Rise Up ~ Fahrenheit 451 Sequel

Day One

Heaven is within reach, Montag thought, before shards of glass dug deep into his skin. Each one ripped within, skin flying off in deep pink fragments and causing him to scream out in pain. The other men stared at each other, before one by one, they fell onto the small pools of blood by their rough-soled shoes. The sonic wave rippled over, nowhere close to the first, but yet, still as painful.

Montag could not see anything. The only thing he glimpsed before turning over, saving his life, was the city. It was expanding, becoming larger, much like an atomic bomb's mushroom effect. The glass was flowing over his body at high speeds, thousands upon thousands of tiny shreds.

Small shrieks over pain from the fall were heard, but not seen, for a combination of sticky blood and instinct had shut Montag's eyes. He was the last to stay upright, and let out a deep, throaty roar. For just as he had been reborn, he would not let it be in vain. Turned away from the showers of glass, the red substance slowly dripped from his back to the floor, splattering in a few places.

"How are we not dead yet?" Stoneman yelled, before shards of sharp glass cut his tongue.

Granger was shouting, but no one could hear. Only five seconds had passed, but in that moment, pale white had become a canvas, modern art decorating their faces and bodies. In unison, the men who could speak were all going over their books, Montag included. He mouthed the words soundlessly, as if it could save him from Death's grasp.

Then there was a sick howling that whistled in, the last of the glass gone, continuing on its path. "It's a target bomb," Fred Clement said, his eyes as wide as they could go in amazement, "Ah, so it's true! The bomb, it was meant to kill, meant to kill, they've done it, meant to kill!"

The morbid truth of the statement was not lost on Montag. Whoever had thrown the bomb had targeted it directly at society, looking to decimate it. By only the smallest stroke of luck, hunched over and coughing blood, Montag was alive. And my the grace of God himself, everyone else was clinging onto life. Granger had, like Montag, gotten off easy. He looked scaly, the glass sticking out in odd places, but many of the pieces had not drawn blood.

Both Granger and Montag hurriedly did a headcount, and kicked the glass in a way that made a small square of mostly clear ground to rest on. Neither spoke, their throats either too raw, or just from shock. Montag was tending to Mr. Simmons, but the older man was frail, and had not been quick enough to turn from the wave of glass. Mr. Simmons could not cry or wail, for his throat was chock full of blood and glass, his mouth open in a silent scream, tears flowing down. Yet the tears, usually a sign of healing, only added salt to his gaping wounds. He was clinging onto life, the ribbons of existence flowing easily around him. If Montag was to simply disturb one, the man would be gone. So quickly. So much death.

"Mr. Simmons, sir, I'll help you, we'll get out of this, please, Mr. Simmons, don't leave so soon, I've only just met you, Mr. Simmons, please," Montag hurriedly whispered, wiping a stray tear away. Only two days ago had he witnessed death at his own hand, and he was not going to do so again.

"Infection, blood poisoning, blood loss, shock..." Granger was mumbling, the consequences of the second bomb. He was tipping a clear liquid into the Reverend's mouth, while rubbing his chest in a rhythmic pattern. Slowly, the Reverend's coughing ceased, and he fell silent. But Montag didn't know what was worse, seeing someone in limbo of life or death, or witnessing the suffering of one so proud and glorious.

"He will live," Granger murmured, "Montag, does Mr. Simmons need my assistance?" Montag nodded, mutely, refusing to take his eyes away from Mr. Simmons, bleeding to death. Granger redid the same process, but quietly replayed the steps to Montag, "Dittany, Essence of Dittany... Just tip it in his throat. Use this balm on the chest. Take out the largest pieces, and only a little more Dittany... I don't have enough for all of their wounds."

Fumbling in the big camping bags, Montag found the one labelled with a bright red hospital sign. Inside were countless balms and liquids, each individually labelled with foreign names to healing. The clear liquid, Essence of Dittany, was wrapped in bubble wrap, half of the actual bubbles popped, some with orangey streaks Montag hoped were not blood.

He stumbled, as his feet had lost feeling, but kept on. Hushed moans of pain surrounded him, but the shock still veiled the desolation of the situation.

Out of the blue, Fred began to laugh. First softly, as if speaking to a child. But his laughs became loud, booming, maniacal laughs, that sent fear into Montag's soul. His neck and throat were unharmed, but he scrabbled against the sides of his arms, digging them out with his nails.

"He's mad!" someone cried from behind Montag. But Fred Clement was not mad, for soon he began to weep, great heaving sobs of pain and misery.

"It hurts... It... It hurts... My sister, my sister, my sister was in there..." he shrieked, before his voice became incoherent with flowing tears. He choked twice, both times, hunching over, clenching his fists.

"Shh, no, no, she's in Westborough, Fred, she's an hour away, she wouldn't have been affected," Granger soothingly said to him. But Fred shook his head violently.

"The glass is still going. The glass is still going, Granger. It will be at her home by the end of today."

Silence was the best way to describe the environment after that information was processed. Montag tilted his head towards the city, flat, the only peaks being of debris, towering high enough for him to see. Those pieces of glass, lost from his city, would take lives. Nobody knew what the war had done to other city. Nobody cared. Disgust filled up Montag for a moment, for the place he once called home, for the place he was a part of.

"But nobody came..." whispered Stoneman, staring glassy-eyed ahead. The men may have been proud, but almost all of them were holding back tears. It was one thing to leave your home, to be exiled, and an entirely different thing to know it was all gone. Never would he have the opportunity to give Millie a hug, or to walk down the park on his way to the subway ever again.

A few hours later, the sun was slowly dipping downwards. The men still had glass all over their bodies, though most of the large pieces of glass had been removed. The stronger men had, together, set up a few tents, powering through for shelter. Montag stared upwards at the polyester roof of the tents, smeared blood lining it in some places. He couldn't sleep. The stars glimmered outside, not ceasing to amaze him. The city cover had been a fog of gray-ish blue, but this was a carpet of inky blue, dotted with silvery stars.

But then, out of nowhere, darkness edged through his peripheral vision, and he was enveloped.

"Montag..."

What's that noise? Montag thought, drifting to consciousness. He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't. "What's going on?" he cried out, trying to assess the situation. Within a moment, however, he felt a warm sensation rippling through his body, and a serene sense of calm was natural to him.

"Danger... Danger everywhere... Danger, Montag..."

And before consciousness eluded him again, the only thing he thought of was a single letter. C.