GREEN TSUNAMI

by Cooney, Laura

  GREEN

  TSUNAMI

  A Novella by

  Laura Cooney & L.L. Soares

  GREEN

  TSUNAMI

  A Novella by

  Laura Cooney & L.L. Soares

  Smart Rhino Publications

  www.smartrhino.com

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblances to real people, living or dead, are purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the copyright owners.

  First Edition

  Green Tsunami. Copyright © 2014 by Laura Cooney & L.L. Soares. All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9896679-4-4

  ISBN-10: 0989667944

  Dedicated to Jax Bennett,

  who left us too soon.

  July 28—9:30 a.m.

  Joy,

  The sky looks like it’s on fire.

  I know it’s not. There’s no smoke, no intense heat, no crackling or the smell of things of burning. But there are these wiggly lines in the sky now; flickers might be a better description, and they look like flames. Especially when the sky is red.

  It’s red a lot of the time.

  This is the third time I’ve written since the shit hit the fan. I’m not really sure what’s going on yet. Answers are hard to come by. There’s still a green film everywhere, covering all the surfaces, even though the fluid that crashed down on the world has since dried up. I haven’t even seen any puddles since it happened.

  Things are so different now. It’s hard to navigate through this new world without a road map. Nothing is where it should be.

  Several times now, I’ve tried to go outside our neighborhood and get a better idea of how things have changed. Every single time, I have been stopped.

  No cars work. Not that I could drive with this one enormous foot of mine. I tried to get behind the steering wheel of a car once since the tsunami, and my foot wouldn’t even fit inside the door. And all the cars have transformed, many of them into living creatures that look like cars, but do not have any of the same functions.

  Obviously I can’t drive a motorcycle or a bicycle. Not that I’ve tried. But this foot limits me a lot. I assume anything with a motor on it would have undergone the same fate as the cars, anyway. As for bicycles, I see one stranded on the sidewalk once in awhile, but there’s no way I could ride it.

  I tried walking. Some days I can walk with relative ease, despite my “problem.” It’s as if the foot is still me and still cooperative. But other days, it throbs so horribly I have no desire to move at all.

  I tried to walk downtown to where you are, but whenever I reach the outskirts of the neighborhood, my foot begins to hurt worse than ever. If I try to keep going, it gets so bad I black out. It’s like when you use one of those electric collars for dogs. When they reach a certain point, they get shocked. That’s what I feel like.

  I can’t explain it very well.

  It seems to cover an eight-block radius. In other words, our neighborhood, more or less. But inside that parameter, I seem to be okay. If you remember, Davey’s school is exactly seven blocks away, so I can go there. But if I try to move much further than that, I have to stop.

  It’s funny how I can get on the Internet sometimes, and how the electricity still works sporadically. But my cell phone won’t work at all. I can’t get any bars or even a dial tone. Maybe what happened has placed some kind of barrier between the world and the satellites up there. Cell phones work because of satellites, right? And there are towers involved; I know that much. But I’m not sure why my phone won’t work. The landlines are dead, too. I’m not sure, doesn’t Internet connection work in a similar way? I’ve never been very knowledgeable in these things.

  All I know is, one works and one doesn’t.

  But it doesn’t do me much good if I send out these email messages and you don’t respond.

  Then again, you probably can’t respond.

  I’ve emailed everyone in my address book, and no one has responded yet. So I’m guessing either they’re all dead, or they don’t have power, or they just can’t be bothered answering emails when they’re trying to stay alive.

  It’s like I’m just talking to myself here.

  Well, I’m going to shut down now. I don’t know how long it will be before I find another place to charge up, and I can’t afford to waste energy.

  The weather has actually been rather pleasant. Remember the big heat wave just before this happened? It’s long gone now. Feels like spring.

  Except for the sky. It’s such a bright red sometimes. I think my eyes have adjusted to it, but it seems like days go on forever, and the moon forgets to come out.

  I hope there’s a night tonight. I miss the darkness. It would be a nice break from the redness.

  And I hope you get this message.

  Love,

  Aaron

  August 2—2:05 a.m.

  Aaron,

  I got your messages. I haven’t been able to respond until now.

  First off, I want to write and tell you I’m alive (no duh, right?). I’m wondering about the look on your face? Are your lips smiling like a juicy earthworm or are they a pinched pink scar? I disappointed you, I know, but I still want that light shining in your eyes for me. I think the bad things I get I deserve. That sounds crazy. I think this dimly lit place with the hot stale air is where I belong. I want you to tell me, “No, Joy. No, you don’t belong there.”

  You used to tell me sweet things until that day when it all changed. I know I’m stupid, but please don’t answer, “Yes, Joy, yes, yes, yes. You do deserve this place.” I’m sorry. My eyes are blurry with tears. I can’t see the damn screen. This email doesn’t make sense. Does it? I can’t get my thoughts lined up right. It’s like I dropped change on the floor and I’m having trouble picking it up.

  You sent your emails days ago. I don’t even know if you’re still alive to read this. But if you are, I want you to smile. Will you do that for me?

  I hear them coming. I have to cut off. Write me back. I’ll write again when I can.

  YELW (your ever-lovin’ wife),

  Joy

  P.S. I’m terrible, I know, but I only just now remembered Davey. How is he?

  August 2—10:11 p.m.

  Joy,

  You don’t know how happy I am to hear from you. I really thought nobody was getting these messages, that I was the only one using email anymore. But I knew, if you were still alive, this would be the way you’d try to contact me.

  I really had given up hope.

  A few radio stations still work. They’re AM stations. I found two that sometimes have actual people talking on them, and one that seems to be on a loop of old news, from before the tsunami. That’s all I can get. But I could find out a few things from the live stations. From what I gather, nobody saw this coming. They think about three-quarter of the world’s population is dead. It’s really hard to tell. I don’t know where they come up with those numbers; everything is so chaotic, there’s no way to take a census. And where are all the bodies? I’ve seen a few here and there, but nothing like the numbers I should be seeing.

  Supposedly, there are stacks of bodies in certain parts of the country. As if they’d been put aside, away from the remaining survivors. How did that happen?

  And those of us who survived have been altered in some way. All different ways, of course. It certainly doesn’t lack for variety around here.

  You would think that when a big green tsunami pounds down on the earth and floods the streets, and rips buildings out of
the ground, that the scientists would have seen something coming. That they could have prepared for it. But this seems to have caught everyone with their pants down.

  And it doesn’t make sense that anyone survived. Nobody seems to remember when it actually hit. And nobody can figure out how we all didn’t get wiped out, how we all didn’t just drown.

  I’ve never seen such damage. And at the same time, it all seems to be healing over in some weird way. New things growing in their place—I can’t identify most of it. But I’ll try if you let me. It would give me something to do if I could catalog this stuff. Name it. You know, like Adam supposedly did when he first became conscious that he was in Eden. He named all the animals and things. That’s what I feel like now.

  I know. If you were here, you’d say I was an egotist to compare myself to Adam. And you’re probably right.

  But I’m so eager to tell you about what’s happening here that I am totally neglecting your end. Are you still in the office building? Or did you get out? Do you have any clue where you are now?

  What’s it like there? And when you say “you hear them coming,” who are you talking about? It sounds like there are other survivors with you. Would they be angry if they caught you using electricity? You would think they would be happy to get news from the outside world.

  Unless you are outside. Just somewhere else. But you mention a dimly lit place. So I assume you’re inside somewhere. Maybe you didn’t get affected? Maybe you’re exactly as I remember you?

  Please write back and tell me more.

  I’ll check again in the morning.

  Love you,

  Aaron

  P.S. I can’t talk about Davey yet. I promise I will at some point. But not now.

  August 3—4:31 a.m.

  Hello Aaron,

  This is going to sound terrible, because I should be so happy knowing you’re alive and we have a way of talking to each other, but, I got mad after reading your last email. Because I don’t know the answers to your questions anymore than you do. The day of the big wave is like the night we drank those pitchers of martinis. I know some evil shit happened and I was right there watching, but it’s all shadows to me.

  I remember being at my desk that morning. And one of the cheap-ass pens they have here leaked ink onto my new skirt (white linen of course!) and, it seemed like the worst thing that could happen. I shouted “Fuck off!” loud enough so that Cindy, the office prude, shot me a dirty look (she was the moron who went to HR to complain about my blouse being low-cut … well, I guess she knows now there are worst things than that, LOL).

  I was on my way to the bathroom to blot the stain when that ass, Bradley Bascom, stopped me and told me to come listen to his radio. I was gonna tell him what he could do with Rush Limbaugh’s latest gas blast, until I saw how scared he looked. I didn’t even ask what it was about because I knew it was something very bad and I wanted to put off hearing it for as long as possible.

  We walked fast over to his desk. People were standing listening with white faces, looking like there was a mosquito buzzing around their heads they couldn’t get rid of. I got this sick feeling in my stomach before I even heard the newscaster.

  “But we don’t get tsunamis here,” I remember saying.

  “Maybe it’s the Rapture,” Cindy said.

  Nobody replied to that. The floor started shaking like there was an earthquake, and then a fluorescent green light blinded me for a second. After that is when my recollection gets shadowy. I have these disjointed images of people running down the stairwell. Someone falling, getting trampled and screams. I remember feeling wet at some point, like I was underwater, but it didn’t last very long.

  I think we wound up underground somewhere. I don’t know where or how. I think they keep the lights down low on purpose so we can’t see them so well. Because we might recognize them. They have heads like the balloons in Macy’s Parade. We even call them “Balloon Heads.” Do they have them where you are? I feel like I know who they are, but they can’t be regular people. They must be aliens or something?

  When I got your first email, I didn’t answer it right away, because even though I could read it okay, it was like I forgot how to write. I couldn’t put the words from my head onto the screen. Then, when I could, I felt so confused. I felt like I was putting a bunch of letters together that didn’t spell anything and you wouldn’t understand what I was telling you. But now my mind’s clearing and it’s getting easier. I’m telling you it’s like the worst hangover ever. Not just with the throbbing head and the fog in my brain, but the throwing up until all that was left was bile.

  There are people I know here. Bradley and Cindy (why couldn’t it be people I like?) and others I never saw before and the Balloon Heads. It seems like I should know them somehow.

  That’s all I can tell you for now. I have to go. We’ve got chores and shit we have to do.

  YFHW (your foggy-headed wife),

  Joy

  P.S. How come you can’t tell me about Davey? I had to force myself to ask that. I don’t think I want to know.

  August 3—10:06 a.m.

  I’m shocked they had enough time to say anything on the radio. It all happened so suddenly. And it came out of nowhere. I know that no one had said a word about it before it happened. If the scientists saw it coming, they didn’t say a word. For some reason, I think they were just as surprised as we were.

  I wasn’t sure if you knew about this already, but most of the people who were touched by that green water … it changed us all in some way. I think I mentioned that last time. I was in the backyard when it happened, working on the garden. Pulling out weeds around the strawberry plants. One minute everything was completely normal, and the next I felt like I was inside a blender. It was all so strange and disorienting. I tried to save some things from the house, but the wood had all turned into some kind of sludge, and it was collapsing in on itself. Luckily I hadn’t been in there, or I might have been buried alive in that muck.

  But I am different. Not too much, as far as I can tell. But one of my feet is gigantic now. I told you that already, right? It’s swollen up to the size of a medium-sized dog. It looks really strange, and it makes it hard to move around, but I manage. Sometimes, I have to drag it along behind me when I walk. Other times I’m able to walk just fine with it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It’s like sometimes it’s numb and useless, and other times it has complete sensation and I can move on it without even thinking. Either way, I’ve learned how to deal with it. I’ve adjusted.

  I’ve seen a couple of the ones with the big heads. They look helpless. Or at least the ones I saw did. Their heads are so big, they can’t lift them. They can’t move. I felt horrible for them. But there was something weird about them, too. Something that made me feel weird. That made me want to get away from them. Get as far away as I could.

  What kind of chores do they make you do? They haven’t hurt you at all, have they?

  Davey was at school when it happened.

  I haven’t seen him in days.

  So much for being Mister Mom. I couldn’t even keep the house from falling apart.

  Look, I know we weren’t in a good place that day. We’d been mad at each other for a while, and we weren’t getting along. We even discussed a separation. I don’t know if you remember that. But that’s all behind us, now. Everything’s changed. I’m not mad anymore. Hell, I don’t even know what we were mad about.

  I’m just glad you’re alive.

  But I wish I knew where you were. And I wish I could get there, and take you away. We could start over again.

  My foot is throbbing. The big one. It gets pretty painful sometimes. I think I’m going to sign off now. I’ll try to write again soon.

  Aaron

  August 3—8:05 p.m.

  Hi Aaron,

  It is funny you would feel bad for the Balloon Heads. Did you miss the part where I told you they are holding me captive? That I and the others stranded here with me
are their virtual slaves? I don’t know why you are always siding with others, against me, even complete strangers. Even strange alien creatures, who for all we know are the ones who caused all this chaos and destruction in the first place. How am I supposed to allow you to forgive me when you act like this?

  Since you let our house get destroyed, where do you live? I envy you because I haven’t seen the sun or breathed fresh air since this catastrophe. I wonder why you didn’t put the garden hose on the house and stop it from melting? The Balloon Heads do not seem able to speak, but somehow they are able to access our thoughts to indicate what they want us to do. They told us the atmosphere outside is polluted and we would die if we were to leave the hive, as they call this place. I am woken up at odd hours of the very early morning and led to this room full of computers, not by any being, but by something in my head that tells me where to go. So, hard as it is to believe, I think the Balloon Heads want me to communicate with you, but for what purpose?

  I want to write to you. I want to know how you are, what you are doing, and what you are thinking. If a Balloon Head is reading this, I want them to know that I do not care and we will continue to write regardless. We are not afraid, nor will we be manipulated into feeling despair or panic.

  Our chores are the chores of home health care aid. The Balloon Heads have powerful minds, but they are physically helpless. We must feed them and bathe them. Bring them to the toilet and wipe their butts for them. Massage their limbs so their muscles do not atrophy. Why do we do it? I do not understand it myself. It is a compulsion they put into our minds that we must perform every day, over and over.

  Will this pollution of mind spread to the outside through our emails? Through the emails that everyone who lives within the hive sends out to loved ones? I wonder how many get answers. No one is telling.