Beneath the Ground

SHORT STORY. Can be read stand-alone.
This is an auxiliary episode to my serial, Days of Gold gone By. It is a bonus episode written to celebrate my 10th anniversary of constantly keeping up with the serial. (no lazy writer here!) Even though it contains the characters of the serial, it can be read as a stand-alone short story, and doesn't fit into any particular order. I hope you enjoy.

Beneath the Ground

A low hum, a voice on vibrato. It haunts the air; the direction from which it approaches is undefined. Its gentle shake eventually overcomes you, and you feel your body match its pulse. It is really the only warning you get. Of course there soon comes the sirens, wailing their chorus, but if you wait for them you would have waited too long; the time between their helpless cries and the droning beats of the aeroplanes is more than enough time to die.

So the very moment you hear those planes, you run. You drop what you are carrying; those two bags of rice, too heavy to run with, and as much as you would have liked to keep those nashi, the majority of them meet their ultimate fate rolling in the gutter of the street.

You have to trust in your feet, they know where to go. The course of the war has grown on you, built your instincts. The safety is deep. Deep in the mud, beneath the ground, rocks and cement. The ground shakes, the sound squeals, wiggling into your ears and blocking them. Thrown forward onto the street your hands and knees are grazed and red. There is no time to comprehend the pain. You will be in much worse shape if you don’t keep going. Running is suddenly easier now- the sting has shoved you into reality.

Down. Down. Down. The sky falls down, you fall down; but this time you fall into the chamber with the floor of gravel. The room that has no windows and no light. Just walls. Blank walls.

“Kaho!” Mother calls your name, more of a desperate sigh of relief rather than an exclamation. You raise your read, bones shaking. You cringe when she touched you, wraps you up in her wide and hungry arms. She is hungry to protect, starved simply to hold a body within her grasp. Your limbs are glass, her bond constricting you as the artificial thunder rains down.

Neither of you say anything for a long time. The two of you makes the small room incredibly large. After a while your mothers tight grasp is less restrictive and more comforting, her warm arms squeezing away the fear, making you feel solid and secure, like your two feet are safe on the ground.

It seems to be over so quickly; quicker than it started. The shuddering stops, the rainfall of bombs cease. As you come to your senses you realise that you are now the one holding her as she shivers in the dark. The sound of the wind rushing above you and the absence of bird calls or insects gives you the most sickening feeling. The silence is more dire than the explosion.

“I have to...” Mother gasps as she lifts her head. “I have to go to the house, and check the neighbours.”

“Wait-” you try to protest, but the truth is you want to go out too. See what has happened to the world.

At a first glance it doesn’t seem that different. The air is hot and dusty, even more so than a usual summers day. Each breath is heavy and tastes sour as you inhale ash. Your immediate surroundings seem remarkably intact if not for the dark and burned allure, but just over the edge of the buildings surrounding you, you see that things are far from normal. A tall block which had always stood out from behind the line of Matsu trees has vanished. Not a trace or a structure of evidence remains. You peer down the road. Near the end the ground is paved in black, the houses burned. So close. So close.

Mother also sees this. She is not pleased. She is distraught, letting a cry slip her tongue as she moves toward it. You grab her arm, eager not to let her escape.

“What can you do?” You ask, rejecting her pleading eyes. What happens is what happens. It can’t be helped.

“Something.” She says. No matter what you do, she will never agree with you. That had always been a defining aspect of mother, always worrying for the people who were in the worst situation. She loves you, she really does; more than anything, anyone, as she does with all of her children, but she knows your safe. She has trouble expressing her happiness for that. Her mind is too devout on the helpless.

“Then I’ll come!” you proclaim. “Let me help too.”

“No!” She says instantly, almost shouting. She pauses as she considered her words. “You have to stay here and wait for your brother to return.”

You nod, understanding her point. When your brother came home and found you both gone he could jump to conclusions. Mother hurries off after taking her aid-kit. At least she knows what she is doing, being a nurse.

You wait in the bomb shelter for at least an hour, but naturally your impatience builds and boredom takes over. You move up back into the house, but its limbs creak and bend, driving fear into your head. The last thing you want is to be devoured by your own home. You think about Mother and worry for her just as she worries for others. If the stress of the war goes on like this, it may drive her insane. You also think about your brother. He perhaps should have been home by now, then again he is also with eldest Brothers fiancée, perhaps he is comforting her, or helping the others just like Mother is. That wouldn’t be unlikely, since he was so much like her and would one day be a great doctor himself. Despite the reassurance you decide to go and look for him, tell him that you and Mother are fine also.

You leave the house cautiously, careful not to catch the eye of Mother, who would protectively snap and not let you leave, and hurry down the road of debris and soot. You remember you came this way with him just before you went to the shop; he had gone down the long road to the south, to the large looking home that shone wealth even greater than your own.

The house beams out from the end of the road which evokes out a sigh of relief. Its white paint is now dark grey and the glass in the window panes have shattered, but other than that it seems remarkably intact, its beautiful front door and elaborate decorative more or less in place. You quicken your pace; the air stinks of fire. You take a whiff; it reminds you of the scent wine, but hot and woody. The door to the grand house groans ever so gently, you reach out and place your hand to the handle, meaning to open it.

But the door does not open. The door simply collapses. The hinges seem non-existent, its body falls into itself, splinters flying around the edges. You gaze is level with the empty door frame, looking inside the house.

But there is no inside. On the other side of the door is outside. There is no roof, no walls, and what remains of them are crumpled, chunks of the ceiling now on the floor, all of it coated in a thin layer of charcoal and ash. You stand there, your mouth hanging open, unsure what to think; you can’t really think at all, instead you just walk forward into the burned crisp.

Your feet crunch beneath you as you walk the ash and step over the chunks of wood and plaster. The far edges of the house do not seem burned, and only a little damaged, but the centre has been swept clean of any structure. You stare, your mind still blank and cold. Then your eyes begin to scout out shapes amidst the rubble, forms, parts of furniture, people.

You see her first. You know it is her because of what remains of the dress. The cloth is torn and the fabric desaturated, but you have seen that dress so many times before. It was her favourite. Her skin and face are featureless and bright grey. She looks more like a mannequin than charred remains. Places near the edges of her arms and her legs are black and broken. The skin is ripped as easily as tissue.

You choke and jump backward. Your stomach boils, stick and twisted. Your body laughs out loud but it sounds more like a pained animal. You feel like you are going to collapse.

At least she will be happy now. This is what she wanted. She was always suicidal after she heard about her fiancée. NO! No... you can’t think those terrible things. No. You can’t even believe your mind for thinking such things. It can’t be helped. You scramble away, as if you can run away from your thoughts and the body. You want to get out of the house. Out out out. But you only find yourself moving deeper in. The more you look the more crumpled forms you spot.

And then you see him. He isn’t recognizable like she was, his skin is black and far more destroyed, but you just know it is him. The pull of blood, the essence of family. It is him. It is it. It can’t even be described as a him anymore. You run, screaming from the scene, you don’t want to see any more. You don’t want to be the one to tell Mother what has happened. You don’t want to say that your other brother is dead.

You collapse on the street, sick; you try to gag, release the bile taste in the back of your throat but nothing comes out. First eldest brother, and now this. The family was nothing. Father would die of grief at this news. And Mother? Mother would... Your thoughts escape you. You can’t think, your eyes tear up.

And....You would also have to write a letter, send it to England. How would he react? How would he respond? He was a person who barely showed his pain, who drowned it in fake smiles and vodka. But something like this? Even you can’t anticipate how he would take this.

And you? How will you live your life? You thought one loss was traumatic enough. You would just have to forget. You would just have to go on. It can’t be helped.

You are strong. The war has taken its toll on many people and you are no exception. You will never escape its far reaching talons that scratch and claw scars into your skin and soul. You will have always been burned by the loss of your brother, your family. But I know you will live.

You will live and lead a life to fulfill the loss of my life and all of us. To balance what has been taken from you, and to take back everything you deserve. Because Kaho, you are young, but you will make it in life. You will make it in the world. You will be happy.