Horror From the High Dive, page 11
But then came the news again. “In local news, a father, aged 32, has died today at the construction site located between the streets of Oakland and Pennings. Onlookers were shocked to see one Jeremy Onstache fall from a girder on the 27th floor. I’m told we have a video of the event, which we’ve been allowed to televise. Viewer discretion is advised.”
He comes out from some shadow, walking across the girder without any bearing of where he is or what’s going on. The poor idiot doesn’t even have a hard hat on. He lurches forward, then backwards and misses a step; the crowds scream like they’re trying to tear apart their throats with noise alone, but he manages to catch himself. Instead of turning back, he keeps walking forward all the way to the other side. With a few steps left he stumbles. There wasn’t a chance of saving himself again. The screams were cut off by the end of the video; he’s suspended in the air when the newscaster comes on again.
“Most sources, coming from fellow co-workers, say that Jeremy was delirious hours before the incident due to what seems like an extreme lack of sleep and heat exhaustion from the lengthening days. One coworker stated that, ‘He had worked upwards of 90 hours that week alone. None of us knew how much overtime he might’ve had under his belt, but what I do know is that like Jeremy, the rest of us are being worked to the bone.’ Many, including the workers at this site, have become anxious and worn out due to new work cycles, pushing some to protest these new conditions.”
She mentioned he was a father; how many kids did he have? Were they sons or daughters? Was he still married? They didn’t care to say who he had left behind. I didn’t learn back then, and I never will. Jeremy was the start of something big though. Something that’s passed on to be forgotten, but remarkable nonetheless. People across the country protested in his name - other countries stood behind the names of their own lost souls - all in an effort to make a change in the workforce. They occupied my office’s parking lot, too.
When I managed to squeeze past them in the early hours of the morning, I still had the familiarity of my coffee pot and fluorescent lights to start the day. There wasn’t any point to bring up what I’d seen on the news if there was someone with me because everyone had seen the same thing. If they avoided learning about it, they could’ve looked out the window and read a picket sign or two. A new day, however long, meant new faces that would shout at anyone that would listen, but new and old alike carried the same signs and spoke the same message. Did they protest in shifts or something? They had to eat and drink, despite seeming like they never slept, right? Saw them enough in my own life that I had to see them in others’.
The news on the tv showed me exactly what I was expecting to see: one of the tech monopolies sent out pro test-breakers, and the police followed to help them. Tear gas in the streets, police officers in gas masks, and regular people fleeing like their life depended on it. For some it did. Chicago’s protests resulted in 6 deaths, Detroit had 3, L.A. held the high score with 13. In less than a week after receiving pushback, the protests devolved into riots.
Tear gas was met with molotovs, bricks, and the ever classic cans of soup. HR got pretty pissed when a window on the second floor was smashed. A coworker had some fun of his own, and tried pinning the whole incident on a protester in the parking lot. He deserved getting the sack for that one. We didn’t miss him. Riots were far from work, but downtown was ruthless. I could always hear the shouts and screams on the bike ride home. I could hear them all around me, crying out in agony. They kept it up for months. Taking a beating to stand up again and give it right back. It was almost worth it when corporations decided to loosen up a bit with their work days - anything past the tenth hour was deemed overtime.
It hurts to think. It always hurts to think now. Trying to remember… Try to… Try my memory. What happened next? The fire or the water?
Protesters met some pushback during their crusade, and it was enough to hold them over until the Earth slowed more than before. The speedometer of the planet dropped off another mile. Days and nights drew on and on, but something else was overlooked, sitting right below the rioters’ prime-time slot on the news. I don’t remember when I first heard about it happening because that shill of a news channel didn’t see any money in talking about it, until it was too late.
It was so clear when I saw it; the shore kept creeping up as if there was never supposed to be a low tide in the day. Nobody cared enough to speak on how to stop it, or at least nobody cared enough to listen to those that strained their voices to speak up. This time I wasn’t at home or work to hear it. I was biking after a long day of doing nothing at the office. Here I come, passing by a whole display of TVs directed to the street, and it hits me. “Evacuation notices as given by the federal government are effective immediately. Anyone residing within the borders of the Eastern or Western Seaboard, including states bordering on the Gulf of Mexico, must evacuate the area and seek alternative shelter closer inland.”
“Oh my God,” whispered one woman. “Oh my… oh my God.”
“My parents live in Maryland,” said another man. “Right on the bay. I- I gotta call them!” He ran away from the display like whether or not he was watching would change the outcome. There was nothing I could do, except prepare. So I went to the grocery store; I knew it would be a bloodbath there, but the earliest I could go had the best chance of being the safest. We found out later what had happened to the sea boards. First islands like the Keys completely vanished over a week and a half, and then the ocean trickled into the coasts. I saw it happen, houses reduced to loose sticks floating in the wake of it all, cars acting as submarines drawn out into the chasms of the sea, and the bodies. The bodies were driftwood in cities, waiting to be delivered to some destination far away. But how could I have seen it? My studio apartment was in Indiana. Was it the news? It had to have been.
The grocery store wasn’t too far from the TV display. I could hear cars honking 4 blocks away, and maybe over a hundred stirring up a commotion; it had to be bad news. Chaining up my bike a block away felt like the safest thing to do, despite the people on the sidewalk passing by with bloody noses and bruised eyes carrying plastic bags filled with cans of soup and bottled water. Even saw a little boy crying on the curb as his mom held his head back with some tissues stuffed in his nose. A little past that was the parking lot. Cars honked at people fighting in the middle of the lane for some toilet paper, an alarm was blaring where a collision had happened right at the front door, and the amount of crumpled shopping carts was ridiculous; whoever was here must’ve been in a hurry to run them over. With each step closer I felt my stomach rise up in my chest, and with each honk and shout I found myself whipping my head around like an owl. Inside the building wasn’t much better. A security guard nearly ran me over, and turning to see where he went gave me my answer.
Some poor cashier, a girl - seventeen years old - got jumped by some crotchety old man swinging around his cane. Old man got tackled hard - hard enough to break something, and leave a thin snail trail of blood while getting dragged away. That was enough for me to sprint down the aisle with my tie fluttering over my shoulder. The sweat stains took up more of my shirt than the dry spots. But grabbing bottled water was all that mattered in the moment; a few cases were left, and it’d be long gone by closing time. Passing through the toilet paper aisle gave sight to the unfailing tradition of those who’d already bought all of it up in a time of tension. Those brawling in the lot must’ve been fighting over what was left. But it didn’t matter, because I had to keep moving. I had to. I… I- I had to do whatever it took to make it through this, and it didn’t matter how many people stood in my way. Miami already had two yards of flooding.
Next was the canned food aisle. Somehow it had managed to maintain half of its usual stock, which meant more of a chance for me. Pull ‘em off the shelf and stack ‘em high on top of my water, as many as I could manage without letting one topple over. Beans? Sure. Chicken soup? Without a doubt. Beef stew? That’ll last a good while. It would’ve gone off without a hitch if that genius didn’t show up.
“H-hey! Stop what you’re doing, right now! O-or… or else! You hear me?” Just ignore him and keep stacking. Sounded like a pushover anyway, not some guard willing to tackle the elderly. He’ll show himself out. “I mean it man! Or I’ll- I’ll cut you…” The small flick of metal pinged out from behind, and footsteps approaching to accompany it. “Now knock it off! I’m being serious!” No reason to talk now, he dashed that option pretty quickly. I pulled another can off the shelf. He came closer. Another can added to the stack. Another few steps closer.
One more can pulled from the stock. A family sized can of ravioli fits perfectly snug in a human hand, and with a quick whipping motion it can be launched in an equally perfect way. It cut through the air like soft butter, and cracked his head open like an egg. He groaned on the ground for a while without trying to roll over or hold his head. Didn’t even try to reach for his switchblade that had slipped away down the aisle. Buddy could’ve been around his early-thirties if I had to guess. If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been someone else getting shanked in the soup section. I didn’t feel all that bad, he had a backpack after all. The thought of how exactly I’d carry the cans on a bike hadn’t crossed my mind yet. I might’ve been able to set the water between the handlebars, but the soup would’ve been a whole different challenge. But lucky for me, I had a beautiful gift sitting right at my feet, and no sane person rejects a thoughtful gift.
Everything I had went into the many pockets of the man’s gift, and zipped right up to be hidden away. If there were people willing to kill for food running around, then I wouldn’t be the one to deal with it. I’d made my way to the storefront as fast as I could, and when it looked like the security guard - plus some accompanying police officers who’d shown up to calm things down - were occupied, I gunned it straight for the doors. All the shouting and fighting covered up the sound of the alarms; a couple twenty dollar bills would do nothing to help them. Out of the frying pan and into the fire - an entire car was flipped upside down, broken glass lined the lanes, and a group of rioters were smashing a police cruiser. It didn’t matter to me. Getting back to my bike to go home to those cramped, safe walls was what mattered. A brisk pace carried my prize to the edge of the lot, but I broke out into a sprint when a burst of gunshots rang out against the walls of the surrounding buildings. I didn’t even think of taking it easy when I got on my bike.
It became every man for himself. Grocery stores dried up not too long after I found my haul. Restaurants closed down and farms were raided in the night. How many were looking out for others? Their friends, families, or those displaced from the coasts? It never crossed my mind, until now, at the end of all things. I only had myself.
Everyone was left to watch as the coasts were swept away by the floods. Washington D.C. had been swallowed by the tide, and out of all the possible choices they picked Omaha, Nebraska as the new capital. That little decision of theirs made a lot of the elderly upset with how “unpatriotic” it was.
The Earth kept slowing down. A single day transformed into multiple, filled with nothing but burning heat followed by impenetrable night. The one window I had in my apartment was covered with a blackout curtain at all hours, unless I wanted to be reminded of what was going on. News on the TV wasn’t much help either. Scientists either gave up trying to figure out what was going on with the planet, or stopped trying to inform us.
Doomsday cults began popping up. They had a point.
With how miniscule the position of the sun changed, the world started to show its burn marks. Record high temperatures in almost every part of the world that was bathed in sunlight, and record lows wherever it was left in the dark. The homeless vanished first. Frozen solid like popsicles. And when the popsicles were left out long enough in the sun they’d be burned away to nothing, like the shadows of Hiroshima: ghosts stained into the pavement. I didn’t find out what had happened to them for a long time. I wish I never did. I wasn’t worried about the sun until everyone started collapsing from heat stroke, or losing a toe or two from frost bite. Once enough people ended up in the hospitals there were official mandates on how far you could travel for work outside a vehicle.
Hospitals piled up in capacity to the point of barring entry. Popsicles left out in the dark disappeared in the day - it just meant the odd body or two wasn’t crowding the streets. That was my sentiment, hopefully it was everyone else’s too. We were all terrible people, we deserved it; conflict and destruction have their costs. Besides, there was more to worry about, like water. All of the water, that is. Anything that was stuck in perpetual night was frozen solid, but whatever was caught in the heat started bubbling and boiling. It was nice at first when the flood water receded and allowed people back onto their ruined properties, derelict homes, and reappearing coastlines. Beaches appeared again, but soon enough that didn’t stop either - the ocean constantly receded away until it was a desert. It never stopped.
Vessels in the seven seas were left abandoned on their sides like the rotting corpses of some predator’s dinner. Rusted inside and out from the sun, and cracked to the center from the cold - one of the first cults was found there in the belly of a ship, or at least one of the first publicly known ones. I remember it; I had a solid routine going until we got word of disappearances in the area.
Once seas and lakes were gone, the oceans followed, be coming seas of dunes descending down into basins. What was left of the oceans split apart from one another. They could’ve been classified as lakes at that point, if anybody worthwhile wanted to spend the time of day doing that. It’s not like they’d be lacking any day to do that. That was the breaking point. That’s when it all went to shit. The whole city was on fire with the heat of the sun, and new rioters decided to speed up things towards the end. The real end. Broken windows and doors, gunshots echoing through endless chambers of alleys and streets, and the occasional body or two on the sidewalk. They’d have a single gunshot wound or rows of stab wounds, but by next daybreak they’d always disappear.
The national guard couldn’t do much to mend things by the time they were sent in. Walls of men dressed in heavy riot gear moved through the streets; their unyielding nature to anyone caught in their wake was the norm, if only for a while. I managed to avoid them because I crawled through the city alone - I had no stake in the fight that went on between them and the mobs. Dip into an alleyway here, jump through a broken window there, and you could vanish before their eyes and be wiped from their mind when another can of soup crashed into their helmet from down the street. But you can only march and beat a rioter so much before you use up everything you have, and the national guard was always being pushed to the edge of exhaustion. Once the stumbling and collapsing among them became too prevalent, the looters dug their claws in for the kill. Batons and tear gas were traded for rifles, and the city became a warzone. Learning to fall asleep with the sound of returning fire coming through the walls of my apartment was the next step if I wanted a rest. That was a luxury I could barely afford back then, and yet it was still one I managed to experience for a few last times. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept, I can’t even remember what it felt like.
“Who’s there?” I asked, half asleep on an inflatable mattress with a hand on a hunting hatchet - an old gift from my grandfather, from a time when brooks still ran with water through verdant trees hiding game. “Who’s there?!” I shouted to make sure I was heard. The sound of distant gunshots pierced my windows, but I could tune that out after hearing it so much already. What I couldn’t ignore was the creaking floorboards, directly behind the bar counter of my kitchen. I would’ve turned on the lights if my grid hadn’t lost power over a month ago, or whatever could be considered a month at that point.
“I won’t ask again. I know you’re here. Show yourself.” Still, nothing. As quietly as I could manage, I slipped out from under the covers onto my belly with a firm grip on the hatchet. There weren’t any more creaks singing out, but as far as I could trust my eyes in the dark, the door was wide open; two locks and a deadbolt can’t come undone in the wind. Slithering across the floor I made it to my side of the bar but that was as far as I could go. There I sat up against the bar wall, frozen like a popsicle, wondering what was on the other side. Some looter who lost his nerve? A lost child? How could it be a child, how would they get through the locks?
Another creak - no time left to think. I swung myself around the corner with the hatchet raised above my head screaming, ready to bring judgment down on the unlucky bastard who thought my home would be his next score. And yet, no one was there. Nothing but a wet stain on the floorboards, and some residue of what left it; I’d reached my limit with that city. I knew without a doubt someone, or something, had been there. That they’d broken through my door and disappeared through the very cracks of the floor. It watched me sleep. I needed to leave by dawn, o-or… or else… It might have tried to get me the next night. It knew where I lived. I can’t let it get to me. The hatchet slipped to the ground without a thud, like the whole room had been muted. The hatchet… of course. My grandfather lived out east in the country. He was nice to spend time with, but the man was a nutcase. He had a bunker outside his farm for the eventual nuclear war he was sure would happen. The farm was the same place we’d stay when he’d take me hunting. It’d have to be safe. Who else would know of it?
