For Grace: Chapter 1

There was blinding darkness, screams of terror and agony, and the smell of a rotting carcass.  Stale air, mildew and cobwebs filled the space.  There was fear so powerful it was a poison and sorrow so deep it was unfathomable.  I was trying to escape.  But I couldn’t remember from what.  I was swimming through an eternity of dust that filled my nose and my mouth, choking me.  Then suddenly the dust was gone.  In its place were giant webs of silk stretching out as far as the eye could see.  Their massive, sticky strands grabbed a hold of my arms and legs and held me firm as I struggled to move forward. 

 

I needed to escape.  No, that was wrong.  Not escape.  Something else.  Then what?  I needed to help someone. Yes, that was it. I needed to find someone and I had to help them.  But who?

 

Grace.  My sister.

 

 I had to find her.  She was in danger and I had to protect her.

 

Then there was a sound like the screech of metal on metal mixed with the roar of a lion.  The spider webs abruptly disappeared and I fell to the ground.  The sound grew louder and louder until it was deafening.  I covered my ears, but the terrifying sound and the screams of anguish could still be heard.  And the crying.  There was crying too.  Only the sobs were close, and the screams were distant.  It was my sister who was crying.  The screams were not hers.

 

No, it wasn’t my sister.  Not my sister who needed saving.  Then who?

 

My parents.

 

It was my parents who were screaming. I had to go to them.  They were in danger.  They were the ones who needed protecting.  I had to save them.

 

Then there was sorrow once again, a grief so profound it was suffocating.  A moment of unfortunate clarity.

 

 It was too late. There was no one to save. 

 

I fell into the pool of dust again and sticky tendrils of silk wrapped around my ankles and pulled me down into the depths of despair.  Sinking deeper, passing the floating carcasses of oversized insects. I was drowning.  Dust entered my mouth and it tasted like ash and embers from a fire.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  Something inside of me was breaking.  I could feel it. 

 

No, not breaking.  Broken.  It was already broken.  It broke a long time ago.  

 

I was broken. 

 

I was humpty dumpty after a great fall and nothing could put all of my pieces back together again.

 

There was anger so strong it was a raging fire and a hunger for revenge so ravenous it was overwhelming.  Yes, I was broken.  Broken, but not dead.

 

I opened my mouth wide to scream; to let the fire rage outside of me, before it could consume me from within.  My hunger was overpowering now - an unquenchable thirst. My mouth stretched open, impossibly wide, but there was no fire.  Only dust.  An avalanche of ash-flavored dust rushed in to fill my mouth, my throat, and then my lungs. It trapped the fire inside, and it did not feed my hunger or quench my thirst.  It suffocated me, crushing me from within. 

 

I was dying.  No… No, I couldn’t die.  No!  I couldn’t die!  But why? 

 

Grace. I had to stay alive for Grace…

 

My eyelids fluttered open, and I gasped, sucking in sweet fresh air instead of dust. The air was not stale, but cool and crisp. I breathed in until my lungs swelled with relief.  As my eyes fully opened, and the blurry vestiges of sleep cleared, I was finally able to focus on my surroundings.  The first thing I saw was Grace. 

 

Asleep beside me, just a few inches away, her delicate face lay on the makeshift pillow we shared, fashioned from an old sleeping bag.  I soaked in her presence.  I was a dried up sponge riddled with pockets of painful emotions, and I was thirsty; desperate for something else to fill the spaces.  Eager to wring out the unwanted emotions and absorb new desirable ones.

 

The nightmare had left my mind muddled and my heart heavy.  But I realized that these feelings would soon pass.  They always did.  I knew this because the nightmares were nothing new.

 

I laid there and studied Grace’s face while she slept, trying not to let reality sink in.  Her long, full lashes rested gently on her pale face just above flushed cheeks.  Hidden behind those closed eyelids were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.  Her fair hair spilled onto the pillow and framed her face.  Her beauty never ceased to amaze me.  And perplex me.  Her light complexion, blonde hair and blue eyes were almost exact polar opposites from the features possessed by the rest of our family.  It was as if she was a precious gift, formed from a different and very special mold.  That is how I always thought of her. 

 

I gazed past Grace and towards the room’s single window.  It was early and the sun had only just begun to peak out above the horizon, filling the morning with a red-orange glow. The light streamed into the small room and softly illuminated everything with a kiss of fire. 

 

We occupied the only bed in the room - a single mattress that lay on the floor in one corner.  It wasn’t much, but compared to other sleeping arrangements we had endured over the years, it was actually a luxury. A bulky cast iron wood stove sat in another corner, its black stove pipe thrust up through the ceiling.  It hadn’t seen much use in several weeks, as spring had now given way to summer.  Under the window was a small square table made of worn pine.  It was accompanied by two small rickety chairs, and reminded me of the play table I had when I was a child. 

 

Other than these items, the room was completely bare, and completely made of wood.  Exposed roughhewn logs made up the walls, tongue and groove panels ran along the ceiling and wide planks of hardwood lined the floor.  The earthy brown tones of all of the wood usually made the room feel cozy and rustic, while other times it just made the room feel dark and suffocating. This morning the early sunlight added a soft glow to the room, filling it with a sense of promise.  

 

Or dare I say hope?  No, not hope. Hope didn’t belong here. It wasn’t welcome.

 

The room actually made up the entire structure of a small cabin.  It was one of several cabins we had found, clustered together surrounding a small remote lake.  We had called it our home for almost nine months now.  The longest amount of time we had ever stayed in one place… well, since that night in the attic that is.

 

It was a perfect location.  A mountain fed stream provided us with a constant supply of safe drinking water.  The lake was full of trout and perch, an easy food source.  And within the surrounding meadows and forest thrived a bounty of various different eatable plants and game animals.  However, the most important and valuable feature of the location was not what it supplied, but its remoteness. 

 

No roads lead to the lake.  The hunters and fishermen who used to own the cabins must have hiked in on foot.  It was a half-day’s hike through the woods to the nearest dirt road, and then another hour’s hike to the nearest town.  If you could even call it a town.  It was probably a quaint little tourist trap in its day, with a single stop light, gift shops, and a two-pump gas station.  Now it was just a shell of its former self; a ghost town.  But that was good for us. It was the perfect hiding place.  There was nothing to draw attention to our presence deep within the woods.  Nothing to draw the Screechers to us.  And this was the most important thing of all.

 

Everything was about avoiding the Screechers now.  That is what life had become for those of us who had survived �" a constant struggle to stay hidden in order to stay alive.  It was life on the run.  We had managed to remain undetected by the Screechers for over eight months now, and we were better off than we had ever been before, but I did not want to have false hope.  Hope was believing the weatherman’s forecast for sunshine, only to step out into a torrential downpour without your umbrella. Hope was a cruel ruse.  This was something I had learned the hard way. It was better to stay on your toes, and always expect the worse.  That way you were always prepared for almost anything. 

 

I hadn’t always been a pessimist, but I had been let down by hope too many times to trust in it. Just when I would start to believe that we had finally found a safe and permanent home, something would happen and we would be forced to move on once again. Years of living as a nomad had taken its toll on me and I longed for something more lasting.  But I also wasn’t going to let my guard down again.  I knew all too well what could happen when you did that.      

 

Several years after leaving the attic, Grace and I had stumbled upon an old isolated farmhouse, tucked away in the outskirts of a small rural town. It had been perfect and had everything we needed �" a functioning well with a hand pump, gardens, fruit trees, a well-stocked pantry and a root cellar full of canned preserves.  There was even a small flock of free range chickens that had managed to survive.  Eating eggs for breakfast had been like eating a delicacy in a 5 star restaurant.  We slept in a relatively comfortable bed next to the warmth of a wood burning fireplace.  It had been as close to a little slice of heaven as we had ever known.  But it hadn’t lasted very long.  About four months after we found it, we had to leave it.

 

I could still vividly remember the night we had been forced to flee our little slice of heaven. I wished I could forget it, for it has been a source of nightmares for several years. I tried to forget it, but just like that night in the attic, it was burned into my memory and could not be erased. 

 

It happened on a cool evening in late autumn while we were settling in for the night.  We had adopted routines surrounding everything we did at the Farmhouse.  We found some comfort in the structure that routines provided.  In the evenings, one of us would get wood from a stack we had made on the porch, and we would start a fire in the fireplace.  The other person would go to the well and get a bucket of fresh water so we could wash up.  Then as the daylight gave way to dusk, we would lite some candles and climb into bed, with a book in hand. 

 

One of the things I missed the most about the Farmhouse, besides the eggs, was the books.  The previous owner of the house must have had a love for good literature and reading, as a small sitting room was furnished with floor to ceiling bookshelves stuffed to the brim with all varieties of books.  I had taught Grace to read over the years using anything I could get my hands on, from a soup can label or old newspaper to an actual book.  We both enjoyed the sense of escape a good book provided; when we were lucky enough to find a book that is.  One regret I have from that night was that I hadn’t taken any books with us.  But we had to leave so quickly, there hadn’t been enough time to even think about the books.

 

The fire crackled and popped in the hearth, and shadows danced across the walls of the room. Candles cast a soft glow over everything and provided enough light for reading.  Grace and I laid in bed together so that our heads were at opposite ends.  We were bundled under several blankets and each of us were propped up with a pillow and deep into a book.  Grace was half-way through book one in the Harry Potter series and I was reading the Hobbit.  I was growing drowsy and having a hard time keeping my eyes open when one of Grace’s small feet moved slightly and touched my bare leg.  It felt like a solid block of ice against my warm skin, and I was suddenly very awake again.

 

“Ahhhrrgg!” I cried out and jerked my leg to the side away from Grace’s arctic feet. “Grace!  You know I hate it when you do that.  Stop it.”

 

There was nothing worse than the touch of cold feet on bare skin when you were cozy and toasty in bed.

 

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to.  Honest.” Grace said and I could tell from the look on her face and the tone of her voice that it had been an accident.  But then a mischievous little smile that I just didn’t trust formed on her face.

 

“Grace.” I said in a warning tone “Don’t you even think about it.”

 

“What?” Grace said with fake innocence.

 

“You know what.” I scolded her, giving her a cautionary look, and then I returned to my book.

 

Grace started reading again as well and appeared to get lost in her book once again. But a few moments later her foot slowly inched its way closer to my leg and she giggled quietly behind the pages of her open book.

 

“No. Don’t.” I warned her “Don’t do it.”

 

And then, with lightning speed, Grace thrust her icy foot against my bare skin before I had a chance to move my leg out of the way.  Then she swiftly moved her other foot in for the kill and I struggled to move my legs back as they got tangled in the blankets.  I let out a cry of surprise as her deadly weapons hit their mark. Grace burst into a fit of giggles.  Her laughter was contagious and I couldn’t help but join in. 

 

“Two can play at that game” I warned, and moved my cold feet quickly to touch her legs. 

 

Grace squealed and then we were both laughing hysterically.  A vicious foot war proceeded.

 

My heart aches when I recall that evening.  It is painfully bitter sweet.  Like many other fond memories, it has become tainted by the cruel realities of this existence.

 

When our foot war was over, and there was no clear victor, we laid there catching our breaths from laughing. Suddenly a sound from outside drew our attention, and we froze instantly, sucking in a breath of surprise.  We listened carefully to the night.  At first I heard nothing but the popping of the fire, but then the sound repeated itself again, and my heart sank like a plummeting elevator. There was no mistaking the sound.  I could lie to myself all I wanted, and pretend the noise had been made by something else, but I knew in the end I would still come to the same conclusion. There was only one thing on Earth that could make that sound.

 

A Screecher.

 

The distant hair raising sound of metal squealing on metal, combined with the roar of a large predator filled the night.  A response call came from slightly further away, and then a third joined in from another direction.  They were communicating with one another like a pack of wolves coordinating an attack.

 

They were hunting.

 

Grace and I exchanged terrified looks, but didn’t speak. We were frozen with fear.

 

We had known this day would probably come.  We had even talked about it and discussed what we would do when the day came.  But we had not actually planned for it.  Having a plan can minimize some of the panic and expedite the response.  We knew what we would do. But knowing what you will do, and actually having a plan for implementing those actions are two very different things.  This realization hit me like a freight train.

 

We didn’t have a plan.

 

“What do we do?” Grace asked franticly.  She wore a mask of sheer terror and panic. 

 

                Fear grabbed ahold of me and pulled me into a crushing embrace.  Adrenaline coursed through my veins, making rational thought difficult. 

 

                What do we do? Think, think… Think d****t!

 

                “What do we do?!” Grace asked again, with more urgency this time.

 

                I knew I had to stay calm so I could think.  But the sound of the Screechers’ roars outside, and the look on Grace’s face, made that very difficult.

 

            I need to stay calm so I can focus.  I need to stay calm for Grace.

 

                Closing my eyes tightly, I drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment.  Then I exhaled slowly, imagining all of my fear leaving my body along with my breath.  I opened my eyes again, and I still felt frightened, but I felt more centered now.  I quickly began to hatch a basic plan in my mind and I tried to remain focused on that, rather than the terror that threatened to paralyze me.

 

                “Ok, here’s what we’re going to do.” I said as evenly as I could, and locked eyes with Grace “We’re both going to grab a back pack and quickly gather as many supplies as we can.”

 

                Grace nodded rapidly, her frightened eyes not leaving mine. Her posture was rigid with readiness.  In that moment, she reminded me of a character I had seen in a movie many years ago.  In a scene, the inexperienced soldier stood at attention, awaiting his first battle commands �" utterly terrified but not wanting to show it.  In a way the comparison was strangely fitting, and this realization deeply saddened me.  She was only eight for God’s sake!  Eight year-olds shouldn’t have to be receiving “battle” commands, or running for their lives.  This life was so unfair. My heart yearned for things to be different, for Grace to be growing up in a different world; in a different life.

 

                In the blink of an eye, my terror turned to sadness, and then to anger.  And the anger bubbled over, turning to rage.  She had already been robbed of her parents, and of a normal childhood.  Now she was about to be robbed of the most permanent home she had known since that night in the attic. I would be damned if I would let them take away any more from us then they already had.  Tonight would be the last time they would take anything from us.

 

They could have the Farmhouse, but they couldn’t have us. And they wouldn’t own our future. I wouldn’t allow it.

 

                The raging fire within me saved us that night.  It allowed me to forget my fears and to focus on what needed to be done.  But in a way, it was actually Grace who had saved us.  Because I did it for her. 

 

I did it for Grace.  It was for Grace.  It always has been. 

 

“I will focus on general supplies. You focus on food and water.  Grab whatever you can.” I commanded, my voice sounding more confident now “But don’t pack too heavy, you will need to be able to run with it.” I added.

 

We split up, grabbed as much as we could, and hurriedly shoved the items into our back packs, while the Screechers roars grew steadily closer outside in the darkness.  There were more of them now.  They sounded as if they were mostly coming from the South, with possibly a couple from the West. We finished adding the last items to our bags and quickly zipped them shut. 

 

“Come on, let’s go” I said and lead the way towards the back door, which faced North “We will head towards the mountains. I’ve heard there is a group of people hiding there already.”

 

We stopped at the closed door and turned to look at each other for a brief moment.      

 

“Ready?” I asked, trying to convey as much confidence as I could.  I needed for Grace to have faith in me, even if I didn’t.   

 

Grace nodded bravely, but fear and concern still lingered in her eyes, just as it had that night in the attic.  I opened the door with trepidation, and she reached for my hand seeking assurance.  I squeezed her hand and together we walked through the doorway and out into the night.

 

And we ran.

 

We ran from our home; from our little slice of heaven.  Ran, not knowing what lie ahead, or what we were running to.  All that we knew lay behind us.

 

The night had been impossibly long, and we feared we might never see daylight again.  Much of what happened in the woods after leaving the Farmhouse is murky, but one thing I remember very clearly.  

 

I saw a Screecher. 

 

It wasn’t the first time I had laid eyes on one, but it was the first time I saw one up close and personal; close enough to feel lucky to be alive. The fact that Grace and I survived that night was a miracle; not a miracle of the divine variety, but one of the human variety.  That miracle had been a boy and his name was Abram. We lived because we had help that night.  It was Abram who saved us from the Screechers.  He is the reason we are still alive, and he is the reason we continue to stay alive.  

 

Fleeing the Farmhouse had jaded me, causing me to fear hope.  I learned that hope was only something that could be taken from you.  And I decided that the best defense was an offense of sorts.  If you never had hope to begin with than nothing could take it from you.   That night also taught me the importance of having a plan. From that night forward, no matter where we were, we had emergency bags packed and ready to go and stashed away somewhere.  And I always had an exit strategy with a plan A and a plan B. 

 

Unfortunately I also learned that all good memories are in some way tarnished by the bad, and that you cannot separate the two no matter how hard you try.

 

Looking back towards Grace lying beside me on the mattress, I hoped she would continue sleeping for a while longer.  It was quiet moments like these that I craved; moments when it was still early and reality had not yet taken ahold of the day.  Instants during the brief grayness of dawn, when the truth hadn’t had a chance to tarnish the world yet.  These times were coveted and sacred.

 

It was during these times that I could manage to pretend that things were different; that things were as they had been before.  I would imagine that it was a Sunday morning and that at any moment our mother would call up to us, telling us to come downstairs and get some breakfast.  I could almost smell the pancakes, the maple syrup and the bacon; three things, among many others, that I have not eaten in years. Morning sounds would fill my head �" brewing coffee, clinking silverware, and Grace giggling as she fed bacon to our dog under the table.  If I concentrated hard enough, I could almost remember what orange juice tasted like - sweet on my tongue followed by a sour finish causing my cheeks to pucker. But, like everything else in this new existence, these moments were fleeting and were easily stolen from us.

  

A knocking on the door caused me to raise my head from our lumpy pillow and listen closely. A series of light raps on the wood door proceeded in a pattern, some close together, others separated by a pause. 

 

What was the correct password?  Was it knock, knock, pause then knock, knockity-knock?  Or Knock, Knock, Knock, pause, followed by Knockity-Knock?  Oh to Hell with it!  It was stupid anyway. 

 

Annoyed by the interruption, I threw the worn blanket aside and went to the door.  There was no point in having a secret knock.  Anyone (or thing) that wanted to enter the cabin and harm us, was probably not going to knock anyway.  That was what I had tried to tell Jason, when he came up with the idea.  But as usual, he hadn’t listened to me.  I was just a silly little girl.  What did I know?

 

Unfortunately, I knew more than I ever wanted to know.

 

I lifted a hand up towards the door to knock in return, and then realized that I couldn’t remember the password, let alone the correct response knock.

 

“Who is it?” I whispered sharply through the closed door. 

 

“That’s not a knock!” a male voice hissed back from the other side of the door. 

 

“Wow, your good!  Master of the obvious has come to save the day.” I said sourly, not bothering to hide my sarcasm. 

 

I recognized the voice on the other side of the door.  It was none other than Jason himself.  Of course it would be Jason.  Who else would be interrupting my precious moment of blissful denial?

 

 

“You’re supposed to knock back Lyssa.” Jason replied with irritation in his voice. 

 

I hated it when Jason called me that.  Lyssa was my nick name, short for Elysabeth, and most everyone called me that. But for some reason, when Jason did, it rubbed me the wrong way.

 

“It’s not a rule.” I said defiantly, sounding like a rebellious child. 

 

“No, but it is a good protocol to follow.” Jason reprimanded, “You know what it is like out there Lyssa.”

 

Yes I did.  We all did.  No need for a reminder.

 

“What do you want?” I snapped at him impatiently.

 

“We are going on a supplies run, and wanted to know if you would like to join us.”  Jason said through the closed door, sounding hurt.

 

Why did I do that?  Why was I so edgy and cynical all the time?  Oh yeah, that’s right.  The entire world had gone to Hell, and it was a dangerous place to live in now.  Anyone would be edgy or cynical under those circumstances wouldn’t they?

 

But the thing is, not everyone was.  Why was that?  Why weren’t they?  And why was I?

 

“Sure, I’ll be out.  Just give me a few minutes.” I said to the closed door.

 

“Ok, we leave in twenty.  Meet us by the Rock.” Jason’s voice grew fainter as he was walking away.

 

As much as I longed to go back to bed and enjoy a few more moments of heavenly ignorance, I also didn’t want to miss a supplies run.  Even though we were surrounded by many different sources of food, there was still a need to hike in to the nearest abandoned town to collect additional supplies on a regular basis.  There were other things besides food that the lake and surrounding woods just could not provide. The group who went on the supply runs had only just started allowing me to join them a few weeks ago, and I wanted to prove myself as a valuable member.  Skipping a run would send them the wrong message. 

 

While I was gathering my clothes off of the floor, a small internal laugh bubbled up within me as I was hit by a sudden realization.  Going on a run definitely didn’t have the same meaning any more, just like a lot of things these days.  Although going on a run might still involve running, it served a much different purpose now.   It wasn’t a leisurely jog through the park any more.  It was a dreaded, yet necessary task that could result in one’s death.  My morbid sense of humor found this fact quite amusing, bringing a slight smile to my face.    

 

I dressed, grabbed my tattered tennis shoes and sat down on the thin mattress next to Grace.  She was still asleep.  Grace never ceased to amaze me.  Her ability to sleep through almost anything was nothing short of a miracle given the circumstances.  She had grown so much since that night in the attic that it sometimes seemed like it had been a lifetime ago.   Other times it felt like we had been in that attic just last night.   She was twelve now, almost the same age I had been that night.  It didn’t seem possible that much time had passed.  I honestly had never imagined we would stay alive long enough to see this day.  Of course, I never told her that. 

 

As I was tying the laces on my shoes, which were being held together by patches of duct tape, I wondered if this run might prove fruitful enough for me to score myself a new pair.  If only I could be that lucky.

 

Leaning in closer to Grace, I whispered into her ear, “I’m going on a run.”

 

I moved some strands of her fine hair out of her face and tucked them behind her ear.  Her long lashes quivered as she struggled to open her eyes.  She managed to open them half-way, revealing startling eyes the color of blue ice; like two shards of aquamarine.  Usually her eyes were breathtaking and beautiful, but occasionally they looked uncomfortably distant and unfamiliar; almost otherworldly.  This morning they just looked drowsy.  She moaned slightly as she stirred and struggled to wake.

 

“What?” she mumbled sleepily.

 

“I said, I am going on a run.” I repeated and then added, “I didn’t want you to worry when you woke up and I wasn’t here.”

 

“Ok.” She sighed, still trying to keep her eyes open.

 

“Don’t lay in bed all day sleepy head.” I joked with her and patted her on the leg.

 

We both knew that wasn’t going to happen.  It wasn’t possible now.  Not anymore.  There were too many things that needed to be done and not enough people or enough time.  Grace groaned in response, and stretched reluctantly.  I had stolen a precious moment of denial from her.  Actually it technically wasn’t me who had stolen it from her, it was this life that had done that. 

 

  “I will see you later, ok?” I said as I stood and headed for the door.  I stopped before opening the door and turned to add, as I always did, “Be safe.”

 

When spoken to another individual, these two words have taken on a whole new meaning now.  They used to be a way of telling someone to “take care” or “be careful” - departing words used to wish someone well.  Now these same words seemed to mean something different.  They didn’t feel like words meant for well-wishing anymore.  Instead they felt like a warning or a plea.  Like telling someone, “Don’t do something stupid and get yourself killed”, or as in my case, “Please don’t die while I am gone”.

    

“I will.” Grace murmured as I left the room and shut the door behind me. 

 

Closing the door and leaving Grace behind, always felt like sliding that square piece of plywood back into place over the attic access.  It felt like it could possibly be the last time I would ever see her.    Like closing the lid on a casket, it felt final.