a pair of huge green eyes. Something scrambled back from a ledge that must’ve been forty feet above them, dislodging a pile of rocks and sending them tumbling towards Nimrod. His leg was trapped under a huge slat of Pygmius Pifpherate.
Nimrod winced as the others attempted, without success, to pry the stone off of his leg.
Dweezil finally grabbed a gnarled piece of metal, backed up about fifteen feet, and ran toward Nimrod, lodging the metal under the rock at the last minute. Dweezil vaulted up into the air, dragging the pole and Pifpherate with him.
“Egyah!” he shrieked as he flew into a boulder, shuddered, and disappeared.
“Dweezil!” the others exclaimed, rushing towards the general area Dweezil had disappeared in.
As they approached, Dweezil was nowhere to be seen. Nimrod, however, reached towards the rock and pulled a crumpled invisible heap from the ground. Dweezil gasped, groaning back into visibility. He had pink, raw skin, and was obviously exhausted.
“Oh, no! how—long—was I out?” he wheezed.
“About a minute,” Willow told him, her eyes bugging.
“Good,” he sighed. “Because if I’m invisible too long, I can disappear. That’s never happened before, though.”
The whole group was relieved, and began down the hill.
“Hold on a moment. How did Nimrod see me?” Dweezil pondered.
“I would suppose it might have something to do with my invulnerability,” Nimrod mused.
“Hmm.”
The mountain they were descending now, Mount Salevea, had reached a steep decline. Now, the whole valley below was visible.
It was laid out before them, the green, overgrown grass flowing and drifting in the breeze. There were fields of grapefruit catching the wind, making a hollow noise that echoed throughout the grounds. The vicinity was covered in one long cloud, but it was not like the musty, thick brown clouds that lay over the rest of Earth. It was white, and fluffy, and it was distinctly clean; in fact, the smell of ozone was clear in the air, flowing over the valley, tousling the fields, and carrying the sweet accompanying scent of rain into the nostrils of the three companions.
The trio sighed in relief, though of what, no one was sure.
Willow took the first step, spotting, in the distance, a radiant beige belt. The Rubber Band! From the area of the Band was the most clean grass, the best rooted trees, the most plump and ripe grapefruits. It was obvious that this object certainly had an imminent sense of power; one almost nature related, somehow.
The three ambled down the slope, the apparently real gravity in this area giving their legs a little too much help down the hill. When they reached the bottom, the group ran across the fields, flipping their shoes off and feeling the squiggling of grass-blades between their grimy, unwashed toes. On the way, Willow clicked her wrist watch and opened the console, revealing the date. It was Marctember twenty-eighteenth.
“We have to destroy the band by midnight!” Dweezil insisted.
“Indeed, but how are we going to—” Willow was interrupted by a squealing sound, and by the sight of more than thirty Juice Sprites, demonic beings who delighted in the squirting of citric acid in people’s eyes. It had been rumored that they still existed, but no one had seen them in hundreds of years, especially since fruit was so rare these days. Legendary grapefruit patches had been reported, but no one was believed. The Sprites needed the essence of the acid to exist, much less injure people.
And so, the beasts slimed over the mountains, their flesh like mucus. They were an odd grey-green color, one that I won’t compare to anything. Willow, Nimrod, and Dweezil looked on as the ground shook beneath their foot restraints, trembled as the grapefruits blew away, back toward North America, making their peculiar hollow sound. The trio grasped each other’s hands and reached into their back-restrained-carrying-devices, each pulling out a weapon of their choice.
“For Earth!” Willow exclaimed as she drew a bow with radioactive arrows.
“For skin ointment!” Dweezil cried, tossing a cudgel around his hips artistically.
“For Chrysanthemum!” Nimrod yelled, grabbing a short dagger and raced towards the monsters with a battle cry.
Dweezil and Willow followed Nimrod, stabbing any Juice Sprites in arm’s reach. Nimrod was twisting and jabbing and crouching and jolting, using his miniscule weapon to reach anywhere he could. Seven Juice Beasts had hit the ground before they had realized Nimrod was among them.
Dweezil was more strategic, battling three at a time while invisible. The Sprites seemed to have no problem seeing him, however, and soon, he relinquished the effort, reluctantly returning to eyesight in a burned, red blur.
Willow had not done anything yet. Instead, she had occupied herself by climbing to the top of a craggy hill and drawing her bow. Now, as she aimed with a small lime-green light, she prepared to take the first out.
WHAM! Something hard and slimy knocked into Willow from behind, upsetting her aim. Her arrow bounded toward Nimrod, who didn’t seem to notice it coming.
The hard thing was a collection of four Juice Sprites. They seemed to have separated to find her on her own. These four were the intelligent ones; standing there, picking their nosed, scratching their brows, and licking their chins, covered in citric acid, off.
“Lookie here, buu—ddy,” the lead one said in a droning, crawling voice.
“Looks likes we gots ourselves a straggler. We’d better do somfink about vis!”
“Willow backed up, tripping over a rock lying in the sandy grass. She tumbled down the face of the knoll. Willow gasped in pain, shocked at the pain of her hard landing. She was stunned, just lying there in the grass.
Suddenly, the world around her became dark. . .
Outside, the four dim-witted Juice Sprites dashed down the hill, crashing into a magnificent tree that was there all of a sudden, their eyes being gouged by thick branches and twigs. One tripped over a root.
They got up slowly, rubbing the large bumps on their thick skulls.
“Tree was not there before, methinks,” one stated.
“No, it not was,” another agreed.
Willow could not see any of this or hear it. She could simply feel herself; feel the presence of nature within itself. The surge of power flowed through her limbs, which were not visible. Willow noted she didn’t have eyes or ears. That must be why she couldn’t hear anything.
Just then, after she had incidentally felt the pokes of a few Sprite-eyes, she shuddered. Blinking her eyes, she realized she had them again. She gasped, her eyes widening, as she surveyed the carnage surrounding her; Nimrod was lying on the ground with his sword crossed, trying to keep the Sprites’ grimy, clawed hands off of his face.
Dweezil was climbing a boulder, scrambling up the top, where he was trying to keep the Sprites away from him by slashing through their Jello-like flesh. The blade of his insensible weapon passed right through them.
And Stephenie was floating over the crest of the nearest hill, the sun shining behind her silhouette.
Wait. Stephenie? Stephenie? Dead Stephenie?
Willow looked again. Indeed, it was Stephenie. She was gliding on leathery black wings, torn on the edges. She seemed unpracticed on them, falling and scrambling, trying to use her legs to jog on trailing clouds.
Stephenie cried in delight upon spotting Willow, throwing up her arms, losing her balance, falling down to the ground like a bullet, screaming.
She landed on the ground softly. “Oh.”
Willow sighed in relief, but then remembered that Stephenie had been thought dead. She ran towards Stephenie, hugging her tightly. Stephenie pushed Willow away.
“We have a battle to win,” she reminded Willow, who was crying silently.
Willow nodded and rushed back to shoot two Sprites with one arrow, impaling the first one, then having the arrow blast through his back, thrusting into the second, who staggered back over the edge of a gulch.
Dweezil was now defending himself against six clambering Juice Sprites. He was badly outnumbered, and was twisting and thrusting his stubby dagger. He took out one of the Sprites, but more came from a fissure in the boulder. He grunted, forcing his boot down onto one of these creatures, smashing through the body to the ground. The beast dissolved, squirting into thousands of drops.
Willow turned to Stephenie, to explain about how she thought she might be a shape-shifter, but Stephenie wasn’t there. Willow craned her neck upward, and saw Stephenie, flying among the clouds again, swooping towards Dweezil, now invisible.
Stephenie banked off the cliff next to the boulder, bounding towards a glimmering piece of air. She tucked her arms around Dweezil’s shoulders, hoisting him into the safety of the air. Dweezil was fading, turning back into a visible version. He was paler, almost translucent. Stephenie gasped; Dweezil’s body was disintegrating. It crumbled into chunky rocks and dropped to the ground, where the Sprites pounced, confused.
Stephenie screamed and stepped to the ground and picked Dweezil’s remains up. They filtered through her fingers. A simpering scowl darkened her face.
“AI—EE!” She yelled, running towards the monstrous figures of the Juice Sprites. She was overwhelmed in a mound of green, moldy creatures.
Nimrod was battling one of the more intelligent Sprites. He was taunting him, trying to find his weak spot.
“Hey, you like golf?” He asked.
“No!” Nimrod spat.
“Heh, heh! I like golf!”
“Okay, I don’t really care,” Nimrod told him.
“Uh, do you have a girlfriend?” The Sprite inquired.
“I never have,” Nimrod sighed.
“Har, har, too ugly for your hideous girly-friend!” The beast taunted.
Nimrod convulsed, curling in on himself. His legs and arms stiffened, stretching him into an asterisk. Now his limbs were longer than they had ever been. They were pulling him apart. There was suddenly an audible snap as his joints were popped out of his sockets. Nimrod’s eyes widened as his arms and legs flew off, soaring into the sky and falling to the ground, slapping and hitting Sprites in the face. Nimrod glowed a dull brown and sparked into millions of mirrored pieces.
“Come on!” Stephenie shouted to Willow, who was shooting at anything that moved. Stephenie picked up Willow much the same as she had Dweezil, and swept past the battling Sprites, now hitting each other. She flew almost up to the top of Mount Cachaluge before grabbing a light beige band from the ground and continued flying up the mountain. Upon reaching the top, Stephenie doubled over, clutching her ribs.
“You have to get that band on before sunset!” she insisted to Willow, who was slumped on the ground, shocked.
Willow shook her head and stood up shakily, seizing the Rubber Band in her dirty hands. She crossed to the center of the mountain, on top of which stood a metal skeletal pyramid. It had crossed beams, and the majority of the structure was buried in the mountain limestone. The top of the metal pyramid was capped in a beaming red sphere.
Willow grasped the Band tighter for a moment, then slipped it over the top of the tower. The two waited in silence.
Nothing happened.
“I wonder what that metal thing is,” Willow whispered.
“Oh, I know,” Stephenie said. “Nimrod was telling me something about primitive human architecture. Apparently they used to have these things called—well, anyway, this is a radio tower.”
Willow nodded. “This was before the incident,”
“The incidents.” She admitted.
“And, do you...do you know what was supposed to happen?” Willow asked.
“No, but it might have something to do with this note I found taped to the tower,” Stephenie pointed out.
“What note?” Willow demanded shrilly.
“Here,” Stephenie handed her a clear glass case with a crispy object contained in it. It was a woody note, crumbling at the edges, turned brown with age. Willow pressed a small, concealed button, and the top of the case was released.
A lot of grey steam seeped out, and the note was revealed:
If you are reading this, it means you have completed your quest. Good job. Congratulations. You should know that you’ve been set up. Whoever sent you knows of the awesome power this band may release. They wanted you to destroy the Band, didn’t they? Yes, they know. If the band is gone, the whole environment shall crumble, turn to dust. Even the grass will become no more than sawdust. Heed this call: DO NOTHING WITH THE BAND! DO NOT DESTROY IT, DON’T PUT IT OVER THE TOWER, JUST PRESERVE IT. If you don’t listen to me, you will all die. I know this, as I was the only one in the twenty-first century to realize this.
~Apple Fields, 2032.
Willow struggled for breath. This woman, Apple, had been her descendent, probably her great-grandmother of many, many, manygenerations ago.
Willow picked up the band, then looked out over the valley, the plains, the hills, the deserts, the dull backdrop for her and her friends’ suffering. She had lost three of her four companions, and guilt washed over her. Guilt, not only for Chrys and Dweezil and Nimrod and even Stephenie, but for the Juice Sprites, and the Spring Spirits. Why had they come on this journey? They had been tricked—no, she had been tricked, by Kenneth and Ivan. And, as a gullible fool, Willow had led her friends out on a doomed journey.
Well, Willow had come from a line of good environmentalists. Her family hadn’t tied themselves to demolition balls and sacrificed themselves so that she would succumb to the evilness of the common world. She had been raised on the idea of apologies and regret. It was what had gotten this world into this mess, and now, Willow would get. them. out.
Willow clutched the letter to her chest, and it combusted into dust. She closed her eyes, and a solitary tear slid down her cheek.
X X X
Willow approached the small group of shimmering figures. They were nearly invisible in the dull light of the sunrise. Two were playing with hoop tires, and five were in a cluster, apparently gossiping. One looked up as he heard Willow’s approach over the dusty snow.
The onlookers sharpened their Spring Spears, jabbing at Willow and Stephenie.
Willow had never heard the dialogue of Spring Spirits before, so it surprised her when a bubbly voice spoke in the back of her mind.
What?
Willow gulped. “Uh, I want to barter.”
With what?
“Er, with this,” she held up the Rubber Band.
And what would you like in return?
“I would like your forgiveness for killing some of your people.”
Willow Heather Fields, The Voice began. Have you any knowledge of the history of the Spring People?
“No, sir.”
We have no history, only present. Each time we are killed, we evaporate and are returned to life in a short or a long time. It is painful to fall from clouds into bubbling heat. You would not understand what it is like to be reincarnated each time it rains, but let me tell you, we would rather be killed and floating in the atmosphere than go through it. Unfortunately, your people have no mercy. They believe we feel no pain. What makes you different?
“I have the Band. I have been chosen. I am special.”
The voice scoffed. Do you mean you actually believed that garb? Kenneth--or shall I call him Karsto?—Tells that to every impressionable, gullible mortal. Now, this Band you speak of. Is it the legendary band?
“Yes, sir.”
Okay, then. We would be pleased to forgive you if you give it to us.
“Why would you want it?” Willow requested.
If the flesh of the Band-Carrier is ingested by the Spring People, we shall solidify, become ice. Only then may we lose all that holds us to this spot.
“And the Band-Carrier would be me.” Willow said dryly.
Indeed.
“I suppose I will give my consent. Please be quick,” Willow sighed.
Stephenie had been silent this entire time, an impressive feat for her, actually.
“Willow, you can’t do this!” she insisted, sobbing.
“I have to,” Willow said vaguely.
“Then let me be the Band-Carrier,” she demanded.
There is only one Band-Carrier.
“Okay,” Willow nodded encouragingly.
“NO!” Stephenie screamed.
Oh, shut up, you! The voice snapped, and an invisible force pulled Stephenie into the air, forcing her to flap her wings and stay aloft.
Stephenie had one last glimpse, from the air, of Willow being blasted apart by watery vapors. Her own body seemed to be being blasted, her very essence dissolving in the air.
She glanced to her sides and saw a beautiful sight; the group was reunited, all of her friends together in one place. They were sitting on a wispy cloud by her.
Chrys and Nimrod were holding hands, staring into each others’ eyes.
Dweezil was studying a harpoon, looking down the shaft, right at the spear. He was flashing, only partly visible.
And Willow was gorging on apples and squash and watermelon and strawberries. Her shirt read icrees verde!
She reached across the leather seats, grabbing another lemon from the glove-box inside of her brand new, green, shiny PRIUS.
.