Eighteen Weeks After: A Short Story

Part IX

My mind raced a hundred miles a second, my heart leaping behind my chest and pounding so loud in my ears that the rapid rhythm was all I could hear as I stood before the boy bleeding out at my feet. The skin of his face that was free of the fiery burns had already begun to pale, and I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before he would pass out, perhaps never again to see the light of day.

"Water!" the cogs began to turn, and I urged any memories that would service me in keeping Kael alive to ascend to the surface of the roiling sea that swirled in my mind, "I need to find water. Don't move," I started in the direction of the fire escape to my left beside the elevator that would forever be locked in time. I didn't like to think about what might have been trapped behind those two metal doors when the electricity had faltered upon the impact of the bombs. Or who.

"I'll be back in a second."

And then I was running.

Again.

My hands were shaking with panic as I pushed my weight against the door that led to the stairs of the escape. The shaky breaths that burned my throat were deafening as my arms tried their very best to push my body forwards, my legs turning beneath me like the pedals of a bicycle as I leapt up the steps two and three at a time, tripping more than once in the blinding darkness.

The moment my foot touched the second landing of the extensive staircase my hands were pressing against the bar that unlatched the heavy exit door, and then I was stumbling from a cold, dark, damp chamber of stairs that wound towards the sky in a whirl of cement into a room packed with rows and endless rows of office cubicles.

I wasted no time in darting towards the nearest to my right, throwing open drawers and rummaging through anonymous belongings before coming up empty and dashing around the thin shoulder-height wall and into the next stall. The storm that raged on outside draped a veil of dim shadow over the entire room, faint light creeping in to touch only the stalls closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows that adorned two opposite sides of the building. I fought against the looming darkness to see the items that ran beneath my foraging fingers.

My pulse charged through my veins, a vicious red rapid of adrenaline and fear, and my panic spiked when I realised I'd found more nothing.

Empty.

The third booth was no better. Fourth stall: everything but what I sought.

So I stood there, in the tiny office compartment, hands on my head, damp strands of dark hair moist with the acid that persisted in pelting the building from the west sticking to my palms, with the echoes of tens of thousands of tiny droplets firing against the concrete walls and grimy glass windows ringing loud in the silent room. I stood, with my eyes tilted towards the murky ceiling, and I felt the first tight tears begin their hurried descent down my cheeks.

What if I wasn't able to find what I needed? What if I wasn't able to save him? What if he didn't make it? I let out a strained groan, hastily wiping at the salty wet trails that streaked my cheeks and clung to the purple circles that draped beneath my eyes.

It was then that I spotted the photos pinned to one wall of the stall. I'd only ever held pictures of my mother's, ones that were so old they had been eaten by discoloration and yellowed around the edges, creases etched through the frozen flashbacks after years of being folded behind the pages of books and the bottoms of ancient wooden boxes. I'd had to squint my eyes just to see the faces of those captured in time as I'd held her precious memories in my hands – a time so distant from the one I knew; a time where people had been free, food had been abundant, and life had been long. It was a time where everyone had smiled – where children could run and play in school and water was fresh and plentiful and everybody had a home and a job and a family.