And Then Acid Fell

(Third Story - Second Chapter)

He was jolted awake by the thud of the van, as it felt that it had been tossed around. Declan clutched his lower back, then the back of his head as the news vehicle that housed them slammed on the pavement.

    “W-water,” Martin requested weakly. The bleeding on his skin had already dried, leaving a thick layer of scar tissue, but his skin still ached at the slightest touch. A gunfire-like bang that preceded the van being lowered to the ground had awoken him. “W-water.”

    It took a while but as soon as Declan came to, he stood in attention and guided the water from the bottle onto his companion's mouth. His eyes narrowed as he adjusted to the light, still wondering what had happened.

    The storm continued to rage on, the rhythm of the rain and the howling winds were accompanied by a metallic creaking from above the van. It didn't cause the vehicle to shake but the noise was disturbingly loud enough to worry Declan.

    He shut off the internal generator and paced around the back of the van. He examined his shoes and, to his relief, discovered that they weren't at all damaged. The fine leather finish was still shiny enough that he could see himself through the reflection it bounced off. His windbreaker was left in tatters but was still salvageable, and the riot vest had only little tears on it.

    Martin sniffed as he tried to steady himself on his seat. He narrowed his eyes as he listened to Declan humming at the back. “W-what happened?”

    “Acid rain,” Declan professed. “Not the usual acid rain, if you're familiar with it. Pure acid falling from the sky. Not the good kind of acid, too.”

    “W-Where's Howard?”

    “I don't think the rain stopped the whole night. It's already morning, 9:35 according to my clock.” Declan kicked the floor and felt the solid base. “We're on the pavement, I think. The van is literally standing on the ground. I'm no car expert but I don't think it's supposed to be that way.”

    In his many years as a broadcaster, Declan has managed to amass a small fortune which he had spent on a mansion and luxury cars. Occasionally, he spent some on alcohol and women but his prime vice was a luxury car collection. He had an army of mechanics employed to maintain their pristine condition, but never once had he even attempted to lift a wrench or pop open a hood.

    Martin coughed, his parched throat burned. “W-Where a-are we?”

    “We're right where you left us,” Declan retorted sardonically. “You slept on the damned driver's seat, rookie. If I even had the slightest thought of ever driving us to a safer location, I wouldn't have the capability to do so. Feeling any better?”

    “Like I-I've been roasted like a turkey.”

    “You know how a turkey feels when he's roasted and you still continue to eat them for the holidays? That's what's wrong with the country today.” Declan tried to humor Martin, but the wit wasn't all that evident.

    Martin sat silently, feeling Declan's voice starting to sound annoyed. He fixed his gaze on the barren bridge, littered by plastic riot shields, lifeless bodies and other debris. The lining of the windows and the windshield seemed to fog up. If this was pure acid then everything would melt away soon enough, he mused to himself, blinking heavily.

    “It's all this pollution in the air, that's what this is,” Declan conjectured. “We keep telling everybody but nobody listens. 'Sensationalized,' they would say. Fuck 'em! We tell it to them straight and they keep thinking we're just making stuff up. Back in the day, the news was king. They all ate up what we fed them even if it's bullshit. They even thanked us for it.” Declan sat on the floor with his back against the equipment. He fiddled around with a microphone then threw it to the other side of the van.