Chapter 8
Changes in life
Two months had passed since the expedition, a period of time heavy with grief and loss. Life
in West Arvada had continued, but the events that had unfolded still echoed through the
collective memory of the town. Winter had settled in with a vengeance, blanketing the lands
in a thick layer of snow and ice. The people of West Arvada had begun to slowly come to
terms with the losses they had endured, forced to move on in order to survive. The cold
January winds howled around the town, adding an extra layer of bleakness to the already
somber atmosphere.
Eric stirred from his sleep, groggily opening his eyes as he was greeted by the familiar sight
of his makeshift bed. Over the past two months, he had rearranged his room to make the
most of the limited space available. He had combined three tables to make a cozy resting
place for himself, layering it with soft, dry grass and his trusty sleeping bag for added
comfort. Eric reached for his bag, which he had stowed away safely under the tables. He
donned a lightweight jacket from the armory, grateful for the extra warmth it provided.
Taking a deep breath, he grasped the doorknob and swung the door open, stepping out into
the cold, winter morning.
As Eric stepped out of his room, he was once again greeted with the sound of shouting
emanating from the other side of the corridor. It had become a sad and familiar routine in
their cramped quarters; the father putting on a show of being saintly and helpful to anyone
who was watching, but behind closed doors, unleashing his anger and wrath upon his family.
Eric cautiously made his way down the stairs, treading softly to avoid making any noise. As
he descended, he heard the distant sound of guns being loaded and unloaded repeatedly. It
seemed that Mark, in his usual fashion, had taken it upon himself to train people in the use
of the firearms they had gathered from the expedition months prior. Over the past two
months, Mark had also been training Eric and the other stalkers, teaching them how to
handle various weapons, including Eric's pistol for precise shooting and the AR-15 rifle he
had taken. In order to simulate real-life situations, Mark had even crafted some makeshift
blank rounds, allowing them to practice their aim without the actual danger of live
ammunition.
Eric had demonstrated a remarkable ability to quickly grasp the skills Mark had been
teaching, picking up the techniques at an impressively rapid pace. His natural talent and
dedication had allowed him to almost perfect his aim in no time, leaving him with very little
to gain from the continued training sessions.
Eric descended further down the staircase, the sound of his footsteps gradually fading into
the background as the noise of the kitchen staff preparing breakfast took over. Mama Luna
and her fellow cooks were already hard at work, busily moving around the kitchen, chopping,
stirring, and assembling ingredients for the daily meal. Eric entered the bustling kitchen, the
mouth-watering aroma of breakfast cooking filling the air. Mama Luna, a short and old
woman with a warm heart, hurried over to greet him. As she enveloped him in a tight hug,
Eric felt a profound motherly presence that always seemed to envelop him whenever he
interacted with her.
"Good morning, Eric," Mama Luna said, her voice soft and gentle. "You're up early today."
Eric couldn't help but smile at her words, feeling a sense of comfort and familiarity in her
presence. "Yeah," he said "i just came over to take a couple of these" as he holds his hand
holding deseeded sunflowers in front of her
"Ah, the flowers, as usual," Mama Luna said with a hint of sadness in her voice. As she looked
at the bundle of sunflowers in his hand, her expression softened further. She knew the
significance they held. "You sure do love your flowers for the graves, don't you?"
Eric's smile faded a little, feeling a pang of sadness but also a sense of comfort in Mama
Luna's understanding. "Yeah," he nodded, "It's just... these flowers make me feel closer to
them, you know?"
Mama Luna nodded, a warm smile still on her face. "Go on, now," she said gently. "Those two
are probably waiting for you. Go give them the flowers and tell them what you want."
Eric chuckled softly at her words. "Alright, alright," he said, "I'll go right now."
Eric walked out of the kitchen and across the cold, snow-covered ground. He made his way
to the secluded spot where Dylan's and Ellie's graves lay, hidden beneath a layer of white
snow. Brushing away the snow, he placed the two sunflowers next to the gravestones, one in
front of each.
He then sat down beside Ellie's grave, a feeling of sadness and contemplation washing over
him. The chill of the winter air added to the melancholy atmosphere, making the silence
seem even more profound. Eric's gaze shifted to Dylan's grave, the reality of the situation
sinking in once more. Even though he had spent little time with him and there was no body
beneath the dirt, creating a grave had felt like the right thing to do. His mind then drifted to
Ellie, his own child, whom he had held affectionately in his arms just months prior. Now, she
was laid to rest under the very spot where he sat, her innocence lost far too soon.
Emma approached the grave site, her footsteps crunching softly on the snow-covered
ground. Wearing the ring she had retrieved from the house during the expedition, she made
her way to another symbolic grave beside Dylan's. It bore the name "Aaron" etched into the
stone, a stark reminder of the pain and loss she had endured. With a solemn expression, she
placed a single flower on both Aaron's and Dylan's grave, her eyes glistening with unshed
tears.
Emma glanced over at Eric with a weary smile and offered a simple greeting. "Hey," she said
softly. Eric reciprocated her greeting, asking nonchalantly, "Anything strange today?"
Although not very evident she was growing paler and thinner by the days as they passed.
She had refused to answer any questions about it so Eric bothered not to ask.
Emma let out a weary sigh and replied, "Yeah, same old, same old." The abnormal had
become the norm. People were now accustomed to witnessing the unsettling sleepwalking
episodes and the eeriet sight of individuals staring out into the distance at the angels. In
fact, it seemed that these occurrences were happening more frequently than ever before,
leaving an overall sense of unease hanging in the air.
The group of survivors that they had welcomed into their midst a month prior had been
particularly affected by these strange occurrences. It was as if the presence of the
newcomers had heightened the paranormal activity within their small community.
True enough, the group of survivors seemed like ordinary individuals. However, the prolonged
exposure to the constant threat of the angels outside had definitely taken its toll on them.
Despite their unusual behavior, they proved valuable assets to the community through their
willingness to contribute to the necessary work. The leader of the group, though, sometimes
caused friction with James and Mark, stubbornly holding onto his sense of authority, not
willing to let it go.
It was true that the newcomers had been helpful as they integrated into the community.
Some were lending their hands to tending the crops in the winter season, while others were
assisting with food preparations and distribution. A few had even taken it upon themselves
to repair and maintain essential infrastructure, such as sewage and water pipelines, as well
as ensuring the efficient functioning of the solar panels and burn generators.
Despite their willingness to contribute and integrate into the community, the group of
survivors had brought with them their own set of customs and practices. Having been a
tight-knit community before joining West Arvada, they often stuck together and sometimes
clung to their own unique ways of doing things. This occasionally caused some friction with
the existing members of West Arvada, who were used to their own established routines and
traditions.
Eric looked over at Emma, his eyes lingering on her. "So, how're your folks doing?" he asked.
Emma smiled faintly. "They're coping. Mom's been a bit distant, but Dad's been handling
things better."
Eric nodded, understanding the emotional toll this ordeal must be taking on her family.
"That's good to hear. How about you?"
Emma shrugged. "Sometimes it feels like everything's just on auto-pilot. Wake up, eat, work,
sleep. Rinse and repeat."
Eric nodded in agreement. He knew how monotonous and repetitive life in the community had
become. "Yeah, I know what you mean. It's like time just blurs into a blur. But we have to
keep moving, right?"
Emma sighed. "I know. It's just hard sometimes. Especially when we lost..." Her voice trailed
off, the unsaid words lingering between them.
Eric and Emma stood up from where they sat dusting their pants of the dirt, reluctantly
acknowledging that it was time to move on. They had duties to attend to, responsibilities to
fulfill. The harsh reality of survival left little room for dwelling on the past.
As they walked in opposite directions, Eric called out to Emma, "See you around."
Emma glanced over her shoulder and replied with a wave, "Yeah, see you."
They parted ways, each immersed in their own thoughts and tasks. The memories of the
recent past lingered in their minds, but they had to push forward, focusing on the present
and the responsibilities that awaited them.
The air within the underground metro station was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and
fear. It was a usual Thursday afternoon, and a fierce-looking woman in her mid-20s, with a
slender yet muscular build, was engaged in the brutal task of butchering a pig. Her long
knife, now stained with the crimson viscera of the slaughtered animal, gleamed in the dim
light of the station.
Amy, with her arms drenched in blood, looked down at the butchered pig with a sense of
satisfaction. Her skills in butchering had come a long way, and she was proud of the
proficiency she had achieved. As her younger brother approached, coming to collect the
carcass for further preparation, she offered him a weary smile.
"That's a nice one," her brother commented admiringly, eyeing the butchered animal.
Amy wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand, smearing some blood on her face in
the process. "Thanks. It took some effort, let me tell you."
Her brother chuckled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You're getting better every time.
Keep it up."
The underground metro station, once located beneath the grand City Hall building, had
transformed into a makeshift shelter for a group of survivors. They had strategized and lured
the angels out, barricading the entry points to create a stronghold within the subterranean
labyrinth of concrete and steel.
Amy sat down on a nearby bench, her face cast in shadows by the dim lighting of the station.
The crimson stains still lingered on her skin, a reminder of her recent butchery task. Her
thoughts turned to the decision to permanently bar the station entry points. While the initial
allure of safety had seemed appealing, she now saw it as more of a cage than a haven.
As she pondered over their resources, a growing sense of unease settled in her mind. How
long could they survive trapped within these makeshift walls? Amy looked up as her
brother's voice broke the silence. He inquired if she still viewed their setup as a cage. Amy
sighed, her eyes reflecting the flickering lights of the station.
"Yeah, it does feel like a cage sometimes," she admitted. "We're safe, yeah, but we're still
trapped."
Her brother nodded understandingly before continuing, "The Brooklyn Bridge and City Hall
are open to trading supplies now. And soon, the entire underground metro network will be
trading and producing their own goods."
Amy chuckled softly, acknowledging her brother's optimistic perspective. "Yeah, it's a step in
the right direction," she conceded. "But how long can we maintain this 'town' system, you
know? We can't stay cooped up forever."
Her brother nodded; his expression more serious now. "I hear ya. But it's not just about
trading supplies now. Some of the stations are making serious progress on production. Like
city hall, we've already started growing crops in old stores and making animal pens. It's like
small communities within communities down here."
Amy sighed; her voice tinged with reluctance. "I guess you're right. I should probably head to
my duties. I'm on watchguard duty this time."
The watchguards were a small but important group in the underground community. Armed
with weapons, they were responsible for safeguarding the tunnels and ensuring safe
exchanges with other stations while keeping an eye out for any potential threats, like
rodents or opportunistic thieves.
Amy made her way over to an old washbasin in the station. She removed her stained vest
and proceeded to wash away the blood and grime from her arms. Once she was done, she
donned a fresh vest specific to the watchguards, adorned with the emblems that symbolized
her role. Next, she picked up the firearm sitting nearby, checking over it as a final routine.
Amy secured the watchguard vest, its emblem representing her role of safeguarding the
underground stations. This vest had originally been worn by actual subway guards, but since
the day referred to as the fateful day or the rapture, it had been repurposed for the
watchguards. It now served as a symbolic badge of authority and responsibility for those
dedicated to maintaining security and safety in the underground community.
Amy glanced up as the trader approached her. He nodded in acknowledgment and asked,
"You the one taking me over today?"
Amy confirmed with a brief nod and gestured for him to follow. "That's right. Let's get
moving."
They were en route to a nearby station, where they would trade the freshly butchered pork
they had in their possession for other much-needed supplies. Amy walked alongside the
trader, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. They engaged in casual conversation
to pass the time and alleviate the tension while on their journey. As they made their way
through the labyrinthine tunnels, Amy held the gun in her arms, its use a mystery to her –
she had no knowledge of what would happen if she ever had to fire it.
As they traversed the dimly lit tunnels, the only source of light coming from the straight
facing torch held by the trader, Amy and the trader continued their journey in relative
silence, except for the occasional small talk.
"How far is the station from here?" Amy asked, curiosity edging her voice.
"A couple more miles," the trader replied, his voice echoing through the narrow passageways
of the subway.
As they walked through the tunnel, illuminated by the glow of the trader's torch, shadows
danced upon the brick walls. Then, as they reached a bend in the tunnel, they noticed the
faint light of another torch approaching them.
Soon, a man loomed out from the darkness, his torch casting a flickering glow in their
direction. The man came to a halt in front of Amy and the trader, raising what seemed like a
trivial question at first. However, in a quick and surprising move, he suddenly pulled out a
knife from his belt, holding it against the trader's throat.
The man's voice rang out with a harsh demand, "Hand over whatever you have." He tightened
his grip on the knife, pressing it further against the trader's throat. Turning his glance
towards Amy, he pointed at her weapon and ordered her, "Drop it and kick it over here."
Amy hesitated for a moment but ultimately decided to comply. She tossed her weapon to the
ground and kicked it towards the man.
A rush of adrenaline surged through Amy's veins as a moment of opportunity presented
itself. Without hesitation, she swiftly unsheathed a nightstick from her belt and swung it
towards the man's head. The blow landed with a resounding thud, sending him crashing to
the floor, stunned and barely moving. The man's eyes grew bloodshot as he lay motionless on
the ground, a pool of crimson liquid seeping from the spot where his head had impacted the
cold floor beneath their feet.
Amy stared down at the man who now lay motionless at her feet, accidently stepping in the
pool of blood forming around his head a testament to the severity of her action. Shock and
adrenaline still coursed through her veins, her heart pounding in her chest. The air felt
heavy around her, the reality of what had just happened sinking in.
Eric stood at the firing range, his stance steady and focused. Mark stood beside him, offering
guidance and corrections as needed. A row of targets was set up a reasonable distance
away, providing a visual representation of Eric's progress as he fired his weapon towards
them.
"Remember, steady breaths and a firm grip," Mark instructed. "Aim for center mass and
squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it." Eric took a deep breath, steadying himself before
squeezing the trigger. Each shot rang out as a makeshift blank echoed in the range, causing
the small cans to fly off their perches and plummet to the ground. His aim was steady, and
his shots precise, hitting each target with a swift and calculated motion.
Just as Eric was preparing to take another shot, a sudden commotion and shrill screams
broke through the concentrated silence of the training area. Heads turned towards the
direction of the gate, where the source of the disturbance was becoming increasingly
apparent. ------------------------------XXXXXXXXXXXX------------------------------