"Mosk and Merk"

[FortyFiveAuto 1]

Ludmilla's cup of coffee shook as she held it gingerly in her soot-

blackened hands. It was a cold day in Kiev -- most days of late had

been particularly bitter, not helped by the chaotic goings-on that had

kept nearly half the country watching their steps. This has been her

fourth cup in the last hour, she realized suddenly. Sleep was getting

harder to come by, and as rations became thin, she feared she would

lose even more sleep, though none of that really mattered at the

moment. Her grip tightened and the misshapen paper cup sloshed

lukewarm liquid onto her hand. The spill made runnels along the back

of her hand, which dripped as a sickening blend of sooty coffee

spattered onto the linoleum.

 

 

Ludmilla hardly noticed that she had lost some of her drink. She had

been staring intently at the same thing for the past twenty minutes --

the double doors which led from the waiting room of the hospital and

into the patient's quarters. She was distracted from her vigil as two

figures clad in pale green scrubs and matching face masks wheeled in a

new patient from the lifts. Even Ludmilla knew that every day that

passed would bring more patients. More like these. More like her

son, Anatoly.

 

 

"Fifteen days," she thought, looking down at her wristwatch still

slightly damp from the spilled coffee. Today marked the fifteenth day

since the event. The day they all said would one day come. Russians,

Americans, Chinese...it made no difference. Ludmilla was reminded of

a saying which confirmed this now-fulfilled prophecy. "It's in the

nature of humans to destroy themselves."

 

 

Ludmilla was not yet born when Chernobyl was destroyed. They said

that such a thing could never happen again, and as far as Ukraine was

concerned, it never did. But this was something else. She was

certain that no government on earth would ever resort to the use of

the bomb, not since the Americans did in the last century. The

governments of the world had a name for it, a foreboding of doom

should anyone try to do it again. What was it called? MAD?

 

 

The double doors burst open. A man in the same greens as the others

who had earlier passed came forward, his graying temples visible

through the mask and cap. He tugged the mask toward his neck to

reveal a thick gray beard. "Mrs. Novikov?"

 

 

Dr. Mischa Simonov was Kiev General Hospital's head oncologist. He

had perhaps kept busiest of all citizens in the past few days, as

increased cases of radiation sickness were admitted day by day.

Junior doctors emerged from the doors and assailed Dr. Simonov with

questions about patients' conditions. He quickly addressed and

directed their actions, sending them back through the double doors

whence they came. He had the look of experience and poise about him,

and gave no indication of a lack of sleep except for a hint of dark

circles underneath his grandfatherly eyes. "Mrs. Novikov, I'm afraid

I have some bad news. Shall we sit?"

 

 

Ludmilla's heart sank. Did Anatoly succumb to the radiation?

"Please, Doctor. Is he gone?"

 

 

The doctor shook his head. "Anatoly is stable for now, but he appears

to be suffering the effects of acute radiation sickness. Judging from

the radiological examinations performed on him, he has perhaps

absorbed some 5 Grays of radiation. I don't expect him to survive for

more than four or five days or so. I am so sorry, Mrs. Novikov."

Ludmilla hid her face in her hands and sobbed. The doctor placed his

hands on her head to console her. "I am so sorry. I wish there was

more we could do. As it is, we will increase his painkillers and make

his stay with us as comfortable as possible, you have my word." She

nodded behind her hands, still weeping for Anatoly. Poor Anatoly.

Only twenty years old, and attending University, until this horrific

thing happened. He would have become an engineer, to work on the

construction of bridges, buildings. She thought she would never stop

crying.

 

 

The double doors flew open again. "Dr. Simonov!" A fresh-faced

young surgeon called from the doorway. Ludmilla looked up through

bleary eyes. Was this the same young doctor from before? She wished

she could have a moment in peace, without having to share company in

what suddenly seemed like a cold, heartless place where people came to

die.

 

Dr. Simonov frowned in annoyance, his hands still cradling Ludmilla's

head. "What is it, Yuri?" Yuri looked bewildered behind his mask. "Doctor, the patient in 308! He's...He's..."

 

"Oh spit it out, Karpov! He's what?" He stood up, leaving Ludmilla

to herself. She looked up at the stuttering young doctor, who

couldn't get a word out but instead pointed frantically at the doors.

 

"Mrs. Novikov, I will be right back. Please wait here." As soon as

he finished the sentence, another surgeon came hurriedly through the

doors.

 

"Doctor Simonov, the patient in 308," she looked down at some

paperwork affixed to a clipboard, "A.N."

 

"Anatoly?" Ludmilla exclaimed, looking at the female doctor. Her eyes

met hers for a brief moment, which was enough for Ludmilla. They were

talking about her son. "Anatoly! Oh God, is he dead?"

 

"No," the female doctor began slowly, and then turned to Dr. Simonov,

who now held the woman by the shoulders as if to wrench some

information from her. "Doctor I think you need to see this for

yourself. Mrs. Novikov, why don't you come, too?"

 

The white linoleum tiled floor which continued from the waiting room

and into the patient's quarters stretched down a long corridor flanked

by a series of doors on either side. This wing was full, holding all

the people injured by the blast or the effects of its fallout.

 

Ukrainians were taught early how to enter bomb shelters and make use

of radiation shielding equipment, but to have a bomb hit this close,

all the iodine in the world would not be a help to these people. The

three doctors and Ludmilla walked about halfway down the long corridor

until coming to a small room on the left. Ludmilla's mouth gaped open

as she dropped her coffee cup onto the floor.

 

Anatoly was stretching up to a television set set up opposite the

large bed in the room, flipping the channels and trying to get a

picture. "Silly boy," Ludmilla smiled as tears continued down her

face. What TV stations would be operating after this?

 

"Oh hi, Mom. Gosh you'd think that something, ANYTHING, would be

working by now. Hasn't it already been two weeks?" Anatoly still

had the IV tubes stuck to him. Ludmilla turned to regard Dr.

Simonov, who shared her initial dumbfounded expression.

 

Ludmilla ran forward to hug her son. She buried her face into his

chest and sobbed loudly. "Are you okay, Mom? Really, I feel fine."

 

"You should be back in bed! You are very sick, and you will hurt

yourself carrying on like this." The female surgeon -- Danilov was

her name -- took Anatoly by the wrist and began to gently coax him

toward the bed. "Please, sir, it is for your own health."

 

"No, really, you can probably take these tubes out of me," Anatoly

looked...alive. When Ludmilla had found him earlier yesterday

morning, he was pallid and almost lifeless. What had happened? How?

He began to tug at his IV.

 

"He must be reacting to the meds," Dr. Simonov said finally. "Karpov

stop standing there like a fool and fetch the morphine drip. NOW!"

Dr. Karpov snapped his mouth closed and hurried out. "Mrs. Novikov, I

must--"

 

"He's cured!" Ludmilla exclaimed. "Doctor, thank you! Thank you!"

She turned to throw her arms around the doctor, who promptly caught

her arms.

 

"Dr. Danilov, please see to it that he gets his morphine, and gets

back to bed," he loosened his grip but still held Ludmilla by her

wrists. "A word outside, please, Mrs. Novikov."

 

He led her out into the hall. More gurneys were being wheeled by with

sallow, coughing faces peeking out from beneath bedsheets. "Mrs.

Novikov, I am afraid that this means nothing. Anatoly must be

reacting well to the medication we have administered, but the truth

remains that he has received a lethal dose of radiation, and he will

die. I am sorry to tell you this way, but I do not want to get your

hopes up."

 

Ludmilla could not understand. "But...you saw him. Look how he

looks, Doctor. He doesn't look like..." she regarded a passing

gurney, holding a boy somewhat younger than Anatoly. His eyes were

closed, and he appeared clammy and his hair damp with sweat.

 

"I must admit, I have never seen such a temporary remission from the

effects of radiation sickness, but I must adhere to my initial

prognosis." Dr. Simonov grasped her hands in his. "I am sorry."

 

Ludmilla pulled away. She could not believe it. "NO!" but the word

came out before she said it. It came from within the room!

 

Dr. Danilov ran out, screaming. "The devil! He is the devil!"

Her clipboard clattered onto the ground as she scurried away.

 

Ludmilla rushed in to find Anatoly standing next to his bed, his IV

tubes pulled hastily from his body and monitors still taped to his

chest. He was staring bug-eyed at his hands.

 

"What's the meaning of this, young man?" Dr. Simonov demanded. "You

will not assault my staff! We doctors risk our lives to help people

like you, now get back in your bed NOW!"

 

"Look, sir," Anatoly began, "I told you, I am fine. I don't need to

get back in this bed. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn't listen,

so I..." he returned to staring at his hands.

 

Dr. Simonov gripped Anatoly by the shoulders and began to press him

slowly towards the bed. Just then Ludmilla started as Dr. Simonov was

shoved hard by Anatoly against the wall. The TV worked loose from the

mounting and crashed onto the floor. Anatoly and the doctor strangely

shared the same look of disbelief.

 

"What are you...doing to me?" The doctor managed, his voice sounding

strained, as if out of breath. Ludmilla couldn't move or scream. She

watched in simultaneous awe and horror as she regarded the scene

before her. The doctor was being HELD against the wall,

by...something! There were impressions on the man's arms and chest,

as if an invisible force kept him affixed. Gaping, she turned slowly

back to her son.

 

"Anatoly..." her son kept his right hand held out in front of him.

His face was bewildered, but his voice was ice.

 

"Mom, let's pay these fine people and get out of here. Thank you,

doctor, but I believe we can manage." Dr. Simonov's invisible

restraints gave way as he slumped down the wall and onto the ground.

Ludmilla could not believe what she was seeing. She felt her head

becoming light, and she stumbled backward, catching herself and trying

to shake away the fainting spell.

 

"S-S-Security!!!" Dr. Simonov shouted. "I need security, NOW!"

 

 

 

***to be continued***

[FortyFiveAuto 1]

***

 

Anatoly's eyes seemed heavy as he lifted his arm to his face to rub them. That is, he tried to lift his arm. Squinting and working his eyelids against the bright light, he made out the large leather restraint which held his wrist to an anchor somewhere on the underside of the bed.

 

A blunt pain radiated from the back of his head. Had he been hit? He seemed to remember telling the doctors that they would be leaving. He had to brush away the doctors insisting that he remain in bed. Surely they had use for the bed for other, sicker people. The hospital seemed abuzz with new cases of radiation sickness, and they needed every bed they could get.

 

Brushed aside? No! He...moved...those doctors, somehow. He tried to remember what happened, but everything was blurry. "Damn this aching head," he thought. Looking around the room, he could see his mother sitting on a chair, looking worried as usual. She looked very young for her age, he thought, if not for the constant look of worry that seemed to plague her as of late. Granted, most people looked worried these days. It still came as a great shock that their entire world had been turned on its side about two weeks ago, but the apocalypse was nothing like in the movies. It was cold and uninteresting, and food was hard to come by. Food. Anatoly realized just how hungry he was. He felt a rumbling pit in his stomach.

 

Nearby the older Doctor -- Simonov, was it? -- was working his mouth from behind his mask. He was talking to a man in uniform near the foot of the bed, but he could not make out their words. Anatoly guessed that was the man who hit him. When did that happen?

 

A frightened Dr. Danilov was beside him to his left, adjusting the drip on a bag of fluid connected to a tube in his arm. She appeared nervous and avoided eye contact with Anatoly. He looked back at Dr. Simonov, who was addressing another bespectacled man in the room. He was tall with dark features, wearing an exquisite suit. The scope on his head named him a surgeon of some kind, he surmised.

 

"Unprecedented recovery..." Anatoly managed to make out. He supposed there was something in the drip in his arm that made his ears not work. "...some kind of natural resistance..." He strained to hear the rest, but could not see Dr. Simonov's lips to try to read them. The man in the suit was closer, and wore no mask.

 

"We have heard reports of another case like this in Odessa. A young girl. A curious case, some nonsense about spontaneous combustion. At any rate, she was reportedly healthy before the fire broke out."

 

"...manifestations of recovery...tumescent growths..." Dr. Simonov continued. Why wouldn't Anatoly's ears work? He felt tired.

 

"Yes, it appears their bodies work past the neoplasms. We need to keep this young man and others like him around for observation and analysis. The oncological implications are...promising."

 

***

 

The light of the evening sunset fell on Vasily Berman's desk from the tall window in his office. Odessa General Hospital was one of the busiest in all of the Ukraine, and as administrator, it was his job to make sure that all staff were working where they should, that all records were kept accurately and confidentially, and that patients were seen to in an orderly and professional manner. His duties, however, were becoming increasingly difficult to perform; not for the reason of the nuclear holocaust that plagued the North, and not even for the fact that he was a lot younger than the majority of his colleagues. What made his work hard was the...aberrant... nature of symptoms shown by some of the exposed patients. It was gathering attention, and he did not know for how much longer he could keep his staff's lips sealed.

 

He put on his lab coat and headlamp and headed out of the office and into the top floor patients' quarters. Oncology and radiology were Dr. Berman's forte, and even as hospital administrator, he had a fondness for the afflicted patients and still rendered services himself. Cancer was a very personal disease, to him, as he himself had been a survivor of it not too many years prior.

 

A large, gruff man in scrubs approached him and lowered his face mask to reveal a bandage across his cheek. Berman knew there were stitches underneath that bandage. "Dr. Berman, I have some news regarding the Koslova girl," he said in a hushed voice. Maria Koslova was the topic of much buzz around the hospital of late.

 

"Dmitri, didn't I instruct you to place that patient in the psych wing?" Dr. Berman's interest was oncology, not diseases of the mind. Furthermore he was not as qualified as other members of his staff to deal with such a girl. A pyromaniac!

 

Though, there was the issue of her purported radiation exposure. When she was brought in three days ago, her mother had said she thought she was affected by the fallout of the blast two weeks ago, though she showed no symptoms for 10 days. According to the admitting doctors, she had come in with flu-like symptoms, not exactly inconsistent with radiation sickness, but Dr. Berman was beginning to wonder just how many people in Odessa were really affected by fallout. Didn't the Ministry of Defense reports say that the prevailing winds skipped the South?

 

The doctors examined her for radiation sickness yesterday, just before the incident with the fire. They found nothing outside of the normal traces of radioactive substances about her person, nor did she show the other classic pathologies associated with a high dose of radiation. All Dr. Berman knew was that when she came to, she cried out for her mother and began manhandling the staff.

 

This was another thing which bothered Berman. How does a 14-year-old girl manhandle someone like Dmitri? The big man scratched his bandaged face surreptitiously as he failed to meet Berman's eyes. "We decided it might be best to evaluate the girl's neoplasms in the appropriate setting, sir."

 

"She has no cancer, Dmitri," Berman retorted dryly. "Your diagnosis was incorrect."

 

"Begging your pardon, sir, I have been at this for much longer than you have. I know what I saw, and I have MRI films to prove it."

 

"As you say," Berman said, "but the fact remains she is a danger to our staff. Have you been keeping a guard on this child, Dmitri?"

 

"Yes sir, day and night guards are posted outside her door. She is restrained, and is being given a 60mg morphine drip. She is sleeping, but is intermittently restless."

 

"Cut the morphine, Dmitri. I want to speak with this child." They had been walking toward a room at the end of the wing with two uniformed security guards standing at their ease in front of it. They snapped to attention when Berman arrived. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said, regarding each with a nod.

 

Inside, a slight, tanned girl with black hair lay on the hospital bed. Leather restraints held her ankles and wrists to the bed, and a bandage covered her left arm from armpit to fingertip. She was awake, and her eyes appeared heavy. Berman adjusted the drip on her IV.

 

"Good morning, Maria," he began, and he did so her eyes opened wider to regard him. "It's good to see you are doing better. Now, I am going to need to speak with you about what happened yesterday."

 

Maria swallowed and looked at Dmitri, who had cold steel in his eyes. "I...I don't know what happened, doctor. I panicked. I'm sorry. I did not want to hurt anyone."

 

"You are lucky to be alive, Maria," Berman continued. "Dr. Markovich here seems to believe that you have a serious illness, but I think all you need is a little visit with one of our psychiatrists. They will be able to help you control your urges."

 

"I'm not crazy, doctor," Maria continued, "I just need to see my mother."

 

"Your mother is in the first floor ICU, Maria," the big man said to her. "She suffered 3rd-degree burns on 20% of her body and will need time to recover."

 

"Dmitri!" Dr. Berman said. "Maria doesn't need to hear this, do you understand?" The older man looked away, obviously put off by the chastisement. "Now Maria," he started again, but it was too late. Maria had tears streaming down her face.

 

"Mama!" she cried, "I'm sorry Mama!" She opened her mouth as she sobbed, gasping in air as she filled the room with her cries.

 

Dmitri felt odd about the situation. He had seen plenty of patients react this way about hurt or infirmed loved ones, but something about this young girl was affecting him somehow. His skin began to prickle fiercely.

 

Just then, balls of light appeared before Maria as she sobbed and hovered over her midsection. Dr. Berman stood stupefied, skin prickling, watching as the balls of light grew in intensity from soft white orbs to yellow, brilliant ones. He could hear Dmitri calling for the guards somewhere in the background. There was enough heat coming from them to cause Berman to wrinkle his forehead. He threw up his arm to protect his eyes. The last thing he noticed before he lost consciousness was that Maria's face was distorted in a rictus, and that strangely, the balls of flame did nothing to affect her.

Edited February 7, 2011 by FortyFiveAuto

[Sam 19]

Oh wow that was awesome! I've always enjoyed your fics.

[FortyFiveAuto 1]

Thanks! Stay tuned for the "Merk" side of the fic.

[FortyFiveAuto 1]

Karen Sanders woke up to a brilliant cascade of pain which made it difficult to see where she was. It was dark, yet slivers of light shone through something that pinned her to the ground. Where am I? How long have I been here? She gritted her teeth and attempted to push herself upward, though the pain made her stop resisting the load on her body. She scratched the object with an adjacent hand. Wood?

 

Karen GO NOW! Memories that seemed someone else's flashed through her consciousness as she attempted to squirm out from under the timbers. A flash of light came to her mind. Like the typical Colorado Springs sunrise, only thousands of times more luminous. She had trouble seeing out of her right eye, she realized.

 

The roof groaned for a moment and then imploded down on top of her. No, that was a dream. Wasn't it?

 

Finally she worked her hand free from under a piece of something. It looked familiar somehow. Strange, she thought. Karen's wall also had the same floral pattern before...

 

Before it happened.

 

As the pain began to subside from her arm, she figured it must not be broken too badly. She could use it to move the other things from her body. If she could only turn her head to see what was going on. Something was damp on the back of her head. Was she bleeding? She wouldn't be surprised.

 

At last she could perceive something moist sitting on top of her head, just outside her field of vision. God, this hurts! Her pulse pounded in her head, and the lights continued to flicker through the gaps in the timbers on top of her. She could vaguely make out noises that sounded to her like voices. Voices and possibly sirens? Something had gone terribly wrong.

 

Squirming her head had gotten the moist object from her head down in front of her face where she could almost see it in the low light. It was a lock of hair, damp with a dark liquid that smelled of rust. Long, curly hair. It reminded her of her mother.

 

Oh, God! Mom! Karen worked her free elbow and contacted a mass which sat atop her, on her back. It was supple, yet rigid against her arm. Karen felt herself gag and dry heaved onto the ground in front of her face. She had to get out of here.

 

What had happened? What sort of monsters could have done this? Was it terrorists? Karen's brother had died two years ago in Afghanistan. She remembered bringing his medals to his casket before they lowered him into the ground. She began to wail.

 

***

 

George Hathaway was surveying the damage done to the neighborhood in his last good pickup truck. Living in the mountains afforded him the ability to partake in his hobbies without too much attention attracted. He didn't mind being outcast. It was a part of him, he thought, and prompted him to move out of the city and into Colorado in the first place.

 

George thought now how silly it all was. He'd spent years building up respectable "preps," as people in the community called them. People used to call him a Chicken Little, always talking about repentance and getting right with God, and the end being near and never trust the government. Another religious right-wing zealot, they called him. Well, they were half right, he guessed. George was never one to push his religion onto others. So he didn't agree with abortion and thought drugs were bad -- he never was one to discuss that with anyone. But he did not trust the government, and knew this day would come. He was right. A part of him felt like he should laugh out loud. Where were his detractors now? Where?

 

But he could not. The scenes in front of him were sobering and awful. Five years worth of stockpiled food, clean water, toilet paper, MOPP "hazmat" gear, and enough guns and ammunition to outfit a platoon of soldiers. All the weight was a liability more than a help. He could not bug out, as he had no means to transport it all. He had no intel, besides. The outside world could be worse off, for all he knew. It had been 4 days since the explosion. Fortunately his house sat behind a natural granite barrier, and aside from a small fire on the roof, his property was untouched, though he had been afraid of coming outside. He finally worked up the nerve yesterday, and luckily he was not the worse for wear. The MOPP gear would keep him safe from radiation, for a time, at least.

 

He came to a pile of rubble that had once been the home of one of his neighborhood detractors. The paint on the mailbox had been seared away by the brilliant radiation. He was surprised to even find it still standing. For a man so handy with hammer and nails, he figured the likes of Rob Sanders would have been a supporter of his cause. Unfortunately, the blast had caused his house to collapse. Despite his jesting, Rob was a good man, who stood firmly for what he believed in, even if he did vote for the other guy. George bit his tongue at that last thought. It didn't matter anymore. Would left or right matter ever again?

 

He stopped his truck and checked his suit. A roll of duct tape sealed up a gap he found near his neck. He stepped out to regard the demolished house. "ROB!" George waited. There was no answer. The sounds of distant ambulance sirens howled in the distance.

 

George sat on the sidewalk in front of the Sanders place. A piece of burnished metal sat in the grass nearby. He leaned over to pick up the familiar brass shape. A door knocker, he guessed. He could barely make out the Sanders name inscribed on the metal through the thick, slightly fogged up lenses of his mask.

 

The sound of his own breathing was most obvious with the filters on his mask, but he thought he heard a whimper. Was it coming from the house? He stood back up and cleared his throat. "ROB!" It sounded like crying!

 

George began tossing away fragments of sheet rock and pine joists, scrambling to find the source of the noise. It did not sound like Rob, but it could have been his wife or daughter. Oh, that poor kid, he thought. She would be about 16 years old? "Where are you?" he shouted, still heaving rubble from the pile that was once a house and tossing it aimlessly into the yard.

 

"I...I'm here!" The voice said weakly. "Who's there?" The voice was immature, like a young girl's. It must have been Rob's daughter, Karen.

 

"Karen? It's George Hathaway! I'm going to get you out, sweetie, just hang on!"

 

"Mom! Oh my God my Mom! Mr. Hathaway please get my mom!"

 

George disregarded the tears in his gloves as he worked to get the roof beams cleared from over Karen's voice. As he worked, he came to a section which was stained with the sickly dark red and black of dried blood. He pulled the joist hard, then immediately looked away so as not to sick up in his mask.

 

It was Mrs. Sanders. Her body had been mangled by the collapse of the house. Locks of her curly blonde hair caught what little of the daylight remained.

 

"Hurry, Mr. Hathaway, please! You have to get my mom!"

 

"Sweetie...my God...your mother, she's...she's gone, sweetie."

 

Silence came from beneath the rubble for an instant. Then he heard the soft, muted cries. George stopped his frantic work, stunned by the sobering scene. He suddenly realized how futile this was. The child was exposed, and without food or water for days, stuck underneath a dead loved one amid this? Then again, how in the world had she survived?

 

"I'M GOING TO GET THEM!" George gave a start at the change of tone in Karen's voice. She was still sobbing, but screaming furiously. "I will never forgive! I will never forgive this!"

 

George saw a flash of light blind his vision momentarily as a timber smacked him in the forehead. He shook his head, dazed to find himself flat on his rear and several yards away from where he once stood. He felt a trickle of blood run down from his scalp inside his mask. Straining his vision through the fogged up lenses, he saw a silhouette of a young woman standing atop the rubble pile, hands in fists by her side as she slowly limped down from her precarious perch. Bits of sheet rock, shingles, and tattered pieces of two-by-four rained down from the sky as she crept towards him.

 

Karen was bloodied from head to toe, with a look on her blood-streamed face that showed a determination more fierce than any George had ever seen. It was almost frightening. No, this girl has me plumb terrified, he thought. What had she done?

 

Suddenly, something hugged him around his waist and hoisted him from the ground. George yelped and threw an elbow behind him, hoping to connect with his assailant...but there was nobody there. George stared bug-eyed at the invisible ring which wrinkled his suit and kept him floating in the air. Impossible!

 

He gave a start as he turned in his invisible restraints. His body was being held horizontally, with his belly toward the ground. George yelped, trying uselessly to wrench himself free. A hand reached under his chin and brought his masked face toward Karen's.

 

"Thank you, George," her voice was ice, "I can walk, but just barely. Will you help me find my Dad, too, so we can bury them?" George was trembling. It was all he could do to keep from screaming out for help. "I hate to burden you further, but do you have any food or water? I am so thirsty, and I'm starving. Actually, I wonder if I might ask to stay at your place for a while?" The determined look wavered for a bit, and those big, childlike eyes returned for the briefest of moments. George crashed to the ground, gritting his teeth as the wind was knocked from his lungs.

 

Karen slumped down onto the scorched earth, sobbing into her folded arms. George stared at her for a while, then placed his arm around her slight shoulders. What had she done?

 

"Come on to the truck, sweetie," George said, picking himself up and rising to his feet. "I have a blanket for you in there. We'll need to hose you down, too, at some point." He had heard of humans doing superhuman things in times of great stress, but how could this be? Was he sick from radiation? Was he imagining things? He still felt a little punch drunk from the blow to his head. Surely he was just loopy. This poor girl needed help, and George would see to it that she was brought back up to speed. Maybe there was still a hospital around for the her more serious hurts? Though she seemed to have a slight limp, he wondered about the "barely able to walk" bit. She walked slowly, but she seemed surprisingly spry after being buried under a house for four days. He would find her folks and bury them, too.

 

The walk back to the truck was a mere hundred yards, but the uncomfortable silence made it seem like a thousand. "I'm sorry," Karen said after a time. "I don't know how...that...happened. I promise I'll never do it again." Her voice sounded apprehensive.

 

George swallowed hard. It was real. It happened. A long silence fell between them as he wrapped her in a heavy woolen blanket from the truck's box. Finally he said, "Hell, sweetheart. Maybe you'll get your chance." George placed Karen carefully into the passenger seat, then hopped into the driver's seat to start the engine. "Maybe we can get the bastards who did this to us." They both smiled weakly as they drove off into the twilight.

Edited February 8, 2011 by FortyFiveAuto

[Sam 19]

That is how I feel.

[FortyFiveAuto 1]

Thank you, Sam!

 

I've another that will hopefully clinch it.

 

One always wonders what makes "The Ages" in the WOT.

 

The 3rd age is said to have begun with the release of the DO or the War of Power, i forget which.

 

The 2nd age presumably began when channeling was discovered, leading into the Age of Legends.

 

The 1st age is our current day, as I understood it.

 

Stay tuned for more...

[FortyFiveAuto 1]

A chilly Northern wind blew over the busy alleyway where Hiro Shinseki made his trade. The wind, uncharacteristic for this time of year, knocked over newspapers and magazines, and it rattled and swung the signs of businesses established along this normally busy thoroughfare. Butchers, florists, purveyors of literature, practitioners of Eastern medicine and holistic healing could be found here, all of them rendering services or selling goods out of wooden kiosks and pagodas, competing for the ever essential yet increasingly rare yen. Everyone felt the sting of recession, even the yakuza, who had resorted to more public fundraising and parading in the recent days. The buzz nowadays was not of Japan, but of the Americans.

 

Some people called it come-uppance. Others called it justice for an evil long past. Not that Hiro minded, except that it made people paranoid, and kept them in their houses. That, and visiting Western style hospitals, which really irked him. The copy of the Nagasaki Shimbun on Hiro's counter flapped in the breeze for a while and worked loose from beneath the flask which had been functioning as a paperweight. Hiro had read it already. The headline in big bolt lettering read "America Dissolves Government." He shook his head ruefully. Back to the frontier days for the West, he thought wryly. Even the Japanese government still stood after those atrocious events so many years ago, though in America's defense, they had received everything Hiro's countrymen did some twenty-odd times over. That country was finished. Who among them could come out alive, after all that?

 

Hiro shook his head again. He almost wished he didn't know the answer to that question.

 

An elderly woman came into view from the North end of the alleyway. Hawkers of fresh fish, flowers, and herbs cried their wares as she walked past. She was one of a handful of patrons to the marketplace; most had been kept in by the unusual July cold if not the bad tidings of the present day. She nodded graciously to the hawkers as she passed, but Hiro knew she was coming to see him. She was a regular to his business. She arrived at Hiro's stand and greeted him with a warm smile as she loosened her headscarf. "Hello, Shinseki-sensei. I wonder if you might help me with my back again. It seems to have tightened up over the last week."

 

Hiro smirked as he regarded her condition. For 76 years old, the woman was like a steel spring, though older people tended to injure themselves more frequently. Hiro felt like he should know this, considering his own age, though no one ever guessed. He looked...young for his age. That was a shameful understatement, but the reality was that no one was really left that could verify Hiro Shinseki's true age. None remained who could tell his true name, either, though the days of worrying about that were long gone. "Come in and let me look at you, Mrs. Yamamoto. And you don't need to address me so -- you know I am not a doctor. Didn't I tell you that you needed to take it easy?"

 

"I know," Mrs. Yamamoto began, head bowed deferentially, "but I come away from here feeling so energized. I know I must overwork myself, and I promise I will be better about it. I must have pulled something moving some furniture in my granddaughter's apartment. She will be starting University, you see." Hiro listened as he worked. The pleasant, almost musical sound of the elderly lady's voice reminded him of his own mother. She had not survived long after the bomb fell so long ago. Hiro buried her himself, along with the two sisters he managed to find before the civilian patrols took him to the hospital. Enough of that, he thought. For this, he needed calm. He listened to Mrs. Yamamoto's voice and ran through the exercise.

 

One of the tenets of Zen Buddhism was to find harmony between body and soul, and to purge the soul of bodily fear and doubt one had to achieve a trance-like sort of concentration. Hiro had seen this exercise performed thousands of times since he was a young boy, but Hiro knew his concentration was supreme, perhaps even the best in all of Japan. He had confidence in his abilities because they worked, and in another time it might have made him a lot of money, but he was not interested in that. He liked helping people, and if it meant that he stayed off the grid, so much the better. He held out his hands over the old woman's back and began to knead her muscles softly.

 

In this state of concentration, Hiro was much more aware of his surroundings. He could see every grain of wood on his waxed countertop. He could smell each distinct odor from the florist's shop next to his, hear all the fine pitches and tunes of the voices in the marketplace. His body and soul were one. He would impart a soothing touch and transfer his harmony into his patient. Slowly and methodically he worked his fingers across the surface of her back.

 

Five minutes passed, and Hiro's brow beaded with sweat. He sensed a state of equilibrium, a sort of homeostasis within the woman. No. Not just with Mrs. Yamamoto. It was almost as if he could tell when his work was complete. The air seemed to radiate contentment. He broke his concentration to address the old lady. "All done, Mrs. Yamamoto." He felt empty somehow, as if he lost something dear to him. He thought once more about his mother.

 

The old woman held out her arms and raised up on tiptoes as she stretched. "Miraculous! I knew you'd make me feel better. And to think, my granddaughter thought I should visit a chiropractor! Thank you so much, Shinseki-sensei. How much was it, again?"

 

"It's on the house, as long as you can remember that 'Shinseki-san' is okay," Hiro said with a chuckle. Mrs. Yamamoto gasped and tried to say that she could never do a thing like that, but he held her hand warmly and closed her fist over her yen gently. She smiled, bowed, and bounded away, making her way to a hibachi nearby. Clients were always hungry after being treated, and the more intense the work, the hungrier they were. Appetite was a good sign; it meant the body was healing itself.

 

Hiro didn't get any more clients that evening. He closed shop two hours after dark, as usual, bringing his herbs and poultices into his apartment that lay adjacent to his kiosk. Turning on his radio, he prepared himself for sleep. The news was like a parrot, it always said the same thing over and over again. Still, it was hard to believe. America was finished, and Russia might soon follow.

 

He adjusted the dial on the radio randomly as he set it back down on his shelf. He reached over to flip the switch when his ears perked up at a different news report.

 

...reporting that some accounts of radiation sickness are producing acute cancers in the bodies of some victims of the bombings. Already twenty reports have been submitted by American doctors purporting a swift and baffling remission in 100% of these cases, with patients exhibiting bizarre behaviors ranging from--

 

Hiro turned the radio off. There would be more, he thought as he rolled out his mattress onto the floor. Not for long would he be the best hedge doctor in all the world. He smiled and stuck his arm out to find the switch on the floor lamp's cord. The West was not dead -- the West would be reborn, and a new era of men would give rise to marvelous medical wonders. Hiro's head swimmed as he considered the possibilities. War destroyed men, but somehow it shaped societies, allowed opportunities for succession, just as it did for him. Two weeks from now would be August 9th. The one hundred and fifty-seventh anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki. Hiro found the switch and turned off the lamp. He smiled up at the ceiling as he laid in his bed. Tomorrow would be an exciting day.

Edited February 9, 2011 by FortyFiveAuto

[Marie 73]

Oh wow you must have spent some time on this! Loving it~

[FortyFiveAuto 1]

The world was in shambles. The global economy was done for. The events that had transpired in the past few days would give rise to a new world order. Right now, the remaining governments of the world, those that had objected to the terms of mutually-assured destruction, were either destroyed themselves or left behind to deal with the literal and figurative fallout. This was the unforgivable reality in the eyes of Jonas Saevarsson. Many of his colleagues had volunteered to help in America, some in France, others in the UK, but he decided he would stay in Iceland. He had come close to dying more times than even he felt at ease with; he often wondered how many lives he had left, and surely he would not sacrifice them for the sins of evil men.

 

Pinning on his star, he strolled down the steps out of his flat building and toward his car. The air was a little brisk and chilly, perhaps a bit too much for this time of year, but certainly not anything he wasn't used to. Most people probably would not have noticed a difference in the temperature, but the nature of Saevarsson's work taught him long ago to notice even the most infinitesimal of details. It was this attention to nuances and tiny irregularities that earned him the position he toiled over, but certainly it had helped to put a few undesirables behind bars.

 

The morning was a little too quiet, now that he thought about it. News of the nuclear holocaust kept everyone indoors. The media was good at reporting the NATO fallout advisories in effect for the areas surrounding the island, but Saevarsson knew it was more fearmongering than anything else. He figured the people must be made to be afraid, while those with power would be moving to seize what little of the world remained non-irradiated. He had dreams about possessing this sort of power. Yes, his time would come very soon. He smiled for a brief moment then surveyed the silence of the morning before opening the door to his car.

 

He focused his mind on his fears, doubts, and misgivings, and imagined they were being fed into a pit of magma. He would feed the pit the extraneous fodder of his mind, until there was only the pit, and darkness. He had seen such things before as a young man near Eyjafjallajokull, during a time when the big volcano had been active, spewing red hot liquid rock along the icy slopes. It was there that he had first imagined all parts of him that made him weak -- everything in his mind that kept him from attaining power -- were being fed into the fiery molten rock. He still remembered how sweet it had felt, the first time. He had returned each year to stand at its foothills and take time to hone his craft. It had been kept a secret for nearly 15 years. Now, with the world in chaos, could the need for secrecy be obsolete?

 

When his mind held only the fiery chasm, it was almost as if he hovered above the chasm -- he lingered among it. Hellfire filled his veins and frosty Icelandic air pebbled his skin. He was alive. He could notice the tiniest of clues, the innuendo in the voices of suspects, the guilt on their faces. He could see, hear, and feel everything. It was bliss, and it was torment to let it go. He drank in as much of the feeling as he could hold, but was careful to not get lost in it. Once he had almost done that, almost lost consciousness while holding the greatness of this meditation, and to his shock and amazement it seemed to strike at him, sending him reeling about in a vain attempt to regain balance and focus in his mind. The feeling was very unpleasant. Saevarsson considered it a near-death experience.

 

With his heightened eyesight, he scanned his surroundings, only to find that the coast really was clear, except for an old, hunchbacked man walking with a cane about 100 paces down the sidewalk, next to which his car was parked. The man was not a regular vagrant -- he would have easily noticed and remembered a hunchback in the past. The standing order was to bring vagrants to the nearest shelter or soup kitchen if they complied amicably. If not, then the order was simply to arrest them. At least, it was when Saevarsson was a patrol cop. As the superintendent of the Logreglan Forensic Investigation Division, he normally wasn't bothered with the duties of the men on the beat. Still, he was on his way to work. It couldn't hurt to give the old guy a lift.

 

He jumped in his car and rolled the short distance to where the old man was ambling along. Rolling down his passenger, he called out to him, "Please hop in, sir. I'll take you to some hot food." The man continued walking, ignoring his offer and rounding a corner into an alley between two apartment buildings. Saevarsson supposed if he was frightened of the police, he would run, though his back did make it difficult to do such things. Still, something didn't seem right, here. The man's gait seemed a little bouncy for someone in his condition. He decided he should get out and perform the street interview.

 

Throwing the car into park and turning on the overheads elicited an immediate reaction in the old man. His back straightened and he bolted on legs like a gazelle's, still hauling the black cane in his right hand as he ran. Immediately Saevarsson sprung into action, shouting "Halt!" as he gave chase down the alleyway.

 

The cowl of the man's "hoody" jacket had obscured the youthfulness of his face, and the gloves he wore concealed the lack of wrinkles. Even with his meditation, he had been made by this crook. He was fast, but Saevarsson was no slouch and could run two marathons before pouncing on a criminal to subdue him. He followed him over a six foot chain link fence. The runner's leg had caught a sharp spot on the fence top and stumbled him as he landed on the ground. It was the opportunity Saevarsson needed to close the distance. He leaped and caught the crook by the neck and shoulder.

 

A metallic snick was all the warning Saevarsson had before a wicked twelve-inch blade came swinging into his midsection. The cane had concealed the shiny steel ingeniously, and the crook moved like a viper with it. Saevarsson threw himself back instinctively, earning himself a shallow slash in the abdomen which tore his shirt. This close, drawing his Glock would lose him a precious half-second, and surely get him a skewered belly. The crook's eyes darted wildly as he snarled and lunged, each time barely failing to deliver a fatal wound. Saevarsson's brow was hot and wetness oozed from over his left eye, clouding his vision with a field of red. He had been backed up against the chain link fence. It would be over soon. To add a little insult to his mounting injuries, he felt an unseen hand clawing for the Glock on his side. Tunnel vision in the heat of the struggle had caused him to ignore the crook's confederates. Twisting his mouth in an awful grin, the crook leaped forward for the coup de grace. Saevarsson saw him telegraph his thrust in slow motion. With nothing left to gain, he imagined the magma pit.

 

Tracers of the falling blade entered his vision, then came to an abrupt stop an inch from his chest. The crook's maniacal toothy smile turned down in a snarl as he used both hands to try to force the blade down. Saevarsson heaved a quick sigh as he threw his hand out. He could see the air, somehow, and used his hand as a focus to direct it violently forward, sending the criminal sprawling. Just as quickly he felt a weight lifted from his side. Turning his head quickly to the right he saw a greasy, snaggle-toothed skinny man with a faded green jacket jacking the slide of his black handgun. An instant flash of the molten rock in his mind manifested itself in reality as he thrust his hand out again. A blinding prominence of flame engulfed the greasy man's outstretched arm that held Saevarsson's gun. The man produced a guttural scream, collapsing him to the ground as he attempted to cradle his immolated limb. The fire had dissolved his flesh, leaving cauterized black arm bones dangling from the man's shoulder. He lost consciousness immediately, leaving Saevarsson to deal with the fake hunchback he left on the ground.

 

Rather than engaging him, however, the man bolted again, but Saevarsson had no intention of giving chase. It was criminals like these -- degenerate thieves and con artists that made the world evil. Men like these were everywhere. Some of them wore suits and held public office.

 

The crook was fast approaching the next chain link fence down the alleyway. As he ran, Saevarsson was startled by a man dropping down over the fence beside him. He did not recognize his face; he must have been a rookie officer on the beat. A quick nod from the man and a barked "Sir!" gave him the confirmation. The rookie looked over to his right to regard the dying vagrant. "My God, what the hell happened to him? Sir?" He supposed the man was confused to find Saevarsson staring at a running criminal with a badly burned suspect basically dead on the floor. Saevarsson spared him a glance. The runner had reached the fence.

 

Some of these men have red phones and launch missiles to kill innocent people.

 

Pointing to the man with an outstretched hand, Saevarsson briefly felt the air crackle around him. The hair on his hand stood on end, and an arrow-straight bolt of lightning streaked down

rom the cloudless sky to strike the chain link fence in the distance. The crook had only made it halfway up as he froze, then fell like a wet blanket being cut from a line of laundry. Wisps of smoke rose from his lifeless corpse for a quick moment before being squelched away by a breeze.

 

"How did you...why you..." The rookie had a conflicted look on his face. Instinctively his hand went to his sidearm. Saevarsson cocked his head curiously at the man. There was a thrill to doling out justice. Who could stop him, now? The world was distracted with all-out war, and all that needed to be done was for those with power to step forth and take it.

 

"There's no room left in the world for evil men, Johansson. There must be swift retribution for crimes. The days of democracy are dead."

 

"You bastard!" Johansson drew his pistol, but rookies were predictably slow and unpracticed with their sidearms. Saevarsson easily parried with his left hand as he placed the fingertips of his right hand on the other man's face.

 

"You are either with me, or against me," Saevarsson told Johansson as he began to convulse in response to the violent electrical energy surging through his body. Now they would experience his power. The time for hiding in the shadows had finally come to an end. Those without power would bend a meek neck to those who held it, and Jonas Saevarsson could finally pursue his dreams without wasting his life for a puny paycheck and a thankless, impotent title. It wasn't all bad, he thought. He could make sure these three undesirables went missing. Who was going to undermine the Superintendent of Forensic Investigation, anyway? He shook his head as he strengthened his hold on his special meditation.

 

"No," he thought, policing up the evidence of the altercation in the alleyway with streams of air. "Who dares to defy the god of the new world?"

Edited February 10, 2011 by FortyFiveAuto