TOUCHED

TOUCHED - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I folded the small priceless pages and returned them to the leather pouch strapped to my right ankle, the same one that held the disabled Guardian; his Guardian. I had memorized that last journal entry years ago but it was only by reading it that I could hear his voice again. That life felt like a distant dream, lived by someone else. I doubted the author of those pages would recognize me now. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. The thought made me reach for where my long dark braid should have been. My gloved hands found the short spiky ends at the base of my neck and I sighed in defeat.

The inside of the abandoned office lobby was cluttered. Trash had blown in the half open doors. Desks were overturned, the doors to the stairs were chained shut and the elevators had been locked down long ago. A symbol, spray painted on the elevator doors, marked the floors beyond as living tombs; full of the bodies of the dead. The formerly grand entrance to a thriving company was beginning to rot just like the bodies it held. A dead list glowed with red light on the dingy windows that looked out onto the head of a three way intersection.

I had waited to pull the pages out until the third day, until I was sure I was on my own again. It was stupid and dangerous to have them out but the loneliness had become too much. Better a painful memory that just emptiness. I was drained and should have been on my way to the Oregon coast but I couldn’t make myself get up. What was the point? It wasn’t the first time I had wondered how much more running I had left in me.

The rare sounds of passing government vehicles came from the dirty and cluttered streets. With daylight fading, there was only the occasional screech from tires and a flash of headlights from vehicles that took the turn in front of the building too fast. Smoke blew through the partly open doors. There were a few buildings smoldering across the city. Street lights flickered dimly along with other automatic safety lights in the lobby, as if they were about to go out but they wouldn’t. The solar windows would power every building in Portland long after the people they were designed for were gone.

Abandoned vehicles and the remains of wrecks that had not respected the turn in front of the building littered the street. Everywhere that sprouted living green things was over grown and creeping into the sidewalks and streets. The wild foliage caught trash and falling leaves. It filled gutters and alleyways. One missed season of landscape maintenance and already the trees obscured traffic lights, some weeping willows dividing streets with giant green curtains.

The sound of an emergency recording crackled from the stereo of an abandoned car just outside. The woman’s tight voice was a mix of authority and placating know-it-all. I’d heard the blasted thing every few hours for the last three days. I silently mouthed the words with exaggerated expressions as it returned to the beginning of it’s loop

“There are still are no reported cases of exceptions to the worldwide phenomenon that was triggered just a decade ago. Its ability to go largely unnoticed for five years is attributed to the old age of the first victims. Spokesmen for local hospitals have announced that they are still refusing patients that have any symptoms of the mutation. Instead, citizens are urged to leave the bodies where they fall and notify the nearest official.

“With no confirmed treatments, representatives of the World Health Organization continue to emphasize the importance of maintaining the laws on physical isolation, citing the importance and value of individual health during this crisis as well as the dire consequences of-”

The sound of sirens drowned out the voice for a second. I tensed as the emergency vehicles rushed past my lobby and towards the hospital. When their sirens and lights faded I released my grip on the knife still hidden in my waistband.

“Experts now confirm that the last eight generations have in fact been carriers of the genetic mutation known as Nucleic ADH3. The dysautonomia, which expresses as a break down in the autonomic nervous system, and often ends in a violent convulsive death, still has no know treatment. Geneticists from around the world are racing to ensure that the next generation of implanted embryos have the necessary genes to develop an immunity and are confident that a retrovirus will soon be available nationwide for testing and distribution.”

That last part was new. I sat up, suddenly paying closer attention.

“-individuals who insist on traveling are reminded to have the proper clearance and exercise extreme caution. The Federal Home Guard is increasing patrols and security at state checkpoints as an increasing number of vigilantes take to the streets. Corporate officials urge citizens to go on with their lives, emphasizing that in these times of crisis, daily routine and support of emergency personnel can mean the difference between-”

This time the crackling and interference was drowned out by the sound of squealing tires and crunching metal against plastic. The crash and ensuing fireball finished off whichever wreck outside had had its radio still running.

On instinct, my short athletic form crawled out from under the desk closest to the elevators. I could feel my chin length, dark hair going in every direction as I shook myself awake and scanned the street beyond the lobby windows. Grabbing a baseball cap and shoving it onto my head I staggered out of my hiding place and into the street.

I had to concentrate to focus my eyes on the federal transport bus that had just misjudged the turn. The light pole in front of the building, already adorned with one totaled vehicle, had blended into the side of the large bus very effectively. It briefly occurred to me that if that utility van and commuter vehicles had not been abandoned there, nothing would have stopped the bus from plowing straight into the lobby.

The flames coming out from under the hood were bright in the gathering darkness. With the combined gas tanks leaking even more fuel they were threatening another explosion. My eyes took in the wreck, watching the windows for signs of life and checking the street for any other would-be rescuers. Nothing moved.

Studying the empty street in both directions, and seeing no one, I was still discreet as I removed the thin gloves that made my hand look like they belonged on a pale manikin. I stashed them safely in a back pocket. My loose, extra-long sleeves still hid all but my fingertips as I clenched and flexed my fingers, debating the risk I was considering. I had done a lot of crazy things but this was by far the riskiest.

Human shadows darkened a back window for a moment. Without another thought I pulled the buff around my neck up until it covered my mouth and nose and rushed toward the mangled, smoke filled mess.