by Peter Parker
After WW3. No government. No money. Survival is key.
|I stare at my dirty grey sneakers that camouflage into the cement ground. The only other colour is my orange jumpsuit I can see from my peripheral vision. I hate it. I hate this building, even though I've only been here for 6 hours.
"What do you remember, Mr. Banks?" I look up to the interviewer. She looks at me with pity, or maybe it's fear. She tries to look composed but she is failing terribly. She works for the government. You can tell by her clothing. A grey business suit that's now been a bit shredded in some areas. The ankles of the suit are also burnt and the skin that would have shown is covered by bandages. Her hair even looks a bit burnt at the tips. Her face is a bit dirty, too. If you look at her eyes closely you can still see some of the dark eyeshadow she wore. Though it looks like she tried washing her face, charcoal still lines her left cheekbone. There's even a tear mark where she cried earlier. Her eyes are blue. I typically like blue eyes, they're easier to read. But hers are showing too much. Hurt. Pain. Suffering. Fear. I didn't know the government buildings had been hit as well.
She's talking about when the bombing started. When the war started.
"You want to know about the bombing? I'll tell you about the bombing."
"Get your notepad out, and maybe a recording device. You're gonna want to hear this."
November 11, 2032 (6 hours earlier)
I was in my philosophy class. Sitting in the back corner, farthest from the window. Why? I hate the outdoors. And if the FBI were going to come swinging in from that window, I didn't want to be the one getting knocked out.
The sky was dark that day. A storm was sure to be coming. Early snow perhaps. Everyone was talking about how excited they were for snow and winter. I was never a winter type of guy. Always autumn if I had to choose. The teacher was teaching about the Twilight Zone. One of my favourite tv shows really. Nobody was paying attention, too focused on the grey sky.
"Oh my," one of the girls, Holly, I think it was called out. "Look at those snowflakes, they're beautiful!" Yes, she had a thing for nature. Other kids started oohing and awing. I tried hard not to laugh at them, I promise I did try. But, I laughed at them, the teacher did too. Most of them were 17 turning 18 in a couple months and here they were, admiring the snow like a newborn fawn.
I finally saw one though.
It was not a snowflake.
I remember yelling "bomb" and throwing people away from the window. I remember seeing the freshmen in the class across from us, also admiring the snow. Some of the people realized what was going on and ran to other classrooms. I hoped to move people away. One of the bombs were heading straight for our class. Holly was still at the window. As I grabbed her arm, breaking her wrist, I looked at the freshmen class. Another bomb was a foot away from their window. All the kids watching the snow. I remember seeing Grayson, a jock from my math class, entering the room. Fear, which was rare to see worn on his face, and determination on his face. He grabbed a couple of kids and threw them. I looked directly into one of the boys' face. He looked sick and death-like. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was hollow. He smile, waved. Then I couldn't see him anymore. A bomb covered his window, one covered mine a second later. A loud noise erupted from that side of the school, shaking the entire building. He died. The bomb in front of me went off. I didn't die. Only got knocked down from the impact. Smoke covered me. My head pounded and it felt like I felt like there was a message going off. Kinda like a Game Over sign. But instead, it sounded like a girl screaming inside of my head. Crying for Help.