White grey flakes of wood-ash float and glide gently with the hot breeze, new to this world of silent poverty. The world was graffitied with coal and skeletal trees, forsaken of color and life, empty. The sky was a quiet dull grey.

A single flake of ash seemed to follow some invisible path in the void; drooping then ascending again, barrel rolling through the air gracefully. Driven and held up by the voices and screams of ghosts and the damned. The lonely thing seemed to embody peace and harmony; so delicate, so fragile. A breeze any stronger than this would rip and pulverize the ash until its remnants would be just dust settling in the cold. But the breeze remained gentle and merciful, blessing its path to wherever it may land.

There were writings on a pyre of brick left from some ruins that held a message of desperation and loss. Written by some lone sentinel in the past, a mere memory now; a breath of age. There were decaying frames of cars and trucks crammed in the road, left in times of panic. Time had been etching away at them ruthlessly, eating away at their core mineral bodies with rust and mold. They were naked to the elements now, open to the punishment of the world. Some fragments of seats still remained in the steel wiring of a few, strips of leather and foam that wouldn’t degrade; though most were just beds of rusting springs, eroded to hair thin filaments.

A thin layer of grey seemed to coat everything, covering up what ever color was still in this place.

The solace ash floated by these phantoms quietly, affecting nothing in its aimless flight. Small fissures were developing in its corners, and with every sharp ark and bend a small piece of itself would break off. It was slowly shrinking, dying.

The ash passed by one last charred tree and settled on the pale cheek of a young boy. The boy was in rags covered with burnt holes, his knotted red and charred black hair draped over a backpack. He was covered in black and grey, colorless. His body was curled in a U shape and his hands were between his legs. He was sleeping it seemed, a deep sleep.

The ash lay there, rocking slightly with every gentle gust, a small piece flaking off with every movement. The delicate breeze made a slight whistle when it cut through the remaining black branches, a peaceful rapture. The ash rocked. There were no notes of singing birds, no noises what so ever, hold the wind and the boys’ tiny raspy breaths. Then out of drowsy instinct the boy smacked his face with a fleshy slap, and smeared away the ash. The smudge left by the flake was hardly noticeable on his already soot blackened face. The breeze whistled. He rested his hand back down, and with his eyes still closed he took a deep breath and fell back into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 1

Two Days Before Event

A gnawing hunger woke him. A painful sick feeling that his stomach exclaimed with weak tumbling grumbles. A smell was drifting faintly through through his room, Eggo waffles he thought. The same cardboard flavored Eggo waffles his mom made him everyday, but the smell was fueling his ravenous morning hunger and was encouraging him to remove his covers and run to the kitchen, but he decided to lay there a little longer, he had a few more minutes to spare and the sun felt good.

The warm light coming from outside baited him, the delicate rays soaked into his skin. “I’m like a lizard,” he thought to himself, “I’m cold blooded.” He smiled slightly at the thought, he liked the idea of being an animal. Nothing to worry about except food and making sure he kept his core temperature just right. Life would be easer that way he thought.

The light speared through the old yellowing lace curtains, small shimmering particles of dust floated there lackadaisically in the warmth. Muffled noises of clanking dishes came from the kitchen along with his mom’s voice saying something to the TV again. He was as calm as he thought he could possibly be at this moment, the hunger pains weren’t as bad anymore. He didn’t really want to get up at all now.

His room was covered with posters of chemical tables and endangered animal species. An autographed photo of the survivor man was in a cheap pine frame on his dresser that had a cover of plastic instead of glass. The light was defused in its reflection on the plastic, diluted by its impurities. Next to that was a small piece of sandstone with a small fossilized fern painting it, they looked like dark brown fingers trying to claw their way out of the small rock, he found it while he was on a field trip with his science class last year.

His room was neat over all, he liked it that way; order, cleanliness. Books were arranged in order of tallest to shortest on his book shelf. Clothes were either hung up or folded and put away in his dresser. The only thing not in order was a pile of National Geographic DVD’s he left on his floor. His parents never really told him to clean his room. They stopped checking a year ago all together, and that was fine with him, he liked having his own place to go sometimes.

He rolled his head to the left slightly and saw a photo of him with his family at Chucky Cheese. He wasn’t sure why he kept that up anymore, he was past the age of Chucky Cheese, but he liked it for some reason, and he wouldn’t take it down. His sister had given him a hard time about it once and he put it away, but he put it right back up the next day. He didn’t really care who saw it anymore, it was worth keeping up to him.

He could smell microwavable bacon now, it blended in with the Eggo smell like some poor melody. A song of a lifetime of bad decisions of his parents, he thought to himself. He loved his parents but wanted to be nothing like them. They tried to be good parents but he knew it was hard. They cared about him, he knew that, but they rarely showed it. They argued a lot, but never loudly, or in front of him.  Those were the times he loved his room the most. The walls were thin, and he could still hear them sometimes, but it drowned out most of their angry noises. He had his own TV now too, it only had a 15 inch screen but he loved it. He would turn to the Discovery Channel or put in a National Geographic DVD. When the arguments got really bad he would just turn the volume up and sit right in front of it, it drowned them out well enough.

The cheap food vapors were becoming too much for his stomach to bare now, even with the warmth of the sun. He threw his blankets off and put his bare feet on the tan brown carpet. The carpet had been warmed by the sun and it felt good on his naked feet. He stretched out like a person being stretched in some old torture device, rolled his wrists, neck and back then let out a large sigh. He threw on his school clothes and made his way down the short hall to the kitchen.

The kitchen was very plain and small. There were dishes piling up in the sink and food was left out with its plastic wrapping counterparts. There was no washer, they had to do the dishes by hand, which he hated. His sister used to help split the load with him, but she was too busy with boys and her hair now to care much about her little brother. He knew she loved him too, she just didn’t really know it yet. The wall paper was coming off slightly around the edges, and had tacky pale flowers tangling up all around it as decoration. The refrigerator was full of small dents and chipping white paint, it was adorned with some drawings he had done, and some grade sheets from his sister all held up by tacky brightly colored circle magnets.

His mother stood over the toaster, which had smears of grease that darkened spots on what used to be clean polished stainless steal. His mom always did that, he thought to himself, she always stood over the toaster, watching. It was a weird habit, and she jumped every time it popped up, which she did now.

She pulled out the popcorn yellow waffles with her pointer finger and thumb, grumbling as she did it, and added them to a pile she had already made. Like piling them up legitimized the breakfast experience somehow, and pulled two more out of their plastic wrapping and put them in the toaster.

His mom was a fit enough woman, but she didn’t really care. She always just let her hair go into gnarled knots down to her waist, red like his. She was wearing a Budweiser t-shirt that was about 6 sizes too big and had stains from when she tried to cook spaghetti once, it went down to her knees over her baby blue sweat pants that were also too big for her. She looked like a clown to him. She had aged well, slight indents on her face where most women her age would have cracks developing. The only indication of age on her face was the occasional look of defeat, it made him sad to see that.

He sat down and waited patiently for his breakfast watching the chickadees outside as he did. They were washing in a puddle in the packed dirt. He delighted in this. They would chatter to themselves, legs half submerged, then dunk themselves, flutter their wings and dry off. Things would be so much easier he thought.

His sister walked up to the table while she was texting, never looking up once. She felt blindly for the chair with one hand, weak slaps through the air. Her mouth was open slightly as she typed with one hand on her phone. He smiled at that, it looked like the phone was the one controlling her movements not her. A machine he thought.

When she finally found the chair she pulled it out for herself, and sat down with a thud and kept texting. He stared at her for a few more moments holding back a smile and she stopped and shot a look back at him, her mouth still hanging open slightly. “What!” she snapped at him. “Nothing,” he said quietly, looking away from her eyes, trying desperately not to smile. He couldn’t help it, he let a toothy grin break out on his face. “WHAT!” she snapped again. “NOTHING,” he replied, starting to giggle now. “You’re such a freak!” She said, and looked back at her phone, continuing to type. He kept giggling to himself and waited for breakfast.

His mom brought him his Eggo’s and microwaved bacon and he smothered them in syrup and started to eat. He stared at the bacon as he chewed on a large bite of Eggo. It was thin and covered in small white bubbles, like a swine foam he thought. He never really liked bacon, especially microwavable bacon. It tasted like plastic to him, but so did these waffles he figured, so he sat and ate silently, listening to the clicking of his sisters phone and the faint songs of the birds outside.

When he finished he grabbed his book bag and got his bagged lunch from his mom. Bologna again. I hate bologna, he thought. “Have a good day.” His mom said, not looking at him, distracted. She was staring at the TV entranced, he could say anything and she wouldn’t notice. He looked to see what it was that had stolen her attention so fully and saw that the news was on. It must be something important, he thought. The newscaster looked slightly rushed, even a little worried. He didn’t pay much attention to it though, he hated the news.

He walked outside to the cracking side walk and turned to look at his house.
It was small, ugly pine green and old. The paint was cracking off of its composite wood shell, cornering was being eaten away by termites. Weeds grew around its edges and the gutters were sagging lazily, about to collapse from the weight of leaves and trapped water. The screen door had cuts in it and never closed all the way. He didn’t like his house, but it was home.

He turned and walked down the side walk to his bus stop, he hated the bus.