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Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
7 months after The Rise
Had anyone seen the blonde woman and the boy walking together it would have been assumed they were mother and son. But, such as the circumstances were, no set of eyes fell on the pair, and these assumptions never came to pass. In truth, the blonde woman and the boy had been strangers whose fates collided by chance in a world that was no longer their own. They had run for days through the ruins of Kentucky, Tennessee, and the Tar Heel state, stopping and resting only when absolutely necessary. They had run with such urgency they took nothing but the clothes on their back. They had run, and all the while, unbeknownst to them, they were followed.
As the early evening drew to a close, quiet finally settled over the coastline of the Outer Banks. The waves pulled back with the tide. The sun stood across from the ocean, tiptoeing on the horizon, waiting to be swallowed. The stars and the night poked through the purple sky. Even in the dying sun there was ample light and surprising warmth. The shoreline was exquisite, brandishing an array of homes, all perched on stilts overlooking the Atlantic, stenciled across an infinite canvas.
The blonde woman and the boy had taken refuge in a relatively pleasant three level home with two split balconies. It was painted a pastel yellow that seemed to glow in the morning sun. The home’s east wing rested on two massive stilts that dug into the soft sand on the beach below. There was a rickety wooden staircase, its steps stained by water and age, that led down to the beach. The steps were so fragile the woman couldn’t help but hold her breath when she saw the boy bounding down them, arms free, almost flailing. Tonight, however, he was standing peacefully on the sun-bleached balcony, his face upturned, breathing in the sky.
“Come outside!” the boy’s voice called to the blonde woman.
“What is it?” the woman called back. She stepped onto the balcony and found him staring beyond the ocean.
The boy smiled at her. “Nice, isn’t it?”
She looked out at the ocean, painted purple by the falling sun. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”
“I wish we could see the sunset,” the boy remarked. “East coast sunsets are so boring.”
“We could climb up on the roof,” said the blonde woman.
“Can we?” he asked eagerly.
The woman laughed. “Maybe when you’re older.” She rubbed the top of his head, mussing his sandy blonde hair. “Maybe when we’re both older…” and these words slipped away with a terrible sadness.
The boy was young, but not exceedingly so. He felt as if he’d just celebrated a birthday, but the days blended together like images in a dream—constant, but disconnected—and he was no longer sure when his special day had actually occurred. He was sure, however, that he was fifteen years old. That was not a fact that was not up for debate. He had a small scar running from the corner of his eye to the crest of his cheek bone. To the casual observer the scar was barely noticeable, but there was an abrasiveness to it that seemed fresh, unhealed. The boy didn’t the scar. It gave him age and character. He liked that.
The woman was quite striking, though she’d attained a fragile and lethargic energy over the past few months, as if she had worked eighteen-hour shifts every day for the last ten years. There was also something wistful about her, broken and inconsolable.
The boy looked up at the blonde woman. “What are you thinking about?”
She sighed, but said nothing.
The boy looked away and glanced down the beach. A single blue crab stumbled out of the water like the local drunk leaving its watering hole. It wandered sideways before a foamy wave slid beneath its claws and sucked it back into the ocean. The boy didn’t know why, but it made him sad.
The sun gave once last shimmering breath before the ocean turned an instant black, erasing the golden waves and purple shades of tide. A cool breeze ran up along the balcony and the two shivered. She held the boy close and he squeezed her arm, reciprocating her reaction.
“Come on,” she said, “it’s getting dark, we’d better get inside.”
“Can we light a fire?” he asked.
“Not tonight,” she told him. “Come on, let’s go.”
Without protest, the boy nodded and followed her inside. He patiently watched as she locked the door and fastened the blinds, and they both wandered off to their beds where they would endure another sleepless night.
* * *
A Volkswagon Golf sat in the parking lot of the local grocery store. It was the only working working car in the lot, the rest had been abandoned over intervals unknown to the boy and the blonde woman. The boy sat behind the wheel, tapping on the steering console with impatient fingers. Through the Golf’s windshield he saw the blonde woman exit the store carrying a lone plastic bag filled with bottles of water, canned beans, canned tuna, canned spinach, and jars of preserves. She motioned for him to slide over, and he did so willingly.
When she got in she handed him the bag and he groaned almost instantly. “Same?”
“For now.”
“How was it in there?” he asked, nodding toward the supermarket.
The blonde woman’s face darkened. She looked back at the supermarket with gloomy, distraught eyes. She shook her head and said, “Buckle up.”
The boy strapped himself in and the car pulled away.
* * *
The waves were much louder the next day. They were hostile and relentless. The boy watched from the beach as the white foam settled on the rocks and disappeared into the cracks.
“What are you looking at?” the blonde woman’s voice called from behind him. Her voice was loud and startling, but he didn’t flinch—he rarely did anymore.
“Watching the waves,” he said, not turning around.
“Exciting.” She sat down in the sand next to him.
There was a long silence between them before the boy asked, “Where are we going after this?”
She didn’t respond and, at first, the boy thought she had not heard him. He went to repeat himself, but, before he could, she answered stiffly, “I don’t know.” She tried to offer him a warm smile, but it only came across as odd and disconcerting. “Don’t you like it here?” she asked.
“It’s fine,” said the boy. “It’s not home.”
She hesitated, seeming to have the words to answer, but not necessarily the courage. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when she heard the soft rumbling of a vehicle drawing near.
They got to their feet and squinted up the desolate road, but saw no vehicle.
“What is that?” the boy asked.
She put a finger to her lips and motioned for him to follow her. They jogged toward the pastel-painted home, the boy staring up at the blonde woman as they went. He felt she was doing her best not to look panicked, but her efforts were haphazard and shallow.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong, let’s just get up to the house.”
They were on the balcony before he had a chance to ask another question. The rumbling grew louder, like a storm brewing in the distance.
“I’m scared,” said the boy.
She looked down, but gave him no comforting eyes. And then she surprised him by saying, “I am, too.” She looked back down the road as the water mirage on the concrete spilled away and seven Humvees sped over the hill, washing away the mirage with one quick brushstroke.
“Who’s that?” the boy asked.
“It’s them.” She grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him into the house. “Go to your room and get your things,” she ordered. And for the first time since arriving at the Outer Banks, he felt the stabbing pain of fear wretch at his heart.
The boy asked no further questions and made no hesitation; he left quietly, sprinting up the stairs to the room he had called his for the past three days, and returned before he felt he had taken another breath.
The woman fastened the backpack around the boy’s shoulders and absentmindedly fixed his hair, unsure what to do with her quivering hands. He reached up and pulled her hands to her sides.
“What’s happening?”
She looked at him with defeated eyes and said, “I’m sorry. I thought it was over…I thought we were away…But it looks like we’re going to have to start running again.”
The Humvees roared up the driveway and screeched to a halt.
The woman grabbed the boy’s hand and they headed out the back, down that rickety, water-stained staircase, and onto the beach.
They were four houses down the coastline before the ones in the Humvees had made their way inside the home that was no longer the blonde woman and the boy’s.
* * *
The sky was a rich black by the time they lit the fire. Darkness had always frightened the blonde woman, but the boy paid it little attention. In the days that would follow, however, he would come to mind the darkness very much.
The cove where they had made camp was small, but safe. The rigid rock formations provided them enough camouflage and the slight overhang of cliff would protect them from any inclement weather (there would, however, be no rain in that night).
The blonde woman and the boy were propped up on their packs, staring up at the twinkling stars and the peaceful, wondrous space. “Guess that one,” he said pointing up at the sky.
“Orion’s belt?” the woman asked, not entirely sure of her response.
“No,” the boy laughed, but it seemed disingenuous.
“You know that’s the only one I know!” the woman said. She paused a moment, considering her words. “Everything’s going to be okay; you know that, right?” But there was uncertainty in her voice, an uncertainty both could detect, but neither would admit. “Go to sleep,” she said before he had a chance to respond.
The boy pulled away and settled back onto his pack. His eyes were already closed when he heard the blonde woman stand and walk down to the water. She was alert, and he took solace in that. He opened his eyes one last time and saw her wandering farther down the beach, ready to gather more firewood or, with any luck, snatch a couple blue crabs for breakfast. He watched as the woman became a silhouette, then a shadow, then an outline, and then he saw only darkness.
When he would wake, some hours later, she would still be gone.
It would be three days before he would discover the Variants had come in the night and taken her.
It would be another four until they came for him.
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