By then, Sammi had sucked in enough to douse the stray pin-lights, and stood up just in time to see Harold’s club held high above them. He was going to strike Declan. And unlike the first blow, his next was intended to hurt Declan badly.
“Wait!” Sammi coughed out, and then leaped in front of Harold. Her eyes darted to the club hanging above her, and to the jealous rage in Harold’s eyes.
He’s going to swing the club anyway, she thought. He’s not done killing today.
Harold paused briefly, and then raised his club higher, ready to strike. Still gasping, Sammi swung her leg in a clumsy motion, and connected her shin with his groin. She punched with her leg again until Harold collapsed, falling to his knees. Her strength was exhausted, but she planted her legs and readied herself for the other boys. Richie and Peter took a step back. Their faces were filled with shock and uncertainty. They huddled together, as though conferring over what to do next.
Sammi heard Declan heaving, and then saw him limp forward. He moved only a few meager steps, but it was enough for Sammi to take hold of his hand and lead him into the fog.
Shock and fear crippled their steps. But as their distance from Harold grew, so did their confidence. Sammi kept her head down, with her eyes fixed to her feet, following the morse lines toward their dwellings. Declan’s hand fell from hers as he stumbled to the ground. He cried out, having twisted his bad knee, and let out a grunt when he rolled to the ground.
“We’ve got to run, Declan!” Sammi spat under her breath, trying to stay hidden. Gray mist filled the space around them. She gripped his outstretched hand; her arm strained against Declan’s weight, almost causing her to stumble as well. She pulled until she felt him behind her again, matching her pace, step for step. The fog was thicker now, and when she looked back, she saw only Declan’s fingers in her hand, bobbing in and out of the fog. She picked up her feet, and hastened their pace.
Two, maybe three hands, she thought. We’re safer with more gray now. They ran blindly, deeper into the fog. She fed on the fear and adrenaline, which carried them for another minute until they had to stop.
Declan tripped and rolled onto his back, heaving. Spittle mixed with blood dripped from his mouth and lay on his chin. His upturned face also revealed a bloodied nose and a swollen eye. Sammi dropped down next to him and took his face in her hands, lightly touching where he’d been hit as though she could wipe away the hurt.
“Oh, Declan,” she said, concerned by what she saw.
“I’ll be fine. I don’t know what got into Harold, but we need to go. I’m not sure how much I can run, though.”
Declan wiped some of the cat’s blood from Sammi’s face, then rested his hand on her back. “He hit you hard, Sammi. Really hard. Are you hurt?”
Her back ached, but she thought that she would be okay. She shook her head, and then put her hand on his knee. It was swollen and hot; worse than she imagined it might be.
When they’d caught their breath, Sammi crawled over the pavement to find the morse lines, and to try and figure out where they were. She put her hands against the white paint, feeling the cool smoothness. Thousands of feet had followed this path, passing over it with padded coverall shoes until the morse lines had worn smooth. Her fingers stopped when she came across markings that felt irregular. While the shapes were whole, a few in the pattern were oblong, and torn along the bottom edges.
“I know where we are,” she said, elated by her find. “You have to trust me.”
Declan got to his feet. He dropped his chin with a short nod and took her hand. She led them off the path, away from the morse lines, and into a complete whiteout. There were no morse lines; nothing but the gray mist.
Declan called out quietly to object to the direction that they were moving, but then the sound of Harold and the boys thrummed from behind, growing louder. Declan’s hand became lighter in Sammi’s. He followed her without another word. Sammi’s heart filled and lifted, knowing Declan had put his trust in her, completely.
After counting nearly forty long steps, Sammi stretched her arms out in front of her. They were near the old theater; she had to be careful so that they wouldn’t run into the wall of the building. Fifty long steps from the morse line, fifty reaches of her legs, perpendicular to their daily path to and from school. She’d found the building a year earlier after following the mews of a cat. Sammi rubbed the spot on her head where she’d banged it when she stepped headlong into the coarse wall the year before. Shaking her head, amused, she felt the raised and tattered scar just under her hairline. After that, she’d visited the theater dozens of times, and knew the exact number of steps from the path to the entrance.
Sammi’s hands landed flat against the wall. She pressed her palms against the damp decay of brittle mortar and aged brick, feeling her way.
“We’re here,” she exclaimed.
“Where exactly is here?” Declan asked. “Is it safe?”
“This is where Socks came from,” she answered, pointing to the building. “It’s the old theater.”
Declan held his hand up and turned to listen. They could still hear Harold and the other boys, but their footsteps were distant. He cringed when Sammi touched the swelling above his eye.
“Oh, Declan, your eye is purple!”
“I’m fine,” he breathed, and turned toward the building. With an eager smile, he added, “Want to go inside?”
On Sammi’s many visits she’d never gone inside, but now she gave Declan a quick nod and moved along the wall, following it around until they found an opening. It was just a hole that might have once been a door, now caved in by years of neglect. They crawled through the narrow space.
The dirt beneath their hands and knees felt wet, but not stony. Surprise caught Sammi when she realized that it was actual dirt, not crumbling pavement or crushed building stone. Sammi gripped a handful and held it up to her nose, smiling. The dirt felt crisp and soothing on her skin. It smelled earthy.
“Ever seen anything like that before?” Declan asked, bringing his bloodied nose to her hand. He tried sniffing the dirt, but shook his head—his sense of smell had been crippled by the beating.
“On the farming floors, yeah, but this is different,” she marveled.
“It is, but let’s keep moving,” he answered, and passed her through the opening. Sammi lifted the earthy substance up once more, oddly delighted by the smell, and then met Declan inside.
Once they were back on their feet, she stared in awe at the room and its size. Ragged openings stretched across the decorated ceiling where the roof opened up, letting gray light bleed into the theater. Sammi wondered how many years the room had stayed closed off from the outside before the roofline finally ruptured. She watched the fog passing over the building like ancient clouds, yet none of the salty mist seemed to breach the openings—at least none that she could smell or taste.
A terrible thought came to her then. Could the boys have gotten on the roof? She briefly wondered, but then dismissed the thought, confident that she and Declan were safe. She only wished that she could as easily dismiss the pain gnawing at the middle of her back. She tried to stretch out the painful tension growing beneath her shoulders, then glanced over to see Declan’s grinning face staring forward.
Though his smile was sweet, the mess they’d been through had left a pulpy jumble of blood and dirt on his face. Sammi turned to him and used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe away the grime. When he winced, she pulled her hand back and offered a quick apology, promising to be more careful. As she continued to clean, Declan became quiet, and for a moment, she did nothing except return his gaze. Her knees became weak, and a warm flush crept over her cheeks while his eyes gazed into hers.
Declan leaned in, and before Sammi could say anything, he kissed her. She dropped her arms as his lips moved over hers. He placed his hands behind her, resting them on the small of her back. She didn’t know why, but she loved when he touched her there. She loved it even more when he opened his hands and tightene
d his hold on her. She let herself fall against him as his fingers gripped her, pressing tighter until she thought he’d pick her up into his arms. The skin on his face was hot, but it wasn’t from the excitement of the moment. Declan lifted his head just enough to break the kiss, and covered one of his bruised eyes. He shook his head, smiling, and raised his brow, as though apologizing.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and gently rested her fingers on his. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He pecked her lips with his. “Just got a little carried away. How about we take a look around, and see what’s inside?”
Anxious to explore, Sammi hurried a nod of her head before turning back to the theater. Toward the front, she saw a long narrow stage with a broad yellowing screen that reached as high as the ceiling. It seemed to loom over the theater seats, like a fretful parent guarding its young.
“That’s where they showed the moving pictures. ‘Movies’, they called them,” she mumbled to him.
Sammi watched Declan follow the screen, turning his head, taking in the size. The huge canvas was torn and tattered, like the ceiling, but, to Sammi’s delight, it was still in place and standing. In the back of the theater, a balcony lifted high above them, a survivor of centuries of fog. A lonely set of stairs leading upwards stood against the far wall.
Row upon row of antique theater seats curved around the screen; the crescent pattern reminded Sammi of their classroom, only this was much larger. She imagined that, at one time, the seats had been plush and cushioned. But years had aged them, decaying the fabric until there were only strands of rotting cloth left to hang from the wooden frames. In large sections of the floor the chairs were missing altogether, leaving behind rusted metal posts that stuck up out of floor. The posts were tapered and sharp, like the stabbing ends of the spears that she’d seen dancing above the hunting teams when they gathered for an excursion.
“Do you think it’s safe?” Sammi asked, recalling Declan’s question. She laughed at the sound of her own voice as it echoed against the far wall. Declan jerked his head around, widening his eyes. He chuckled and motioned towards the entrance. “I think it’s safer in here than it is out there.”
Sammi thought that surely Harold and the boys had gone well past the theater by now, and maybe they were still running. But there was no predicting them, no understanding Harold and his meanness. He might have discovered that they were in here, and decided to wait outside. This last thought soured the moment, but Sammi shrugged it away. She took Declan’s hand and led him to the stage in front of the screen.
“Come up here and sit,” she offered, jumping onto the aged platform. The wood planks creaked and moaned under her weight. For a moment, she thought the flooring would give, but it held. Declan’s expression showed wariness as he fixed a stare at the stage.
No trust there, Sammi thought, and then bounced her feet in mini hops to assure him that the stage was safe. She wasn’t completely sure of it either, and was relieved when she didn’t crash through.
As Declan looked on, studying the narrow platform, Sammi wondered what she must look like, standing atop the stage, bouncing up and down. She thought of the imagery that Andie had showed them, and of the great park where teens their age had played games: some running, some lying on the grass. She thought of all the different types of clothing, the many colors and styles, no two the same. She considered the coveralls she wore, and how she hated them. She loathed their drabness. Sammi reached up to pinch the lock of hair she’d pinned into a tidy bow.
“A little bit helps,” she mumbled.
An image came to her mind of one of the young teenage girls that had been playing in that park. The girl was around her age, but looked so different: so feminine, elegant. Compared to what Sammi wore, this girl’s clothes had been dreamy. Sammi liked the girl’s pink shirt, and how it was cut low in the front. She liked the girl’s short pants, and the braided belt that had wrapped around her waist. It was decorative. It was beautiful.
A pang of insecurity bit at Sammi, and she stopped bouncing on the stage. She thought about the girl’s long blonde hair, and how neatly it had been pulled back over her head. What if she could do something like that too? Sammi tried combing her fingers through her hair, grimacing at a few stubborn knots as they broke free. She tried to tidy her coveralls, wiping away the dirt and grime, as well as some flecks of blood.
As she continued playing with her hair, Declan turned a curious eye.
I’ll never look like those girls, Sammi thought, and wished that she and Declan were in a different time. She pinched the lock of red hair again, and felt a little better for having tried; but she also felt self-conscious, and hoped that Declan could see past what couldn’t be helped.
“You look beautiful up there,” Declan told her, taking her hands so she could help him onto the stage.
She let out a quiet sigh, embracing his words. Her self-conscious feelings settled, and then were gone. She loved that he could do that. When Declan was seated across from her, and she was certain that they were safe, she took from one of her coverall pockets a small candle, along with her father’s flint lighter. The candle had been a gift for her seventeenth birthday, given to her a few days early by her mother. Declan pitched his chin forward, his mouth open with surprise.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, reaching out to touch it. Sammi offered it to him, and he picked it up with care, rolling the candle to see all of it. He gently rubbed the glass holder and the waxy drippings. “I’ve never seen one up close.”
“I got it for my seventeenth birthday. It is a big birthday, don’t you think?” Sammi asked with a shudder in her voice. The butterflies fluttered awake, tickling her insides. I’m going to choose him. She felt the words inside, pressing against her lips, pushing to come out. “Declan, I’m going to be seventeen,” she continued. He set the candle down, and lifted her chin with his fingers. The butterflies played a fickle game, leaving her both nervous and excited.
“I know it’s going to be your seventeenth birthday. I’ve been watching the days for as long as you have,” he answered. She thought his voice sounded confident, and maybe a bit cocky, but she didn’t mind. “Are you going to tell me your secret, now?”
Sammi liked that he knew. She maybe even loved it. As she formed the words that she wanted to say, she peeked at her birthday gift, and remembered how romantic she thought the candlelight would be.
“How about a game, first?” she blurted, and then was quick to add, “It’s a good game.” Declan straightened, agreeing. With her father’s flint lighter, she brought a flame to the wick of her candle.
Bright glints of yellow and red bounced in their eyes and painted warm colors on their skin. Sammi carefully placed the candle behind them, so that they sat between the candlelight and the movie screen. The light formed giant shadow images of them on the screen. Declan laughed, and waved his hands. Sammi joined him, as the two mimed a shadow story. It was the first story to be played out on the big screen in what might have been centuries.
“How did you know to do that?” Declan asked, splaying his fingers in front of the candlelight.
“My father showed me. When our dwelling was dark enough, he taught me this,” she began, and, with her fingers, she formed the shape of a bird. “This is what birds looked like… when they used to fly,” she added, flapping her finger wings. The shadow bird flew around the screen, avoiding the rips and gashes, and landed on the shadow perch of Declan’s head. He laughed some more, and put his hands together in front of the candlelight. He spread his hands, trying to mimic the shadow bird. When he couldn’t form the shape of the wings, Sammi took his hands into hers, and formed the wings with him.
“Like this?” he asked in a whisper.
Again, the butterflies teased her belly, but this time, she felt something more, something that tingled more deeply inside of her. She continued to feel anxious and excited at the same time. Heat lifted from under her coveralls, rising on her neck and face. Bi
ting her lower lip, she set her eyes on his, and watched the reflection of the candle’s flame sway in a sultry dance, inviting her in.
Sammi placed Declan’s warm hand on her breast, and answered, “Like this.” Her heart pounded and raced when she felt his touch. Her nipple rose beneath his fingers, while his lips pressed against hers. She pushed his hand harder against her chest, squeezing it as their tongues touched.
When the distant sound of a bell reached their ears, Sammi dropped Declan’s hand and began to straighten herself. Alarm showed in Declan’s eyes when he heard it. Worry had replaced excitement.
The bell that had chimed was their Commune bell. It wasn’t ringing for half past the hour, or for the full hour, it was ringing for the daily check-in: the one that no Commune member was allowed to miss. Urgency doused the aroused feelings inside her as she snuffed the burning wick and packed the candle away. The distant bell rang twice more, and she saw the urgency catching, as Declan handed her the flint lighter and readied himself. If she was right, then they had maybe fifteen minutes before check-in to reach their dwellings. If the fog was thick, then they could fall prey to a late check-in.
“Declan, we have to go!”
“Sammi, I know,” he answered sharply.
She felt a pang of hurt from his tone. When she paused, he took notice. “I’m sorry… I know we have to go,” he said more softly. “I’ve been late once this month already.”
Sammi cupped her hand to his face, and before she could stop it, the words were out. “I love you, Declan.”
The bell rang again, but this time, Declan ignored it.
He held her hand. “I love you, too. I think I’ve always loved you.” He kissed her, then. “The secret… you have to tell me!”
But Sammi was already certain that he knew. The bell rang twice more, interrupting them as she drew a breath to answer.
End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller Page 6