Survive the Storm- Emergence

by Kevin Jusino

  The fifth day is torture.

  We sit in silence, all of our windows open to let in air since the peak of summer has just arrived, and we don’t have the luxury of air conditioning anymore.

  I don’t let it show, so Mom doesn’t worry even more than she is now, but I’m absolutely terrified. I can’t stop thinking about the carnage I saw in those cities: people fighting over scraps, shoving each other into walls for the last bag of chips since there’s nothing else to take. Is that what’s going to happen here? We have no police to call, no fire trucks to save us in case the blazes come to us next. I’ve never felt so small and helpless.

  Mom wakes me with a gentle push on my shoulder just as the sun is starting to go down. I can’t seem to sleep through the night, so I’ve been relying on short bursts of napping to keep me going. Every time I lie in my bed I can’t help but wonder what will happen in the night. What might go wrong. I hate the vulnerability of it all.

  “Come on,” she whispers, her face pale and tired.

  I climb off the mattress and follow her out into the backyard. The dry grass crunches underneath my feet, and I wonder when the last time we watered it was. Why didn’t I ever remember to? Now it just looks lifeless and grey.

  The strangest things come to your mind during the end of the world.

  Mom unlocks the door to the small shed tucked by the corner of the fence and opens it with a creak, muttering something I can’t hear under her breath. She rummages through something on the top shelf and pulls out a flashlight, patting it a few times with her palm before pressing the button. It flickers once, twice, before springing to life at full brightness.

  She leans down and lifts up the section of carpet that covers the entrance to the basement. Flipping over the hatch, she slowly steps down the stairs until her head disappears completely. Taking a deep breath, I follow her and descend into the stale darkness below.

  The flashlight illuminates the dusty basement, a place that I always found strange and boring when I was a child. I used to think people who always worried about the end of the world were freaks; people who actually prepared for it were even weirder to me. I guess I should’ve grown used to the idea.

  The shelves lining the walls are filled with packages and cans, the floor split into two rows of containers with extra blankets, first aid kids, flares, and god knows what else. I don’t remember when the last time we went through all this stuff was. I never liked to think about the possibility that, one day, we might need to use it.

  Another regret.

  Mom doesn’t have me start bringing things upstairs, though, like I thought she’d have me do. Instead, she goes over to the far end of the wall and starts banging her fist against the wooden panel until it pops out, revealing a small compartment hidden underneath. A current of fear spikes through my heart as she pulls out a small black container from the crevice. She places it on a table covered with extra batteries and opens the latches with a click. Sitting in the center lies a gun.

  I don’t realize how many steps I’ve taken back until I feel the back of my ankle come in contact with a container behind me, almost sending me sprawling to the ground.

  “You remember how to use it?” Mom asks, avoiding my gaze.

  I nod. Memories I’ve kept hidden deep in the dark corners of my mind shoot out into focus, unravelling in front of my eyes like a supercut of things we’ve both tried to forget about. Summer days when I was a child where, instead of playing outside with my classmates, Mom took me to the shooting ranges an hour away. It wasn’t until I could shoot a bullseye from twenty feet away that the visits dwindled in frequency.

  She stares down at the gun, her gaze blank. I want to reach out and comfort her, but the sight of the weapon keeps me rooted in place. A fear that stays with me no matter how hard I try to push it away.

  The supercut brings the worst memory back. I see my mother again, so clearly trying to keep the tears behind her eyes from spilling over as not to frighten eight-year-old me. I hear her voice waver once again as she tells me that this time, Daddy isn’t coming home. It was a car crash, I was told. A drunk driver going thirty miles over the speed limit, who slammed into the side of his car.

  It wasn’t until two years later that I found out the truth after searching up the name of the drunk driver in a fit of rage, thinking that somehow, I could find who he was and make him pay. Only, I didn’t find a name: so I searched my fathers instead, and that’s when I found the truth.

  It wasn’t a car crash. He’d been getting coffee early in the morning at a gas station, when an armed man entered to rob the register. A woman and her child had just been about to leave, and he used them as incentive to get the workers to start pulling out money faster. My father tried to be a hero, and he got two bullets in the chest for it. The first one wouldn’t have been fatal, but it was the second that punctured some sort of vital artery, and he was dead in minutes; if the man hadn’t pressed the trigger twice, he’d still be alive. They never caught his murderer.

  And I could barley even look at the guns in movies ever since.

  “I wanted to make sure I could keep you safe,” Mom says, almost at a whisper. “I’m sorry, Zoey.”

  After I discovered the truth about my fathers death, I didn’t talk to her for months. I know it wasn’t fair, that she only wanted to keep me away from even more pain, but I needed someone to direct my anger at. The trips to the range stopped for good, and she got rid of the guns she kept in the basement. Except for one, apparently.

  I stare at it, knowing that, this time, I’m going have to find a way to push through my fear. For both her and myself. There’s no one else here to protect us now.

  “I know,” I reply. “It’s okay, Mom.”

  She looks at me, a sad smile on her face. “Your father always said that if the end of the world came, you’d be the last survivor. He was always mesmerized by your strength, ever since you were just a baby.”

  A tear drips down my cheek, surprising me. I wipe it away.

  She shuts the case with a snap. “Let’s go back upstairs, you should get some sleep.”

  I nod and follow her back up the stairs, the handle of the case still clutched in her hand. Before I drift off to sleep, Mom sitting on the edge of the bed and watching over me, I make a promise to myself.

  I won’t prove my father wrong. I will survive this.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE FOLLOWING DAYS are just as silent.

  Lucky for us, we don’t have much to worry about in the food and water department. I can’t help but worry about everyone else, though; I have no idea how Ryan’s faring in terms of supplies. Cacy comes over a few times, and I’m grateful that I can keep her close. Despite what feels like total chaos unravelling all around us, our time together makes things feel normal again, even if only for a little while.

  We give her some of our food and water to take back to her family, but I notice the strain in Mom’s eyes every time we do. There’s still no official word from authorities about what’s going on. Each day is another nail in the coffin of our society.

  There’s no telling when we’ll be getting supplies again.

  A few of our neighbors have completely jumped shit. Gone on foot, we watch them from our window as they walk past, carrying whatever provisions they could spare on large backpacks. Some have children, and it pains me to see the fear plastered so clearly on their small faces. As to where they could possibly be going, I have no clue. I can’t imagine anywhere safer than our own home, but I suppose with the threat of dwindling supplies, not everyone has the luxury of being able to wait it out for a few weeks.

  The lack of communications is another hell in itself. I’ve never felt so cut off from everything; I’ve grown far to used to having a constant stream of information available at my fingertips. I can’t imagine how much worse it is for everyone in those cities that were bombed—how can medics possibly hope to keep track of survivors? How can separated families have any hope of finding each other ag
ain? That is, assuming the rest of the world was impacted by the same EMP attack as us; again, there’s no way to find out.

  On the eleventh day, Mom starts packing. She tells me we’re not going anywhere anytime soon unless absolutely necessary, but it’s better to be prepared.

  She fills two backpacks with enough food and water to last a few days if properly rationed, each fit with flashlights, extra batteries, a pocket knife, a medical kit, a blanket, and matches. It almost doesn’t feel real, standing in grim silence as I watch her zip them up. I notice she doesn’t put the gun in either of the bags, but I have a feeling it’ll still come along with us in case we ever do have to leave.

  The following morning is when it arrives.

  By now, Mom and I have named it the Globe. We first notice something’s wrong when the sun seems to completely have stopped its shine: within seconds, the world is almost entirely plunged in darkness. My breath hitches, and Mom starts digging through one of the kitchen cupboards for the gun while I open the door and slowly step outside, having no idea what may await us.

  The first thing I note is how much injustice the television screens did to its size. The Globe is massive, bigger than any aircraft I’ve seen before. It floats far too close for comfort; I estimate only about the height of thirty or so houses stacked on top of each other above the ground. Its surface is so shimmery that it seems to be constantly shifting, golden waves spreading across the sphere like the ocean…and then there’s the noise.

  At firs,t I can barely hear it over the sound of my own pulse beating in my ears, but it slowly makes its way into focus. A low hum, like that of a bee or the wings of a hummingbird, only intensified a couple hundred times. It fills the air, making it feel like the atoms surrounding my body have begun to vibrate. I notice the light posts start swaying ever so slightly, and I even think the ground starts to shake.

  It’s unreal.

  The rest of the neighborhood has discovered the Globe’s arrival as well, and their cries of fear erupt all around us, disrupting what was once a dead quiet world. I stay rooted where I stand, frozen in place. I think I’ll fall over if I try to move. I feel something grab my hand and flinch away, expecting some monstrous beast from above to be standing next to me, but its only Mom. Her face is tight and worried.

  “What do they want?” I say, hating how small my voice sounds; for some reason, I’m almost on the verge of crying.

  She shakes her head. “I wish I knew.”

  There’s nothing we can do but watch and wait for it to pass. Eventually, the sun emerges from behind the monstrous vessel, sweeping away the deep, dark shadows the sphere had caused. The humming goes with it, and soon the light posts stop their shaking, and the earth beneath me no longer feels like it’s about to erupt.

  Cacy stands across the street, holding tight to her family as they stare up at the sky, watching the Globe drift away into the horizon. A flurry of chills slither down my spine at the thought of what could lie inside it: another species? More weapons with the same capabilities as those that took out Chicago and the other cities? Something worse?

  I find myself drifting away from those possibilities, too frightened to discover the answers. Clutching my hand, Mom pulls me back inside, and I’m glad she does because I’m not sure how long it would’ve taken me to remember how to walk.

  Three mornings later, Mom is shaking me awake, and I can immediately tell that something is wrong.

  “Come on Zoey,” she says, her voice strained. “Get dressed.”

  “Why, what’s going on?” I ask, heart beating in my throat.

  She doesn’t answer and walks out of the room, leaving me to slip into sweats and a light T-shirt. It’s not until I walk into the living room, still tying my hair into a pony-tail, when I hear it. At first I think it’s the Globe, having returned to finish us off once and for all, but I realize that’s not it. It’s the sound of marching footsteps.

  Lots of them.

  “It’s the military,” my Mom says, staring at the floor.

  A spark of hope flutters into my chest and I immediately rush to the window. Could they be here to finally give us answers? Are they giving us supplies? Maybe they’re here to offer protection?

  I watch as a group of soldiers marches up the street, all of them heavily armed. Only…none of them seem to be carrying any extra provisions aside from the personal backpacks on their shoulders. Perhaps another crew is following them, and needs to catch up?

  Four soldiers break away from the pack, splitting into two groups, each heading towards a separate household. One of them is Cacy’s.

  “Why are they here?” I ask, to which Mom has no reply.

  I can hear the knocking from here: three successive raps. Cacy’s father opens the door to their home, his face hopeful for a minute or two, before he frowns and his expression is replaced with confusion, and then fear. I feel my stomach drop to my toes as one of the soldiers shoulders her way past him and into the house.

  Cacy’s father seems to be saying something to the other soldier, almost pleading, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. Then, Cacy’s being dragged outside by the other guard, and I don’t need to hear to be able to tell she’s screaming her lungs out. She tries kicking the guard off but only succeeds in knocking off her own shoe.

  “Oh my god,” Mom whispers from the opposite side of the room.

  I turn my gaze to see what she’s looking at, and my heart stops at the sight of a bus rolling in from the other end of the street, slowly pushing aside the dead cars that still litter the road. That should be impossible…how the hell did they get that to work?

  The bus stops a few feet away from Cacy’s house, and with a sinking feeling, I realize that they’re going to put her inside it. Only they haven’t yet, and I realize that Henry is still in the house. I don’t have to wonder where he is much longer because he darts out the front door like a wild animal, slamming his body into the soldier who holds Cacy, knocking both of them to the ground. I can only watch in stunned silence as they wrestle on the grass, kicking up dirt and daises in their struggle.

  It’s over almost as quickly as it started once the other soldier rams the end of his rifle into Henry’s head, knocking him to the ground where he doesn’t move again. A wailing Cacy is then thrown into the bus, while the two soldiers have to carry her limp brother into the vehicle after her.

  I turn away from the window to Mom, my heart almost bursting through my chest, but find her gone. A surge of fear seeps into my skin as I wonder if they’ve somehow taken her too, but it disappears once she reemerges from her bedroom, backpack in hand.

  “Mom, they took—”

  She puts the backpack against my chest, and with the firmest voice I’ve ever heard her use says, “Take it.”

  I grab the pack, stunned, and realize that she holds something else in her other hand: a teddy bear. The one my father had given me. The one that I slept with every night until I was ten…that is, until I found out how he had truly died, and I couldn’t look at it again without imagining blood and bullets.

  Tears come to my eyes and I have to keep my voice from wavering when I ask, “You kept it?”

  She nods. “Of course I did.”

  I’d tried to get rid of the bear during a fit of rage when I was angry at everything and everyone. I’d thrown it in the dumpster, hoping it would take along the memories of my father with it. It didn’t work, of course, and I regretted it ever since—it was one of the last things I’d had of his, and I just threw it away. She must have found it, and kept it hidden all this time.

  We both jump at the sound of more knocking, closer this time. They must almost be at our home.

  “Your father used to tell you that as long as you had it, it’d keep you safe,” she says, her words rushed. “Now, it’s going to live up to that promise.”

  Before I can ask what she means, she goes to the kitchen and digs out the gun, along with a sewing kit. I don’t protest when she takes out one of our kitchen knives n
ext and, after a moment of hesitation, slices a single line on the back of the bear. Some stuffing spills out, but it doesn’t matter now. With careful precision, she places the gun deep within the stomach of the stuffed animal, and then goes to sewing up the wound.

  More knocking. I think they’re next door now.

  She cuts the final stitch and hurries back over to me, placing it in my hands. It certainly feels much heavier than before, but for the most part, you could hardly tell unless you squished it hard enough that you felt the hard metal contents hidden within. I guess we’re lucky that Dad decided to buy such a large teddy bear that day. Maybe he’d wasted all his luck on us, and there was none left for him when the time came.

  “I don’t know what they’re doing, but you make sure you do whatever you need to do to stay safe,” Mom rambles, her eyes continually darting back and forth between me and the door. “Do you understand? You keep yourself alive.”

  I nod, my hands growing slick with sweat. “Y-yes, I will. I promise.”

  Tears well in her eyes and she pulls me in for a hug. I swallow the lump building in my throat and hold her tight, wondering if this will be the last time I ever get to do so again.

  “Remember everything your grandparents taught you,” she continues. “If you think something’s off, it’s probably because it is. Follow your instincts.”

  Another knock, and this time it’s at our door.

  Wiping her eyes, Mom opens it, allowing a stream of sunlight to enter our living room. Two soldiers stand at the entrance, both wearing large, black shades that cover half of their faces.

  “Is this the Yin residence?” one of them asks, his voice rougher than sandpaper.

  Mom straightens her shoulders, gaze unwavering. “Yes it is.”

  “We’re here to collect your daughter, Zoey, under government orders.”

  My fingers start to go numb and I have to clutch onto the backpack to keep it from slipping out of my grip. If this is supposed to be some kind of rescue, it sure doesn’t feel like one.