War of the Seasons, book one: The Human

CHAPTER TWO: Monsters

“Josh!” Yelling hurt a whole lot more than she thought it would. She paused a moment to catch her breath and tried to ignore the ache in her ribs when she called out again. “Josh! Can you hear me?”

There was no response.

Either she was so far down he couldn’t hear her, or he’d left to get help. One thing was certain; she wasn’t getting back out the way she’d come in.

She carefully turned her head side to side, ignoring the throbbing it caused, and looked around. Light shone from a small opening several feet above her head. It looked wide enough for her to squirm through without much trouble.

That’s assuming I can actually stand.                       

Gritting her teeth against the inevitable pain, Story rolled onto her side and gasped. She felt like she’d been kicked repeatedly in the stomach—no, worse—like her ribs were being squeezed tightly in a vise. Grunting with the effort, she rolled over onto her knees, placed a trembling hand on the wall for support, and then shakily pushed herself up to stand.

The sudden rush of blood away from her head caused her vision to tunnel, and she nearly blacked out again. With a low moan, she leaned heavily against the wall for support. She stood there slowly breathing in and out, letting her body recover and get used to standing again. Looking at the grit and grime that coated what she could see of her body, she half-smiled. If only the twins could see me now.

Story stood a little straighter, wincing as her back protested the movement. She was definitely going to have bruises. Lots of bruises. She ran careful hands over her body, ignoring the shots of pain, and felt the tears that peppered her sweatshirt along the front and back. Dust caked the inside of her mouth, and she regretted leaving her daypack behind; she’d give a lot for some water right about now. Her eyes flicked back up toward the shaft she’d fallen down, and she marveled that she’d survived, relatively unscathed at that.

Keeping her head still to avoid getting dizzy again, she moved her eyes around the space, looking for an exit other than the hole she’d have to wriggle through. About ten feet away, on the opposite wall, there was some sort of writing. Story sighed; it was probably more graffiti from the vandals in the main cavern. What could be so important that someone needed to deface nature to say it? Probably “John loves Maggie” or something else just as trivial.

Deciding to get a closer look, Story took a hesitant step forward. When she didn’t collapse, she released her hold on the cool surface behind her and took another step, and then another, until she was directly in front of the wall.

With soft moonlight shining directly onto the surface before her, she could see that she’d been completely wrong. This was no simple act of vandalism; it was a mural of sorts.

It was either very old or had been made to look so: the colors were worn and faded. In the center of the mural was a simply drawn tree that resembled a cherry tree in shape, but the blossoms on it, instead of being pink, were vivid silver. In fact, the silver was the only bit of color that hadn’t faded with time. The mural depicted the silver leaves falling off the tree onto the bodies of people lying beneath it. She couldn’t tell if the bodies were supposed to be alive or dead. Hardly aware of her movement, Story reached out and brushed the trunk of the tree with her fingertips. As she traced the lines of the branches, she felt a connection with the tree. Somehow, she could understand it. The tree was grieving, weeping for the fallen.

And just like me, it couldn’t save the ones it loved.

Tears pricked her eyes, and her chest felt like it was back in the vise again, only this time the emotional pain was far worse than the physical pain. She literally felt as though she couldn’t breathe. Memories were overwhelming her. She was feeling things that she didn’t want to feel—things she’d spent the last few months running away from.