Dust

Siren

"When you can't run anymore, you crawl... And when you can't do that, you find someone to carry you."            - Firefly

1 SIREN

The day had started like any other.

Gray light of morning bled through the lacy curtains of Mrs. Parker’s kitchen window, bringing with it the early twittering of song birds and a cold that chilled me to the bone. I scooped my sandy hair into a bun, tying it in place with a bit of twine hidden away in my pants pocket, and stared out the window patiently.

Frost kissed the tips of the grass blades and painted a layer of white over nearby roofs. My jaw clenched in worry as I pondered the approaching winter. I’d have to pick up another job if I wanted to keep Mom and myself alive.

The front door creaked open and I felt a sudden gust of autumn skitter up my spine. I turned as Mrs. Parker let the door groan shut, pushing it into place with a mitten clad hand. We shared a quiet smile before she headed up the stairs, tiptoeing in her sodden boots.

I left the small kitchen and grabbed my coat that hung amongst others by the door. It brought a dusting of goose bumps to my skin and I trembled, rubbing my arms feverishly in an attempt to stir up some heat.

Mrs. Parker reappeared at the top of the steps, this time her jacket replaced by a heavy wool sweater.

“Thank you, again, Kyle.” She whispered when she reached the landing. I gave a small smile and nod, pulling my gloves from my coat pocket and tugging them on.

“It’s really no problem,” I murmured. It was a problem. I’d gone without a night of sleep and I still had a day of work ahead of me, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

Mrs. Parker was a sweet woman, and probably at one point, a pretty one. Years of living this life had dulled her golden hair and brought a shadow to her blue eyes, but there was a still a prettiness lurking beneath worn skin.

She, like my own mother, had the challenge of rearing up children by herself. Three kids all under the age of ten. This led to her picking up regular Night Watches. It was a tedious job, but it paid well; a week’s worth of food for a couple days of work. Better than anything I’d ever gotten. Unfortananty I seemed to be perpetually underage. If I managed to survive this year, my seventeenth year, picking up a shift at the Night Watch would be my goal.

Mrs. Parker gave me another smile before crossing into the kitchen. Her house was small, but comfortable, and I enjoyed staying in it when she had me watch the kids on long nights. Sometimes I’d even find myself dozing off on a recliner in the family room before jerking awake and rushing upstairs to check on the children.

A sack of apples and a small one filled with flour were thrust my way and I accepted them greedily. Mrs. Parker gave my shoulder a squeeze before sliding past me and heading back upstairs, to bed no doubt.

I hefted my bounty over one shoulder and stepped out into the icy November air. It bit my cheeks red and I hunched my shoulders in a feeble attempt to keep it out. The cold, however, is an unwavering foe and stuck its stone talons deep inside me. I felt my insides shudder and picked up speed, listening to the crunch of frost under my boots.

A few stars still dotted the western horizon, but a heavy blanket of gray clouds approached with the sun. The morning was too young for most people and I was alone in the streets as I walked home, breath puffing out in clouds. My jacket, a lambskin I’d found in the attic years ago, had warmed substantially.

If there was anything in this world I loved, other than that which I was required to love like my mother, it had to be the jacket. Worn, pliable brown leather covered the outside and held the constant aroma of wood smoke, pine and a musky scent I could only link to that of a man.  Sometimes, in the private silence of my mind, I liked to pretend it was my father’s jacket, that he left something behind for his only child. That he once wore the very jacket on cold days just like that morning, his strong, safe arms crossed tightly in an attempt to trap heat.

My father had died in the Waste before I celebrated my third year of life. Not much to celebrate.

Mom said he was killed by a Wildone in an ambush. I couldn’t decide if I’d be happier with him being killed by a creature or not. At least they were beyond a human state of mind; nothing but an animalistic shell of a person. Most of humanity was like that. After Chaos, everything sort of just fell apart.

Chaos is what they call what happened. What happened, exactly, no one actually knows. Something, weather it natural or manmade, changed people. It mutated genes, shattered brain cells. It converted generations of human evolution to some primal beast with a mindset to kill and little else. Contract their DNA, and your days are numbered.

I’d only seen a creature once, and he was dead. It’d been a member of the Night Watch, attacked and changed in a moment of bad judgment. The other Night Watchers shot him in an instant, ending the suffering he’d go through. But the change was still evident. You could see it in his pronounced veins, in the wild blackness of his eyes. My mother shielded me before I could see anything else. But the eyes stayed in my mind.

They haunted me.

A shiver wracked my body and dispelled my thoughts as I approached the house. It was an old Victorian style building, with faded blue paint chipping away to gray wood. I jogged up the steps, skipping the one that creaked and crossed to the door. I’d just grasped the handle when movement caught the corner of my eye.

A gray cat sat curled on the porch’s bench swing, its nose tucked under a fluffy tail. I watched the animal for a moment, weighing my aching hunger against my ability to murder some ones pet. Luckily for the cat a crash sounded from inside, drawing my attention away.

By the time I reached the front foyer I could see the intruders leaving out the back, canned food tumbling to the floor as they made off with my stockpiled goods. The back door screeched in protest as they slammed out of it.

I didn’t bother yelling after them, it wouldn’t help. I simply kicked into gear and sprinted after the two boys. I knew who they were before I saw their round little faces glancing back at me. Their eyes turned to saucers as I gained on them at an alarming rate. The first of the two, a ways ahead, dropped the bread and apples he had, veering off towards the back woods. I pushed onward, determined. This wasn’t the first time I’d had to chase off thieves.  It was almost mundane with how often people tried to steal.

The closer boy misjudged his ability to evade me and continued with our chase. It was John Potter, the youngest of the Potter’s. They lived a few houses down and were the definition of trouble.

My body smacked into his like a lightning bolt, sending us sprawling to the grass. He let the few cans he’d managed to hold onto tumble to the ground, but I ignored them. My fist reeled back and smashed into his face hard. I did it again, this time an upper hook to the jaw.

“Stop!” He howled, holding up a pair of dirty hands as I converted to slapping incessantly. I gave one final blow to his cheek before sitting back, keeping him pinned by straddling his stomach. A trail of blood oozed from his nose.

“Don’t ever enter my house again.” I bit out through my teeth before sending a wad of spit into his face. He nodded feverishly, hiccupping with sobs. I rolled my eyes and stood. The boy was nearly fourteen, if he cried over what just happened I hoped he’d never join the guards like his father.

I stuck out a hand to help him up, feeling a tickle of pity for the child. He accepted it hesitantly, hiding his nose with the sleeve of his windbreaker. The snot left a dark streak in the blue material.

“Help me pick everything up.” I demanded and bent down to grab the cans he dropped. I watched closely as he trudged over to where his brother had dropped everything, scooping up the bread first. Just as I was about to turn back to the house, my average morning ended.

The siren wailed, long and eerily in the distance.

I counted three cycles before the panic set in. Drills only lasted three cycles. Everything else was still silent and a light snow had begun to fall, seeming to make the siren even louder. It went on and on; a long, low note that tapered off to a whiny scream.

“Is it a drill?” John had come to stand beside me, his eyes set on the wall just visible over rooftops. Rather than answer him, I grabbed the food from his arms and trudged back towards my house, thoughts spinning.

“Go home, John.” I ordered over my shoulder. I didn’t have to look back to know he skittered away before the words were even out of my mouth.

My nightmares appeared to have come true.