Swampy
This story is based around the events documented in 'On A Gehenna Wind', a multi author story which was being written here, and shows the story of another character caught up in the events. Click here to readthe original story (http://www.matrixmania.com/t12786-on-a-gehenna-wind.html)
What will you do?
What will you say?
How will you make me ok?
I just don’t know, I cannot see
Help me trust in your great love for me’
He strummed the final chord and laid his prized Avalon guitar in the hard case, after scraping together what small change he’d made that day, a days singing and playing and he was stuck without food, again. He could have sold the guitar, its value was probably somewhere in the thousands of pounds back in the UK, but it was his only memory of his family and the only source of income he had. Now its only value to most was as firewood. The song had been his wife’s favourite and he played it at the end of every day for almost 300 years, as a prayer of remembrance for her and his son. He’d managed to hide his immortality by moving around regularly, his boat making it easy to move from place to place, but the day he lost his wife still haunted him.
Almost 300 years before
They had been on an early second honeymoon at Fonferek Falls near Lake Michigan, celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary, and she’d announced that she was expecting their first baby, a son. Then the first drop happened, the ground shaking them awake from their contented slumber and as they looked out of the window in shock they had seen the dust begin to rise, and, assuming it was a volcanic eruption they headed off as fast as they could.
The dust cloud had been huge and they ran south from it down I 43, along with the majority of the state it seemed, slowing their southward journey to a crawl. It wasn’t until they passed through Green Bay that they heard what had gone on. As they weaved through the gridlock, Ben whispered a prayer of thanks that he’d persuaded her that the bike was the best option. She’d never been a fan and the argument at the travel agents had been long and heated but finally she relented and as they wove their way through the stationary cars, vans and motor homes, even she had admitted that he’d been right. They had tried to call the Airline to check about the status of flights home to England, but neither of their cellular phones seemed to work at all, they assumed because of static from the dust kicked up by the impact, so they were heading towards Chicago’s O’Hare Airport hoping for the best.
It had taken them less than a day of high speed riding to get to the cabin by the lake on the big engined Harley, but so far it had taken them 2 days to journey back, with a further 10km of I94 in front of them. They stopped for the night as the darkness settled, preparing for another cold night camped by the road, sleeping against the bike to avoid it being stolen. They had a small amount of food and as Ben went to collect firewood to cook, Sarah started to unpack the blankets and plastic sheeting, which they had taken from the cabin as bedding and had been the nearest they had had for shelter.
The wood was tranquil, as if nature was unaware of the trauma that had taken place a few hundred kilometres to the north, or of the cloud heading its way that threatened to cut out the light and choke the wood in its grey mass. The sounds of the night were still to be heard and the muted noise of the road a few metres away soon faded. Ben stood and breathed in the calm night air, taking in the stars as he watched the moisture of his breath condense as he exhaled. ‘What the hell was that thing?’ he mused to himself as he collected a lump of wood, ‘and why the hell didn’t anyone see it coming?’ He bent to pick up another piece of wood, before the stillness was shattered by a scream. It was Sarah.
What will you do?
What will you say?
How will you make me ok?
I just don’t know, I cannot see
Help me trust in your great love for me’
He strummed the final chord and laid his prized Avalon guitar in the hard case, after scraping together what small change he’d made that day, a days singing and playing and he was stuck without food, again. He could have sold the guitar, its value was probably somewhere in the thousands of pounds back in the UK, but it was his only memory of his family and the only source of income he had. Now its only value to most was as firewood. The song had been his wife’s favourite and he played it at the end of every day for almost 300 years, as a prayer of remembrance for her and his son. He’d managed to hide his immortality by moving around regularly, his boat making it easy to move from place to place, but the day he lost his wife still haunted him.
Almost 300 years before
They had been on an early second honeymoon at Fonferek Falls near Lake Michigan, celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary, and she’d announced that she was expecting their first baby, a son. Then the first drop happened, the ground shaking them awake from their contented slumber and as they looked out of the window in shock they had seen the dust begin to rise, and, assuming it was a volcanic eruption they headed off as fast as they could.
The dust cloud had been huge and they ran south from it down I 43, along with the majority of the state it seemed, slowing their southward journey to a crawl. It wasn’t until they passed through Green Bay that they heard what had gone on. As they weaved through the gridlock, Ben whispered a prayer of thanks that he’d persuaded her that the bike was the best option. She’d never been a fan and the argument at the travel agents had been long and heated but finally she relented and as they wove their way through the stationary cars, vans and motor homes, even she had admitted that he’d been right. They had tried to call the Airline to check about the status of flights home to England, but neither of their cellular phones seemed to work at all, they assumed because of static from the dust kicked up by the impact, so they were heading towards Chicago’s O’Hare Airport hoping for the best.
It had taken them less than a day of high speed riding to get to the cabin by the lake on the big engined Harley, but so far it had taken them 2 days to journey back, with a further 10km of I94 in front of them. They stopped for the night as the darkness settled, preparing for another cold night camped by the road, sleeping against the bike to avoid it being stolen. They had a small amount of food and as Ben went to collect firewood to cook, Sarah started to unpack the blankets and plastic sheeting, which they had taken from the cabin as bedding and had been the nearest they had had for shelter.
The wood was tranquil, as if nature was unaware of the trauma that had taken place a few hundred kilometres to the north, or of the cloud heading its way that threatened to cut out the light and choke the wood in its grey mass. The sounds of the night were still to be heard and the muted noise of the road a few metres away soon faded. Ben stood and breathed in the calm night air, taking in the stars as he watched the moisture of his breath condense as he exhaled. ‘What the hell was that thing?’ he mused to himself as he collected a lump of wood, ‘and why the hell didn’t anyone see it coming?’ He bent to pick up another piece of wood, before the stillness was shattered by a scream. It was Sarah.