1: Subconscious

I open my eyes slowly. The taste of copper fills my mouth, and I struggle to make out anything in the smear of rusted colors that paints my vision; all the faded greens and yellows are blending into the brown and gray that surrounds them. My arms feel weary as I use them to push off of the ground, to stand on my unsteady feet.

I am seeing the sky, and the ground beneath me is ruin. Rubble struggling to become sand crumbles beneath my feet as I try to steady myself. All around, the buildings of the city stare out through shattered windows, yawn through broken door frames. Grease and smoke burn against the back of my throat, and I squint as I stumble to the nearest of these destroyed monuments. I attempt to recollect, wavering at the failure to grasp anything reasonable. From behind me, a voice answers my thoughts.

“Was there an earthquake?”

I turn and lay my eyes upon the slight form of a woman in clothes as dusty as my own. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she is brought to tears by the effort of coughing to clear her throat of the acrid taste of the air. I can only indicate my uncertainty, my head throbbing as it sways. She leans against a wall that ends a few feet above her head, and glances about in what must be a desperate attempt to gather her wits. I feel as though I recognize her, perhaps I’ve seen her when our paths have crossed before. I turn and push into the building I have chosen, and find myself in a moderate room with much wrecked furniture. A handful of chairs have survived, and one suits me well enough to sit in to gather my breath. A table stands beside the far wall, with a heap of cups scattered over its surface and onto the floor.

I watch a bug with a shiny brown shell crawl out from under a battered bit of plaster and stand, its shimmering antennae twitching, upon an abandoned shoe. I hear the woman stagger in behind me and take a seat of her own, her breath coming ragged.

For a moment, all we do is draw in the burning air. Then she drags her chair closer, and I turn to face her as she coughs before speaking.

“I’m Julia.”

I extend my hand and shake hers, and she pauses while staring at me, then continues to speak.

“Do you remember what happened?”

I shake my head. There are scraps of images in my mind, traces of sounds, but attempting to piece them together causes my head to pound. She looks down, portraying her understanding visibly.

“I see. I was… in my car, I think. I remember driving on my way to work, and then… everything jolted, and then…”

She trails off, and holds the side of her head, where I notice dried blood. She stutters to continue, but stops as we both hear a distant, shallow scraping sound over the gasp of the wind. Footsteps.

We both stand, and clamber to the window from which the sound comes, and see a tall figure in a cloak shambling towards us. His stride is encumbered, and a lump under his cloak tells that he is carrying a bag. He has a limp. We go to the door, and hurry around the corner to meet him, but a twinge in my gut as I watch him stumble over a brick causes me to falter. Something shines from within the darkness of his hood as Julia comes closer to him.

“Hello? Do you need help?”

She is holding out her hands to support him, and he seems to accept, raising his arm and laying it over her palm. The sleeve drifts back, and shows plastic fingers, a prosthetic, that grips her forearm clumsily. I berate myself for having shown reluctance in coming to his aid, but swallow the conflict as he leans gratefully against Julia. She shudders, and gasps under the strain of supporting him. She turns her head to me, seeming to plead with her eyes, before something new enters her expression: Pain.

Where the figure holds her arm, blood begins to drip down along her skin. I take a step back. From each finger tip, a long needle protrudes, embedded in her arm. She screams and swings her fist into his chest, causing him to stagger back, his hood flapping. I see the lenses and tubes of a gas mask emerge from the shadow, and feel my stomach turn. The rasping of his breath no longer confuses me, and I take another step back, feeling a shot of panic as I see him clutch at her with his other hand, which is wrapped in a rubber glove. Her movements have become weaker, and as he withdraws the needles from her arm, I see a clear liquid drip from them before they retract back into his fingers, so he may grip her firmly. His voice is cut with the abrasion of various filters and muffling protections.

“You must… Come with me.”

Julia slumps into his arms, sedated, and he scoops her up and lays her over his shoulder. The wind swipes at us, and I see into his cloak, surmising that he is clad in makeshift armor over a rubber suit, seeking to protect from the bite of the foul air. As he turns away and begins carrying Julia with his uncertain step, he calls again. The voice buzzes like a warped tuning fork.

“Follow. Unless you want to be collected.”

Seeing the drops of Julia’s blood on the ground, I elect to follow him, easily keeping pace with his imperfect step.