The Fall - Chapters 8-9

(8)

-Sange-

 Last names are uncommon here, but that’s not the only idiosyncrasy plaguing Tommy; they follow him closer than his own shadow. As he tells us his story, I’m captivated by the peculiarities that define him. The strange way he curls his words, like wisps of smoke twisting in the air, each syllable weighed down by its oddity. His hands, too, tell a story of their own – the pristine canvas of his skin untouched by the harshness of the world, devoid of any mark or blemish, betraying a life sheltered from the violence of outdoor toil.

 “Where I come from-” He explains with grand, sweeping gestures, as though attempting to paint his story in the air. And again I’m stumped by how he speaks as if he's recounting tales from another realm altogether. “Lights turn on with a word and there are machines that can take you anywhere you could ever want to go with the press of a button.” I steal a glance at Icarus, and in that single exchange, a silent conversation unfolds between us, a shared understanding of the unfathomable world Tommy describes. A boy so young, not possibly older than eleven, should not know of such a profound world.

 Tommy idly toys with Icarus’s hand as he speaks. “But I lost it all in a simple mistake.” I shake my head in confusion, trying to unravel the complexities of his narrative, “I was the only one to escape.”

 “We have no clue what you mean,” I interject, my voice laden with frustration. Inpatient with my curiosity. Tommy regards me with a mixture of pity and sorrow, as if lamenting my inability to comprehend.

 “Don’t you notice.” He jumps at a sputter of sparks but he quickly recovers, desperation igniting in his eyes, “Don’t you people notice it? Any of it? At least the strange patterns of the weather or the uncharted territories? The people that go missing?” His voice falters, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “But no. I guess you won’t give it up. Like the kids in the city. Pretending things are all right and everyone has it ‘under control’.” His eyes fall to his feet, but his curls do little to hide the golden streaks of tears gliding down his cheeks. There is a moment of lingering silence, with Tommy refusing to meet my doubting gaze. 

 “I’m going to sleep,” Icarus grumbles, brushing dirt off his pants as he rises. Tommy quickly follows suit, trailing after him like a shadow.

 Then I am alone. I sit with the dying fire as the last of the flames begin to sputter to a stop. Drawing closer to the fading warmth, I inhale the woody scent of the smoldering embers. And, even as Icarus begins to snore, sleep eludes me. Refusing to face the horrors behind my eyes, I shove myself off the ground and push towards the silhouetted trees. 

 The forest buzzes as I walk, vibrating with an intense foreboding energy

-o-

 We’re on the move before dawn breaks. Icarus takes to the skies, scouting ahead as Tommy and I trek the narrow valley path. Beside me, Tommy's incessant chatter fills the air, leaving me baffled by his boundless energy. After about an hour, his ramblings begin to blend seamlessly with the rustling of leaves, no more out of place than the twittering of the birds. 

 As we grow nearer to home, hills grow into sharp arching cliffs, topped with dense thickets of trees, crowning the horizon with clusters of crimson leaves, casting long shadows that swallow the landscape.

 By the halfway point, the valley is cloaked in shadow, the dim light of dawn barely penetrating the dense canopy overhead. Our pace is consistent and I calculate that we should reach camp by midday tomorrow. Icarus swoops down from the sky, landing amidst a carpet of fallen leaves.

 “I think we should keep moving through the night,” I suggest, but my words are drowned out by Tommy's loud groan of protest, drawing Icarus's attention away from my remark.

 “I’m tired,” Tommy whines, “My feet are sore and my legs hurt.” I glance to Icarus for support but he shrugs. 

 “It wouldn’t hurt to rest-” He begins, but a high-pitched wail shatters the stillness, cutting him off mid-sentence. Icarus's reaction is immediate; he tugs Tommy off the path and into the safety of the trees. I hesitate to follow, pulled towards the sound. Ignoring Icarus's urgent gestures, I follow the sound. My footsteps are light and swift as I navigate the forest floor. Dodging fallen branches and crunching leaves, I move with an assassin's grace. I reach the ridge and lower myself onto my stomach, peering over the lip.

 My stomach flips at the sight. Less than ten yards ahead lies a camp, illuminated by an eerie glow emanating from a chemical fire. Brightly colored tents dot the landscape, forming a surreal tableau against the backdrop of the wilderness.

Fighting every instinct in my body, I work my way around the camp, attempting to get a better angle, so I might be able to properly address the threat. I’m, again, shocked to find the inhabitants of this unnatural camp are nonother than a cluster of adolescents. I scan for any clue as to what faction they may belong, a gray tail or a colorful set of wings, but I return with nothing. They have nothing; they are strangers in a strange land, devoid of any identifying marks or characteristics.

 A twig snaps to my left, and my heart leaps to my throat. A lone figure passes me, muttering under his breath but the words are meaningless to my ears. He moves with purpose, slipping away from the group. How he isn’t noticed is a miracle; his stomping footsteps could have been heard miles away. He disappears behind a round boulder and intrigued, I edge closer, careful not to reveal my presence. 

His skin is ghostly pale, tinged with the first blush of sunburn. Gold framed glasses perch atop his nose, just above dark blue hair conceals his eyes. He glances around before retrieving a small book from his pocket. Flipping through its pages with trembling fingers he begins to read. His endeavor punctuated with frequent pauses every few moments to check over his shoulder. 

 Afraid to move and alert him of my presence, I watch him until the sky grows too dark for him to continue. Still, he sits, muttering his strange words to himself. Refusing to return to his camp of odd, naked beings. Finally, he rises, pushing himself off the ground and starting back towards his companions.

Abandoning the strange boy and his camp, I make my way back down the slope to where Icarus and Tommy wait at the treeline. Icarus stands protectively in front of Tommy, his wings twitching with nervous energy. As I pass beneath the canopy of trees, Icarus approaches me, his expression shifting from concern to frustration as he searches me for injuries.

 “Don’t do that,” He growls.

 “Do what?” I ask, puzzling over his vexation, “Stupid risks are why we’re friends.” 

 “But we take them together,” he reminds me, his voice softening with concern. “I know teamwork isn’t your style but I do care about you. And I don't want to see you get hurt.” 

You’ll just let him down

Why does he trust you

Doesn’t he know what you’ve done?

 He reaches for me but his hand falls back to his side before grasping mine. Even as he turns away, my feet root themselves to the dirt, unsaid words caught in my throat. All the things I wish I could say, sitting atop my tongue hovering in the air where he stood. To tell him how I would burn the world with a smile, just so he could watch the flames. 

(9)

-Benjamin-

It has been three days since we first entered the Biodome. Three days since I had learned that something big was happening now, and I was a part of it. We all were. And yet, I haven’t told a soul. The teachers either know and don’t care enough to warn anyone, or they’re oblivious. Telling Jasper would be pointless, if he didn’t laugh in my face, he would just spread rumors and cause a mass panic. Thus, I have been working to figure it out on my own.

 The bus skips and jolts as it lands, sending clouds of dust into the still air. The wheels grind against the earth, groaning as they touch down on uneven terrain.

 “Day three! Set up camp!” A chaperon calls. Students respond instantly. Like ants, the students file out, grabbing gear and scattering to erect tents beneath the towering trees. I follow the stream of bodies, counting as I move. Forty-two. Eight less than the original fifty. It’s not a miscount this time. Too many are gone. I only knew one of the missing kids. His name was Caleb, a freshman, no older than fourteen. Smart kid, kind too. But now he’s vanished without a word.

 I am able to guess that we have stopped somewhere in what was once northern California, according to the tattered map I’ve been following. It is outdated, leaving the majority of its defining features unrecognizable. Landmarks that long ago towered over a thriving society have crumbled, leaving nothing but ruins and dust.

I trail behind the bus, taking in the massive trees—soaring giants that dwarf everything beneath them. The ancient scarring of their bark echoes stories of a dead time. I pause, admiring their silent authority, their patient vigil over this ruined world.

 “Dude, move it,” someone snaps, shoving me forward. I grumble a halfhearted apology, ducking behind the thick trunk of a tree, its rough bark scratching against my hands as I step into its shadow.

I spot Jasper, fumbling with a tangled mess of tent poles, struggling to force them into place. His futile attempts lead the tent to flop to the ground in a crumpled heap of blue fabric. I jog over, catching a metal strip before it can reach the ground. Without dropping the pole, I shrug my bag off my shoulder and toss it a few feet out of the way. 

“You can’t just throw it to the ground and hope that your tent pops up,” I tease, securing one of the poles.

Jasper rolls his eyes. “Please, like you know any better.”

“You’re right, but at least I had enough sense to listen to instructions.” I motion for him to grab the other side.

“Ugh, you’re such a nerd.” I feel the tent’s support click, funneling them into the fabric. 

“Am not!” Stomping the tent stakes into the ground I feel like a whiny child in the midst of a tantrum. 

“Oh please, you brought a book on a camping trip,” he retorts, laughing. “Why are you even here? You act as though you’ve never broken a single rule in your life.” I shift my feet, the weight of the notebook in my pocket uncomfortably reminds me of its clandestine presence, but I can’t let him have the last jive. 

“At least I can read.”

 “Don’t even get me started! I’ve seen your math grades.”

 “Oh, shut up!” He laughs, knowing he has won. I can feel his mockery even as the tent shields me from his triumphant gaze. “Let’s just finish with the tent.” I can feel Jasper eyeing me smugly, but I ignore it. There is too much on my mind, with worrying about the notebook and the doctor’s information, to entertain his insults.

 Once the tent is successfully upright, I crawl inside, rolling out my sleeping pad and tossing my backpack at its head. The stifling air within the tent is thick, and within minutes, sweat beads on my forehead. As the heat grows, I think back to the past couple of days. I’ve noticed that I’m more susceptible to the temperature changes. Really, everything has been unbearable—the heat, the cold, even the sunlight feels sharper. It burns my eyes, makes them itch and water. Even when I wake up, I feel hyper-alert, on edge, like I’ve taken a shot of espresso, a potent one, unlike the weak caffeine smuggled into the academy. My nerves are constantly frayed, like I’m one step away from snapping. It dies down a bit every now and again but other times, I’m shaking with adrenaline, waiting for some unknown fight. 

 With a few hours of free time, I decide that I best actually discover the notebook’s contents. I check for Jasper—he’s nowhere to be found. With a sigh of relief, I journey back into the tent, curling into the far corner, so I’m facing the zippered door.

Propping the small book on my knees, I look over the cover. It’s simple, brown leather that bears several small scratches from use, and a stain at the bottom right. Curious, I flip it open. The first few pages are a mess of chemical equations and disconnected notes. But soon, the scribbles turn into something more coherent, more dedicated, more connected. Instead of a haphazard collection of scribblings, there’s continuous paragraphs. I read slowly, working to piece together the complex science.

 Much of the writing mentions gene transfer and a serum that is being tested. Something that allows humans to adapt to radiation poisoning. The doctor writes in a chaotic shorthand, and I haven’t been educated in advanced chemistry and biology, so I have to work to digest the material meticulously and carefully. 

 There had been human-developed hybrids, genetically engineered to withstand the toxic wastelands that had become of North America. Scientists studied them, overtime rooting out the exact key genes that directly correlate with their ability to survive the cancerous effects of the radiation. The City’s scientific department had developed something that could be injected intravenously in patients who, previously, had no tolerance for the ionization, could become immune to it.

 Within the margins of the page, every free space has been filled with graphs, chemical breakdowns, and gene correlations. They run on and on about the breakdown of radioactive particles and complex maps of genes capable of stopping the multiplication and mutation of cells, but no reason why. 

Further down, the doctor had most recently begun to list possible side effects of the serum. He writes how the patient receiving the serum had to have a specific biological make-up that allowed for the concoction to actively stop the increased growth of cells. It was also preferable for the ideal specimen to be physically fit, healthy and young. 

 The list stretches all the way to the next page: heightened sensitivity to sights, sounds, and smells, irritable skin and facial features, discoloration in pigment, and intense soreness and nausea. 

 My heart skipped a beat. I reread the list. Could it be a feasible explanation for what I had been experiencing? No, I am simply projecting my uncertainty on some random bit of information I found on the ground. Right?

 I force my shaking fingers to turn the page. A new list waits for me on the faded ink lines. Rows and rows of numbers each labeled with a corresponding letter. They go on and on. Tracing all the way back to 1A and stretching all the way to 500F, each letter changing after reaching 500. 

 My breath catches when I see it: 429F. That’s me. Whatever they gave me in the lab—whatever they did to me—the answers have to be here. Eager for answers, I read the entry, but the results column is blank.

 Of course! My head falls to my hands. They don’t have the results because the experiment is still in progress. Somehow, realizing this doesn’t make me feel any better about my situation. Instead, I flip further back in the book, all the way to 1A. My stomach twists as I read the first description:

Patient 1, Batch A: Kennedy, Sophie

Female / Age 9

Driven to madness four days after serum was administered. Highly aggressive. Killed three doctors before ending her own life on day six.

Despite myself I keep reading, trying my best to avoid looking at the gory image of the young girl with bloodied hands, fighting a lab worker twice her size.

Patient 4, Batch A: Polling, Oscar

Male / Age 12

Suffered brain trauma due to the radiation. Soon developed multiple mutations. Expired on his eleventh day due to an abnormal growth in his windpipe. 

Each entry is worse than the last—violent deaths, mutations, insanity. Batch after batch, children die in horrifying ways. The children in Batch A follow a similar pattern to the first girl, dying before two weeks, often due to mutations or insanity. In contrast, children victim to Batch B often died mere hours after administration. Batch C was violent, with horrific images of victims slaughtering each other in over-packed laboratory cells. Batch E lasted longer, but similar to Batch A, test subjects commonly went mad. Those who survived Batch E suffered so much mental oppression they were just human shells. If you could even call them human anymore. The pages are filled with photos, child after child, in agony. Caught mid scream, sobbing through smiles, or cowering from the oppression of the scientists. I barely manage to hold down my meal. But Batch F… my batch… there’s nothing. No conclusion. Just a note at the bottom of the page:

Though I do not claim that this will be the key to unlocking humanity's full potential, I fear if it is not, we are doomed to perish upon this earth and hush our small legacy. This new serum brings with it hope, and uncertainty, our last chance of a blissful future. 

 I close the notebook with trembling hands. Oh God. What have I gotten into?