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The Culmination - Chapter Four
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 2 February 2007, 5:06 am
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Chapter Four
"May we all one day see our mistakes, and right ourselves."
With the tide of frantic people beginning to subside, Ronis Alderne allowed himself a reminiscence of the once-average town. Seeing the paved two-way roads, the streetlamps, the lining of shops and the second-floor apartments above them brought him back into a serenity that existed before this menacing enemy arrived. These streets, these buildings, once held an air of undivided peacefulness.
Mere days before the present predicament, people were living without the fear of bloodshed over their heads. They operated without the trepidation that preceded the inevitable arrival of their foe. Now, looking at the same streets, stores and houses, he found himself in silent longing for that time to return again. Although the mediocrity and, in all honesty, ingratitude of that former life was painfully evident, his mind nevertheless wished for it back. Because amidst those ungrateful outlooks was a life truly free of this seemingly boundless war.
Even so, staring at the shops he passed and the lingering families that hurried towards the town's center, was he really willing to completely relinquish himself to the mere thought of that past life? He remembered his father telling him that, above all else, mediocrity was the epitome of futility. Yet, he had come to accept it without a hint of reluctance, and lived day after day in the same mode of nearly tolerating that lifestyle. What his father had warned him of was, then, his precise attitude. How could he have let go of his principles so easily?
Then again, who in this world did not fall into the mediocrity of thanklessness for their lives? Who was spared that numbing ingratitude for their possessions, their peace, and their loved ones? As he fought to find some way to diminish those years spent in ignorance, the truth of his fallen convictions responded with jabbing reminders of what was now gone. Every day he had gone to work, he had talked with friends, had dinner with his family and lived a life without ever shedding one thought towards his privileged existence.
If anything, he had been demanding of a more possessive life. He was always looking up towards the riches held by others, not with respect, but with envy. He had looked at others with a coveting that he was in no place to have. Now, walking to his home in a town scurrying to escape, seeing everyone drop their possessions and their achievements without a second thought, reinforced for him the true values in life; the true worth of what he had just watch fly away. It's always so easy to take for granted what one has each day and then savor the mere thought as it passes on.
The distant echoes of explosions eerily began to subside, giving Ronis the unnerving feeling that his enemy no longer had the need to defend themselves. Of course, he could draw the conclusion that those Marines had somehow managed to stop them, but his gut indicated the darker possibility. That horde was inbound to his town, and there was no one left to stop them. The inevitable had finally and truthfully become inevitable.
As he reached to open the door to his house, one last explosion caught his attention. Not because it sounded unique, but because it awkwardly echoed into the valley of the town from a noticeably different direction. He looked towards it, his eyes meeting nothing but the low clouds and constricting drizzle, yet managed a frown. Something felt different about that single occurrence, something he could not explain nor justify.
After a short pause, he forced himself to turn the knob and enter his home, closing the door behind him with a distinct feeling of loneliness. Rightfully so, he mulled bleakly, walking deeper into his empty house and staring at the hanging pictures. My family is gone.
He forced himself to think of something else—anything else. His one genuine hope was that he would see them again, yet that would not even be a possibility if he did not make it out of this town, too. One thing was undeniably evident as sighed in the silence of his home; he needed to escape. Getting on a transport was impossible, as his own family's escape was nothing short of a miracle, so that left him with climbing the steep hills surrounding the town, or trying to hide as those aliens scampered through.
There was another option. The valley mouth leading out of the town—the only practical ground access to and from Mari Crosse—cleared out into farmlands that widened. The main road ran by many of the fields, but on each side of the enlarging valley was forest. Being one man, and knowing the area well, he could sneak past the advancing Covenant force, which was likely to be on the main road and not in the forest. It was a gamble, one with his life, but his chances of climbing those steep hills were just as dangerous. Besides, that's what the enemy would expect of the fleeing townspeople.
He walked upstairs with newfound determination. Part of him felt stinging resignation, as if he didn't really believe that he could do it, but the hope burning inside to see his family again proved to be the stronger of the two. Swiftly, he retrieved a backpack and filled it with all the nonperishable food and bottled water he could find. He then found a suitable, dark-green jacket, satisfying the commonsense that told him to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Ronis's last move was to retrieve the old but still useable shotgun hanging over his lifeless fireplace. He hadn't fired it in months, but he was confident the weapon still functioned properly since his last hunting trip. After grabbing the only carton of shells stowed in a nearby cabinet, he was satisfied enough to walk towards his front door.
He was leaving his home, the place his children had grown up in, the place he had loved his wife, and no fear-inspired urgency could suppress the thoughts that ran through his mind's eye. As his footsteps echoed off his hardwood floors, his ears detected the sounds of his daughters playing, their playful screaming and banter bringing a slight smile across his face. His nose briefly smelt the cooking of his wife, and for a fleeting moment he saw his family before this enemy—before this struggle for life.
Though, alas, his reminiscence faded just as quickly as it came, and he found himself staring at the door just ahead. Beyond that door was a falling world, one that fought to escape those demons now drawing dreadfully near. He was attempting something that fought all conventional wisdom, yet the alternatives offered him a no better bargain. At the very least, he was trying something nobody would expect, and that gave him one strand of hope…
If only hope could be more than faith.
The void of space.
How can an infinite blackness, broken only by burning stars and vibrant nebulae, be the source of such great fascination? For as far as time could tell, the emptiness of the heavens has provoked so much thought, so much appeal, yet remains nothing but an expanse of oblivion. How can something of nearly incomprehensible barrenness be the source of so much inspiration?
Tumbling in this vacuum was wistful. Seeing the stars and distant mists of various gasses reflecting certain wavelengths of light was awe-inspiring. The question, the curiosity of what lay just out of sight—just beyond the mind's horizon—kept men searching and asking. However, save for exceedingly rare occasions, the heavens everyone believed to hold so much was nothing but emptiness, devoid of life or even the possibility of it.
Maybe it was more of a childish dream, an eagerness to believe that far more lay in that blackness; and even when nothing is found, the longing to believe that something existed beyond perception. Maybe it was the yearning that something great was in this galaxy, not just the single planet that had spawned so many creatures, so much life.
Floating through this blackness, staring at the distant lights that constituted the void known as "space," was undeniably stimulating. Though, just as enigmatic as the uncertainty of the universe, it began to turn oddly from dark to light. Those distant stars began to fade into a building brightness, and the darkness of space receded to a brilliance not unlike a sunny, serene sky. How this could happen was beyond speculation, and accordingly the eyes merely gazed in wonder. Rationalization—trying to understand all this—was far beyond the grasp of the mind, and lazily the consciousness accepted what it saw and continued to relish in the beauty of it.
Though such beauty did not last, and the newfound luminosity began to give way to a sinister red. This crimson did not hold the majesty of a sunset or sunrise, nor did it resemble the attractive mystery of space. Rather, the red void alluded inexplicably to a clear sense of sadness and loss. Now the mind began looking, seeking for an answer. With the intrigue of the heavens and the beauty of the sky gone, replaced by a grim scarlet realm, the longing to just float on in delight ceased. Transitioning strangely from magnificence to dismay sparked the questions, which in turn led to an increased acuteness of the mind.
In the distance, an outlet from this crimson void began to form. Slowly it got larger and larger, and as it neared with growing swiftness, what was beyond it became discernable. With all the mixture of curiosity and confusion possible in a moment as this, the mind fought to identify the dark silhouette against the white background. The figure was vague, and despite all efforts to focus on it, the form remained unknown. One thing was clear, however, as it continued to grow larger and larger, overtaking the surrounding deep redness with force: the being's voice.
Return.
With unexpected volume and power, the figure repeated itself.
Return—
Wes Kenton opened his eyes suddenly, his heart pounding and hands shaking. The edges of his vision were a constricting red, and it took him a moment to realize his inverted state. With his arms trembling and his head pounding, he looked around rapidly, trying to figure out where he was. His mind wouldn't allow him to think far enough to ponder what had happened, so his eyes darted back and forth in the darkness without restraint. As his senses fought to return, he could feel his chess heaving with deep, disturbed breaths.
Abruptly, his eyes settled on the figure next to him, hanging, as he was, upside down from the harnesses. The arms were dangling motionlessly, and the neck was unnervingly limp. With his mind racing and his senses reeling, he rashly pulled his shaking hand up to his chest and released the four-point harness. Without a second to comprehend what he had done, his head impacted on a control panel, the switches and buttons breaking off the olive-drab helmet. He immediately rolled down the decline and stopped back first against a wall, staring unsteadily up to the seat he had just fallen out of—and to the neighboring one that the motionless body drooped from.
He couldn't grasp where he was in this darkness, and shakily pushed himself upright and fumbled for the doorknob he felt near him. Without a pause, he twisted it to the side and pulled it up, dull gray light piercing through instantly. With a slight wince, he haphazardly threw the door completely open and squinted into the light. With the red fading from his vision and his pupils attempting to adjust to the sudden increase of light, he pulled himself through the door.
Crawling on his hands and knees, he looked around surreally, trying to make out the scene. He felt his fingers suddenly go from hard, cold metal to soft, uneven dirt, yet his eyes refused to focus. He could feel his arms and legs shaking, and all too clearly heard the deep breaths and rapid heart beats echo in his head. After edging along for several more seconds, he let his weight overcome his weak arms and fell into the moist earth, rolling onto his back awkwardly. Nevertheless, his extremities continued to tremble, his erratic inhalations persisted, and his eyes remained unfocused in this colorless onslaught of light.
He let his head fall to the side, and could feebly make out the brown dirt pressed against the side of his face. With slight determination, he lifted his outstretched arm so the palm of his hand was within view, and stared at the blurry mixture of pale skin and deep red substance without any hope of understanding. In this delirium of shock, any prospect to gain even some awareness was nonexistent. This world was bright and unyielding, his body was shaking and weak, and his mind was freely spinning.
Only one coherent thought prevailed amidst the confusion and pandemonium, and as he stared at his crimson hand, he fought to find a definitive answer. Concluding anything with definitiveness, however, was just as impossible as trying to clear the shock-driven disorientation coursing through his body.
Is this hell?
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