Black Sun by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 3

Ryan had lived in Troy all his life, and shortly after his divorce, settled on an apartment in the city's war zone, an area plagued by crime, drugs, and violence. He worked as an architect in Albany, but after court costs and lawyer's fees, his income had taken a substantial decline. Renting a drafty room in the back, it didn't take long for the effects of despondency to take their toll. Although his former marriage had been filled with misery, with his, now, ex-wife having turned his children against him, he had come to miss her company. There had some good times in the beginning. And even though he would cling to them in his best attempt to bring himself solace, he chose to remain isolated, distracting himself from the pain of being away from his children with alcohol. But one day, the pain of a solitary life overwhelmed him, and he found himself on the roof of the three-story building. Sitting near its edge, he wondered if there could have been anything he might have done differently, something that would have saved his marriage, sparing himself the repeated thoughts of ending his life. Now, after hours of soul-searching, he came to the conclusion that without, at least, being able to visit his children, life was no longer worth living, and standing up, he stepped to the edge of the roof. The building was only three stories high, but Ryan hoped it would be tall enough that he could successfully bring an end to what he believed would be a lifetime of personal loss and depression.

As he stood at the edge, Ryan closed his eyes and prepared himself, imagining how he would let his body fall, allowing the top of the head to strike the sidewalk below, ensuring a quick, merciful death. Opening his eyes, he made one final act of preparation, and taking off his watch, threw it back near his feet. He took a deep breath and held his arms out away from his sides. But, as he began to lean forward, his journey into oblivion was interrupted by a popping sound nearby and looking back towards his feet, Ryan saw that his watch had exploded. It was also at that moment that he heard people screaming in the streets below. Curiosity quickly overtook his plan for suicide, and driven by continued screaming, ran down the stairs to the street. There, he found people writhing on the ground, their ears bleeding, some with holes blown out from the sides of their heads. Glancing around them, he found their phones had exploded, with sharp edges and charred cases. Upon closer examination, he also discovered that many were also missing several fingers. He tried to reassure them, using a calming voice, but something else grabbed his attention, and looking up, saw a series of colorful, bright curtains of light hanging in the sky. Having spent some time in Alaska, he was more than familiar with the northern lights, yet, knew they rarely reached that far south.

Running into a nearby convenience store, he asked the clerk for the use of their phone, but in having seen several customers drop in front of her, was already trying to call for an ambulance. “The phone's out,” she said. “What do we do?” Ryan took the phone from her, suspecting that as the result of panic, she may have misdialed, but looking at its digital display, discovered that the line was, in fact, dead. “Do you have a first aid kit?” he asked. His tone was quickly approaching panic. However, the clerk was close to collapse as her breathing quickened, and as her eyes widened with shock the mind seemed to drift off into catatonia. Now, seeing that she would not be able to provide any degree of help, Ryan ran around to the back of the counter, but searching frantically, found nothing. Running back to the clerk, he asked if there were any towels that could be used, but still, her eyes remained fixed on the space in front of her. Now, unable to reach her, Ryan turned his attention to the wounded, scattered across the floor. First approaching an elderly woman, his attention was immediately drawn to the left side of her chest. There, he saw a deep gaping wound with what remained of an electronic device, buried within it.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

He reached down to her wrist, and placing two fingers on the artery beneath, quickly came to the conclusion that the woman was dead. Ryan had never seen death up close, and as the horror of what lie around him began to seep into his mind, he got to his feet and made a panicked dash for the door.

Once outside again, he ran down the middle of Hoosick Street, and was further surprised to find cars with their hoods blown off; their batteries burst, leaving acid and plastic shards strewn on the pavement. Now, confusion had caught up with his rapidly mounting panic, and ducking into an alley in the downtown area, he stopped to catch his breath, and collect his faculties. Over the course of a few moments, Ryan began to feel his heartbeat slow, as the heavy layer of sweat that covered his face began to evaporate. But, just as he felt the blood return to his head, he was startled by a voice, whispering from the back corner of the alley. “Hey, what's going on out there?”

Although he lived in what was often referred to as the 'war zone' of Troy, he made it a point never to be armed, being very aware that once the trigger was pulled, there was no going back. Thus, a keen awareness of his surroundings had become his principal weapon. If he saw people standing in a quiet group, his suspicions would be immediately awakened, and he would go to great lengths to avoid confrontation. Yet, given the circumstances, he quickly reached down, and picking up a loose brick, demanded that the individual behind the voice make themselves visible. “Please, don't hurt me,” the voice continued. Upon hearing the voice again, Ryan noticed that it possessed an obviously feminine tone, and dropping the brick to the ground, voiced his assurance that she was safe. “Now, come on out where I can see you,” he said. With careful, guarded movements, a young girl slowly made her way out of the shadows. She spoke with wide-eyed fear, asking him again not to harm her. Keeping a distance, she engaged Ryan in cautious conversation.

“Who are you?”

Ryan responded immediately, giving her his name, then asking for hers. He could see her face and noticed a pale complexion. “You look sick,” he began. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she replied. “I'm Abigail. What's going on out there?”

Ryan moved towards the edge of the corner of the alley, and peeking around at the street, saw more people lying on the pavement, and sidewalks, with blood streaming from the sides of their heads. They appeared to have simply dropped where they stood, their charred phones lying only inches from their bodies.

Ducking back in, he was, again, startled by Abigail, as she had quietly moved from the back of the alley to a place next to his right side.

“Holy shit,” he said. “You scared the fuck out of me.” Still, in a whisper, they continued with a short conversation about what they thought might be happening, but neither could make the connection.

“Did you see the northern lights?” Ryan asked. Abigail became somewhat confused. She knew what the northern lights were, yet, was unsure about why Ryan had brought it up. “What are you talking about?” she replied. Abigail was an art student at the university in Albany. In her junior year, she had dreams of becoming a successful artist, with work being shown all over the world. The difficulty was not its subjective nature, but in the fact that she didn't seem to be good at it, and repeatedly saw her fellow students surpass her, with their work selling regularly at university gallery showings. But, she still held out the hope of finding a style that might launch her career. Her only other option, after graduation, was to take a job in the service industry, and with the number of loans she had taken out, Abigail knew that without a job in her field, life would be very difficult. But, with classes out for the summer, she spent a good amount of time looking for work, anything that would pay the bills.

She had just walked out of a restaurant, with an application tucked in her pocket, when she saw the sky light up. At that moment, people around her began to collapse as their phones exploded at the sides of their heads. Lost for an explanation, surprise turned to fear, and she found herself hidden at the back of an ally, terrified not only for her safety but, by then, the sight of death that lay in the streets.

“You didn't see the northern lights?” Ryan asked. “Do you even know what they are?”

“I know what the northern lights are,” she replied. “But what does that have to do with this?”

Ryan was becoming impatient, and still looking around the corner, didn't want to be distracted by what he felt were pointless questions.

“What did you say your name was, again?” he asked. Abigail was growing frustrated, believing that she was being ignored.

“Abigail,” she replied. “Aren't you listening?” Ryan glanced back at her, having grown short on patience, and long on fear.

“Listen,” he began. “Learning new names isn't something I'm really concerned about right now, so can we just find a way to get out of here?”

Abigail took a breath and collected herself, yet, still remained at his side as they continued hearing screams of pain and panic, and they grew louder, she reached over and tightly grasped his hand. It had been a long time since he had felt the warmth of a woman touch. At some point after his divorce, there had been one or two dates, but a connection was never made. Since then, he resigned himself to a solitary life, afraid to be hurt, and trusting no one. Now, a woman in her early twenties was putting her trust in him, prompting both fear and confusion.

“What do we do?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Ryan answered. “But we can't stay here.”

Taking his eyes off the grim scene playing out in the street, he looked at her and asked if she lived nearby, thinking they could go there and wait for the news.

“No,” she replied. “I live in Albany, near the university.”

“Albany?” he said.

His fear was beginning to fade, as he started to consider what the next step should be.

“What are you doing here?”

Abigail had become annoyed at the pointlessness of his question, but answered with a defensive tone.

“Is that really important? Well, if you really need to know, I was going to an art shop to pick up some supplies. Is that okay with you?”

Ryan's patience was still running thin, and as he was accustomed to hiding from the world, he also wanted to hide from the catastrophe he could not yet understand.

“Alright, sorry,” he said. “Look, we have to get out of here. I live over near Hoosick Street, just a few blocks away. I don't think we're going to get you back to Albany any time soon, so let's go there.”

Abigail was only slightly hesitant, but given what she had seen, realized that anywhere was better than hiding in the back of an alley. In spite of the dead that lay about the streets, she knew that there would be others like herself, those who had survived. It was those people she feared, those who thrived on chaos, doing whatever they wanted, in spite of the harm they would bring.

Glancing around the corner again, Ryan saw the streets becoming quiet. Those lying with bleeding ears, and open wounds moved no more, their faces sticking to the sidewalk in rapidly clotting pools of blood. With Abigail still grasping his hand, he pulled her out of the alley and began leading her down the street. His voice was urgent, as he ran slightly faster than she could keep up. “C'mon, we gotta go,” he said.

She ran as quickly as she could, but tripping over her own feet led to an angry response.

“Shit, can you slow down a little?”

Pausing, he stopped to help her to her feet, but pressed her to continue.

“Sorry,” he said. “But we have to hurry.” Running across Hoosick Street, they noticed that every car's hood had been blown off, as engine parts lay strewn on the pavement in front of them. But, with no time to investigate, they ran across the intersection and nearly half a block down Fifth Avenue. There, on the left, was the three-story apartment building that Ryan, not long ago, was ready to throw himself from, in an attempt to end the pain of isolation and loss.

The way in was shielded by an old set of double doors, and turning the knob, Ryan pulled one open. Leading Abigail inside, he closed it firmly and rushed her up to the second floor. The hallway had always been well-lit, but recently, its bulb had been shattered by a stray bullet, fired during a drug deal gone bad. Having called the landlord, Ryan was stunned to find that he would not be available to change the light bulb, or perform any maintenance at all as he was too terrified of the neighborhood he rented in. Now, Ryan stood in front of the door, searching for the key as Abigail, still fearing for her safety, moved in closer. Finally unlocking the door, he took Abigail by the hand and quickly led her in. There were four small bedrooms in the apartment – three in the back, and one in the front. At that time, Ryan was its only occupant, with his former roommates having moved out after graduating from RPI, a prestigious college, about a mile away. Abigail, having had the good fortune of living in a more middle-class environment, found not only the neighborhood but the apartment in appalling condition and wondered how anyone could live in such a place. However, she considered it a haven of safety from something she was still trying to make sense of.

Leading her back to the kitchen, Ryan pulled out a chair and asked her to sit.

“Oh, thank you,” she said.

No longer hurrying to escape what neither could explain, Ryan now had the opportunity to discover Abigail's youthful beauty. He especially noticed her round, innocent face, with straight brown hair draped down to the middle of her back. Although she seemed to wear little make-up, her complexion was flawless, and as his gaze continued to wander over her face, he was struck by the depth of her brown eyes, and the sharpness of her lip-line. Now, realizing both her discomfort at being examined by a complete stranger, and his own embarrassment, Ryan forced his gaze away and down to the kitchen table. On their way to the back of the apartment, he made it a point to close the door of his bedroom, avoiding any feelings of discomfort.

Sitting across from her, and with his head in his hands, wondered if things would get any worse and how they deal with it. “So,” Ryan began. “What do you think?”

“I don't know,” Abigail replied. “I don't even know what's going on, but I have to get back home.”

Given the horrors they had already seen, Ryan was confused about why she was in such a hurry to leave. Considering the only way back was to walk, they would have to travel through some of the most dangerous parts of both Troy and Albany. “No...no,” he said. “We need to stay here. We have no idea what's going on out there. So, we're staying here...for now.” Abigail became irritated at the idea that a complete stranger seemed to be keeping her from returning home. “Look,” she said. “I've got an ounce of weed in my apartment, and I'm not about to let that go. Now, I'm leaving, with you or without you.”

Ryan knew that the walk to Albany would be long, and likely dangerous, given people's reaction to crisis. Speaking before thinking, he argued for her safety.

“Do you really know what's going on out there? Do you know how people act when the shit hits the fan? They become animals, and you are not going out there. Now, it's going to be dark before you know it, so you're staying here, got it?” He was clearly irritated by her stubbornness, but she had become very insistent on retrieving her substance of choice. “For your information, I can handle myself,” she said. “Now, you can come with me, if you want, but I'm going home.” Continuing to argue, Ryan offered a compromise, asking her if they could wait until dark.

“Until dark?!” she said. “Are you fucking crazy? I'm not going anywhere at night...”

Ryan interrupted, offering an explanation for what he was suggesting.

“Look, I don't want you going out there alone, but if we're going to Albany, we should go at night so that if something happens, it'll be easier to hide, okay?”

It didn't take long for Abigail to see the sense in Ryan's suggestion and agreed to stay until nightfall.

“Okay,” he said. “So, for now, I think we should get some sleep. It's going to take, at least, a couple of hours to make the walk, and that's if nothing happens on the way.” Abigail glanced at his bedroom door, and misinterpreting his suggestion for sleep, became somewhat defensive. “Excuse me, what do you mean 'we'?” Clearly agitated, Ryan further explained that his intention was one that did not involve a sexual agenda. “Don't you think you're reading into this a little?” he asked. He paused to gather his words, not wanting to raise his voice, or say anything that would drive her off. “Please listen to me,” he continued. “I've just been through a really nasty divorce. My ex-wife's brainwashed my kids, and now they fuckin hate me. I'll probably never see them again, so the one thing I am 'not' ready for is something sexual. Maybe someday but definitely not now.”

As he spoke, Abigail saw his eyes tear up and suddenly felt not only guilt for making such an assumption, but a deep sympathy for someone whose life had been ruined out of spite. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “It's just... with the way guys are, and the fact that we just met, I guess I just got the wrong idea. I'm sorry.” Hearing the sincerity behind her voice, Ryan graciously accepted her apology, and considering sleeping arrangements, made another suggestion.

“Alright, let's just get past this,” he said. “You can take the bed, and I'll sleep on the couch. Does that sound okay? I just changed the sheets, so you should be comfortable.” Getting up from his chair, he opened the bedroom door, displaying a pristinely cleaned living space, and walking to the open door, Abigail remarked on its well-kept appearance. “Damn, and I thought guys lived like pigs. What do you do for a living?”

“I'm an architect,” he replied.

Puzzled by the discrepancy she saw between his career and the conditions he lived in, Abigail inquired further. “So, why can't you afford a better place? I mean, this neighborhood's a dump.”

His answer was brief and was something he didn't care to talk about.

“Oh, you know, legal fees, child support...” Abigail suddenly felt a tension rise, believing that she had trespassed into a sensitive part of his life. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I shouldn't have asked.”

“It's okay,” Ryan replied. “I ask myself the same question all the time.”

Looking back at the freshly made bed, he invited her to make herself at home.

“We've got a lot of walking to do, and it wouldn't surprise me if we saw a lot more of what's already happened. So, try to get some sleep, okay?”