Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Toumerane
Word Count: 1478
Note: Goodbyes and farewells are presented in the following languages (in order of appearance) - Italian, Tagalog, Welsh, Apache, Polish, Japanese, Mandarin, Arabic, French, Portuguese, Tibetan, Greek, Latvian, Dutch, Scottish Gaelic, and English. I only claim to know one of these languages, so I apologize for any mistakes. Title is Ekegusii, a Kenyan dialect, and translates to "We shall meet again".
The gravel field at the top of Mount Formann was already packed with vehicles when Mason and I arrived, the headlights of our truck catching small packs of dispatchers in garish white light. Some of them waved, others raised sweating bottles of beer in a toast to our arrival, their faces as somber as their black uniforms.
We'd said little to each other on the two hour drive from Haven, both out of respect for the occasion and because we were busy watching the road for errant Ollies determined to run us into the ditch. We'd seen a few, running for the truck in that frenzied, almost superhuman sprint that Ollies possess, but as quickly as I'd catch sight of them they'd vanish into the dark left in the absence of the high beams.
It took driving to the opposite end of the field before we spotted Dixon waving us to the empty spot beside his truck - he was opening my door before Mason even cut the engine, his arms around me before I got both my feet on the ground. The sudden display of affection was startling for him and somewhat uncomfortable for me, but I let it slide simply because I had to admit, even I needed a hug tonight. Avery was next, his bright eyes already red and brimming with tears, though he mustered a smile when I hugged him and kissed his cheek. Keenan was sitting on the lowered tailgate of Dixon's truck, and as Mason greeted the others I boosted myself up next to him.
"How're the ribs, Baitface?" I asked. There was just enough light from the truck cabs and random roof spotlights around us that I could see his faint smirk.
"Mending," he told me.
"How long before you're back on crew?"
"Betts says two weeks," he said, shrugging his thin shoulders. "Could be sooner, though." He crossed his arm over his torso and rubbed his ribs, as if mention of the injury made him realize it still hurt, and though he seemed about to say more, stayed silent.
In the forty-eight hours since we'd been to Balewood I'd been able to push it out of my mind, even when the news of tonight's event had spread through Central. Letting the bad runs slide was such a key part of being a dispatcher, I rarely even thought about it anymore. But sitting beside him, looking at him, made that hot afternoon come back with such startling clarity I felt a tingle of adrenaline work its way across my scalp and down my spine. I realized just how close we came to losing him, how close I came to losing him, and given that I was already feeling more emotional than I preferred, the kick-to-the-gut fear that came with that realization was definitely not welcome.
I wanted to be angry with him for his recklessness and ridiculous bravado, but I knew he would just dismiss it. I wanted to tell him just how fucking glad I was that he was still alive, and how much I'd missed him in the last two days, and it stung knowing that he would dismiss that, too. I wanted to beg him to please never scare me like that again, to please stay out of harm's reach, and I had a feeling he would make that promise if I asked him to. He just wouldn't be able to keep it. None of us could, now.
"Don't look so grim," he chided, reaching into the cooler beside him and popping the tab on a can of beer before handing it to me. "It's not your funeral." He dug out a beer for himself, too, and was just raising it to his lips when Dixon leaned over the side of the truck and plucked the can from his hands. "Dix! What the fuck?"
"You're on morphine," Dixon said cooly. "And it's about five minutes, so you'll want to get a seat while you still can."
I slid off the tailgate and waited until his back was turned, then discretely slipped my beer into Keenan's hand before I plucked a bottle of water from the cooler and followed the crowd.
Despite the turnout - I guessed the majority of Haven's two hundred plus dispatchers and Central crew were onsite - there was little to no conversation as we worked our way to the edge of the lookout, where the gravel field ended in a guardrail and the ground beyond broke off into uneven ledges that jutted out above the several hundred meter drop to the ground below. The spotlights were turned in this direction, and as our footfalls raised clouds of dust the lights became almost solid, a hazy mass penetrated by our bodies, leaving empty, dark spots on its surface. There were small groups already perched on both the guardrail and the ledges beyond, squads sticking together with arms around shoulders and hushed whispers between them.
We chose a spot in the middle of the pack and right at the edge of the drop, and settled onto the hard ground - Keenan on my right, Dixon on my left, Mason and Avery perched on the guardrail behind us. Several of the dispatchers that passed nodded to us, a mute understanding that we were the last team to have seen Balewood and that we had fought, almost desperately, for its salvation. Others clasped Keenan's shoulder, murmuring words of encouragement or well wishes for a speedy recovery, and though I expected him to be his typical antisocial self he was surprisingly civil, almost friendly with them. And after the scuffing footsteps and quiet whispers fell silent, our eyes turned to the distance as the first of the searchlights around Balewood's perimeter seared into the night sky.
Above and behind us, a distant and steady thunder rose. From the corner of my eye I saw Dixon clasp his hands beneath his chin as if in prayer. As the noise rose in volume, the vague roar becoming the unmistakeable growl of engines, I felt Keenan's hand search mine out in the dark and clasp it tight.
The jets were a black mass in a darker sky, and streaked overhead in a tight formation with only their lights to identify the three crafts from each other. In the dusty light, all around us, I could see the elongated shadows of the dispatchers grow motionless, their eyes fixed on the wavering searchlights in the distance.
A pitched moment of silence fell across us, just a split-second, really, before Balewood - home of the Balewood Sabres national lacrosse team, site of the historic Royal City Library and beautiful Alari National Park, proud host of the last Paralympic Games before the world ended - evaporated in a cloud of roiling fire.
It was an assault on the senses - the blinding explosion, the ear-shredding blast, the imagined taste of ash that suddenly seemed to coat our throats. The hushed awe that fell over us only served to strengthen the impact of what we were experiencing, and despite having been to many Razings in the past, this one felt so entirely different. Perhaps it was the way the flickers of secondary explosions were like a morse code against my eyes, carrying the same message I'd heard repeated in Chief's office.
214 survivors
I was gripping Keenan's hand so tightly, I could barely feel my fingers.
Perim secure
I could hear Avery sniffling, a sound that mixed with the faint sobs from the others.
0 infected
Beside me, Dixon pushed himself to his feet and raised his water bottle into the air, holding it aloft in a toast to the distant fires.
Backup urg requested
"Arrivederci," he said, his voice striking and loud in the near-silence. Several feet away, Mickey Parinas, the sniper from Division Eleven, rose to his feet and tipped his can in the air.
"Paalam na po," he called.
"Da boch," said a female voice to my left.
We were all gaining our feet now, our arms raised with drinks or empty hands extended in prayer.
"Yadalanh," I heard Mason say behind me.
"Do widzenia." Avery's voice was choked with tears and wavered when he spoke.
"Itte irasshai," sang Miyu's lilting tones, clear as a bell.
And they continued, a chorus of farewells from the straggling survivors of our last great war. Zai jian. Ma'as salaama. Salut. Ate a vista. Kali pai. Geia sou. Sveiki. Vaarwel. On and on, overlapping until the languages blended and simply became sound, the murmuring of human voices.
"Mar sin leibh," Keenan said quietly, and I stole a glance at him from the corner of my eye, one that he didn't return, as I raised Elisa Smithers' tags to my lips and kissed the metal made warm from contact with my skin.
"God be with you," I whispered.
Word Count: 1478
Note: Goodbyes and farewells are presented in the following languages (in order of appearance) - Italian, Tagalog, Welsh, Apache, Polish, Japanese, Mandarin, Arabic, French, Portuguese, Tibetan, Greek, Latvian, Dutch, Scottish Gaelic, and English. I only claim to know one of these languages, so I apologize for any mistakes. Title is Ekegusii, a Kenyan dialect, and translates to "We shall meet again".
The gravel field at the top of Mount Formann was already packed with vehicles when Mason and I arrived, the headlights of our truck catching small packs of dispatchers in garish white light. Some of them waved, others raised sweating bottles of beer in a toast to our arrival, their faces as somber as their black uniforms.
We'd said little to each other on the two hour drive from Haven, both out of respect for the occasion and because we were busy watching the road for errant Ollies determined to run us into the ditch. We'd seen a few, running for the truck in that frenzied, almost superhuman sprint that Ollies possess, but as quickly as I'd catch sight of them they'd vanish into the dark left in the absence of the high beams.
It took driving to the opposite end of the field before we spotted Dixon waving us to the empty spot beside his truck - he was opening my door before Mason even cut the engine, his arms around me before I got both my feet on the ground. The sudden display of affection was startling for him and somewhat uncomfortable for me, but I let it slide simply because I had to admit, even I needed a hug tonight. Avery was next, his bright eyes already red and brimming with tears, though he mustered a smile when I hugged him and kissed his cheek. Keenan was sitting on the lowered tailgate of Dixon's truck, and as Mason greeted the others I boosted myself up next to him.
"How're the ribs, Baitface?" I asked. There was just enough light from the truck cabs and random roof spotlights around us that I could see his faint smirk.
"Mending," he told me.
"How long before you're back on crew?"
"Betts says two weeks," he said, shrugging his thin shoulders. "Could be sooner, though." He crossed his arm over his torso and rubbed his ribs, as if mention of the injury made him realize it still hurt, and though he seemed about to say more, stayed silent.
In the forty-eight hours since we'd been to Balewood I'd been able to push it out of my mind, even when the news of tonight's event had spread through Central. Letting the bad runs slide was such a key part of being a dispatcher, I rarely even thought about it anymore. But sitting beside him, looking at him, made that hot afternoon come back with such startling clarity I felt a tingle of adrenaline work its way across my scalp and down my spine. I realized just how close we came to losing him, how close I came to losing him, and given that I was already feeling more emotional than I preferred, the kick-to-the-gut fear that came with that realization was definitely not welcome.
I wanted to be angry with him for his recklessness and ridiculous bravado, but I knew he would just dismiss it. I wanted to tell him just how fucking glad I was that he was still alive, and how much I'd missed him in the last two days, and it stung knowing that he would dismiss that, too. I wanted to beg him to please never scare me like that again, to please stay out of harm's reach, and I had a feeling he would make that promise if I asked him to. He just wouldn't be able to keep it. None of us could, now.
"Don't look so grim," he chided, reaching into the cooler beside him and popping the tab on a can of beer before handing it to me. "It's not your funeral." He dug out a beer for himself, too, and was just raising it to his lips when Dixon leaned over the side of the truck and plucked the can from his hands. "Dix! What the fuck?"
"You're on morphine," Dixon said cooly. "And it's about five minutes, so you'll want to get a seat while you still can."
I slid off the tailgate and waited until his back was turned, then discretely slipped my beer into Keenan's hand before I plucked a bottle of water from the cooler and followed the crowd.
Despite the turnout - I guessed the majority of Haven's two hundred plus dispatchers and Central crew were onsite - there was little to no conversation as we worked our way to the edge of the lookout, where the gravel field ended in a guardrail and the ground beyond broke off into uneven ledges that jutted out above the several hundred meter drop to the ground below. The spotlights were turned in this direction, and as our footfalls raised clouds of dust the lights became almost solid, a hazy mass penetrated by our bodies, leaving empty, dark spots on its surface. There were small groups already perched on both the guardrail and the ledges beyond, squads sticking together with arms around shoulders and hushed whispers between them.
We chose a spot in the middle of the pack and right at the edge of the drop, and settled onto the hard ground - Keenan on my right, Dixon on my left, Mason and Avery perched on the guardrail behind us. Several of the dispatchers that passed nodded to us, a mute understanding that we were the last team to have seen Balewood and that we had fought, almost desperately, for its salvation. Others clasped Keenan's shoulder, murmuring words of encouragement or well wishes for a speedy recovery, and though I expected him to be his typical antisocial self he was surprisingly civil, almost friendly with them. And after the scuffing footsteps and quiet whispers fell silent, our eyes turned to the distance as the first of the searchlights around Balewood's perimeter seared into the night sky.
Above and behind us, a distant and steady thunder rose. From the corner of my eye I saw Dixon clasp his hands beneath his chin as if in prayer. As the noise rose in volume, the vague roar becoming the unmistakeable growl of engines, I felt Keenan's hand search mine out in the dark and clasp it tight.
The jets were a black mass in a darker sky, and streaked overhead in a tight formation with only their lights to identify the three crafts from each other. In the dusty light, all around us, I could see the elongated shadows of the dispatchers grow motionless, their eyes fixed on the wavering searchlights in the distance.
A pitched moment of silence fell across us, just a split-second, really, before Balewood - home of the Balewood Sabres national lacrosse team, site of the historic Royal City Library and beautiful Alari National Park, proud host of the last Paralympic Games before the world ended - evaporated in a cloud of roiling fire.
It was an assault on the senses - the blinding explosion, the ear-shredding blast, the imagined taste of ash that suddenly seemed to coat our throats. The hushed awe that fell over us only served to strengthen the impact of what we were experiencing, and despite having been to many Razings in the past, this one felt so entirely different. Perhaps it was the way the flickers of secondary explosions were like a morse code against my eyes, carrying the same message I'd heard repeated in Chief's office.
214 survivors
I was gripping Keenan's hand so tightly, I could barely feel my fingers.
Perim secure
I could hear Avery sniffling, a sound that mixed with the faint sobs from the others.
0 infected
Beside me, Dixon pushed himself to his feet and raised his water bottle into the air, holding it aloft in a toast to the distant fires.
Backup urg requested
"Arrivederci," he said, his voice striking and loud in the near-silence. Several feet away, Mickey Parinas, the sniper from Division Eleven, rose to his feet and tipped his can in the air.
"Paalam na po," he called.
"Da boch," said a female voice to my left.
We were all gaining our feet now, our arms raised with drinks or empty hands extended in prayer.
"Yadalanh," I heard Mason say behind me.
"Do widzenia." Avery's voice was choked with tears and wavered when he spoke.
"Itte irasshai," sang Miyu's lilting tones, clear as a bell.
And they continued, a chorus of farewells from the straggling survivors of our last great war. Zai jian. Ma'as salaama. Salut. Ate a vista. Kali pai. Geia sou. Sveiki. Vaarwel. On and on, overlapping until the languages blended and simply became sound, the murmuring of human voices.
"Mar sin leibh," Keenan said quietly, and I stole a glance at him from the corner of my eye, one that he didn't return, as I raised Elisa Smithers' tags to my lips and kissed the metal made warm from contact with my skin.
"God be with you," I whispered.