A World in Slow Motion (A Gone Series Short Story)

AUTHORS NOTE: This contains spoilers from the GONE series by Michael Grant!  

“It’s official.” screamed the news headlines, “The barrier surrounding the small but infamous town of Perdido Beach, California has disappeared, leaving behind only destroyed buildings and a handful of kids.”

Somewhere, in a nearby motel, a man jerked his head up in a sudden motion, his cheeks and eyes red from yet another fit of crying. His eyes met the screen which showed current rescue efforts, interviews with both relieved and distraught parents, uniformed officials who claimed to know all about the situation and, horrifically, the kids themselves. Starved, scarred and half mad. The town behind them lay in ruins, the steeple of the now crumbling church just visible over the last few standing houses.

He watched as a reporter stood there in the rubble, dressed for the cameras, a perfected smile on her face at what some thought to be a happy moment. The happiest moment of their lives.

But for some, this would be the end of life as they knew it.

He continued to watch anxiously as they interviewed an emaciated boy, whom the news captions named as ‘Sam Temple’- he spoke wearily, as if exhausted and holding back tears. A brave facade, concealing a year’s worth of horrors and torture.

“I...I...” it seemed the words wouldn’t escape his mouth, “I...couldn’t save them all.”

And with that he turned his bruised body and limped away.

The man was almost on the edge of his seat, his rough hands clasped together as if in prayer. His dulled sapphire eyes began to twinkle once more as he listened and watched intently for what he wanted to see. His heart was beating strongly against his rib cage, his yellowed teeth clamped down on his chapped bottom lip.

“Please...please...show him...please...” he muttered under his breath.

“And we’ll be right back, after these messages.” the reporter announced with a grin, the picture cutting to a bright advert for McDonalds, the loud music pounding in the man’s ears. Frustrated with the TV and anxious and fearful about the day ahead, he stood up and rummaged through the pile of clothes to find his jacket.

The door to the motel room bathroom creaked and a woman slowly walked out, running her fingers through her chestnut, damp hair. Today, she had made the effort to put on some make up; made the effort to wash her hair.

“We can’t sink into depression”, she had said to him the night before, “He wouldn’t want us to.”

And at that he had snapped, his bottled up emotions finally breaking free from their prison.

“For God’s sake!” he had screamed at the top of his voice, whilst she looked at him through her almost obsidian eyes with shock, “Stop talking like he’s dead! He’s not dead!”

The woman, still playing with her soft hair, went quite still at the sight of her husband searching through the drawer and pulling out his jacket. He met her eyes and smiled. An expression of confusion and hurt passed over her face.

“Why are you smiling?” she said, “How can you be smiling at a time like this? I said we wouldn’t become depressed, not that we’d forget all about him!”

The man opened his mouth to speak but she continued, grabbing her worn hairbrush and roughly pulling it through her locks. A tear rolled gracefully down her newly made up cheek.

“He is still our son and I won’t give up on him!”

“You don’t understand!” he spoke slightly louder than her and, as those words passed from his lips, a deathly silence fell between them. The woman stopped brushing her hair and placed the hairbrush down with a clatter. She folded her arms across her chest and gave her husband a questioning look, shoulders uncontrollably shaking from crying.