Shine On
The light was at the very end of Livington, which led up to the small foothills that paralleled the city. Draynor could see the light, now that he was looking for it, cresting between the peaks of Chance Rock and Mt Allen. In the small valley between the two peaking foothills the light was a magnificent star of pure white.
It drew Draynor out of his crouching position and onto the street.
The light pulled him past blank stoplights and the screams of victims that grew and faded like horrible little waves.
But he no longer cared about the screeches emitting from behind all those black, stark covers. And although like any real hero, he’d have liked to have said that he passed the screams without stopping because he knew that his position was futile. In reality, he was now motivated solely by the light pulsing from the v-shaped crevice of rocks and trees.
As Draynor walked the blocks down Livington he didn’t even turn his head from side to side. It was of no use to watch the way giant houses looked muted and hopeless with the chains of black over every door and every window.
And as the houses grew in size so did the amount of asphalt looking monstrosities. In the nicer parts of town, on the heart of Livington, the houses were fairly dominated by the darkness of so many coverings. Black on light. A reality utterly disturbing.
But Draynor didn’t notice any of this. He was entirely focused on the unmoving light and his footsteps towards it. One in front of the other. Blood was still drying on many parts of his body: head, fingers, palms, knees.
Inside houses, houses that lined the street, families were dying together, huddled in masses. From one home, Draynor could hear the nagging sound of a family crying profusely and begging for help. He could hear what sounded like children issuing muffled cries from buried mouths, adults crying with thinly disguised dignity, waiting for someone else to rectify the situation.
But Draynor walked on. One foot in front of the other. A step at a time. He was no hero. He just happened to get out. And now he was walking. Moving towards the light. Step on step on step.
He passed shops with buzzing neon lights that read open, even though no one was inside. And he passed parking lots with loads of cars but not any people. He paused at the grocery store on Livington and Howes, peered in the advertisement-smeared windows. No on was inside. All the aisles were free and clear of anyone. He couldn’t think where all the people in the cars had gone. He didn’t know what to think about anything. The sun was up alongside the moon, clouds were still tracking as if on fast forward loop behind the scenes. The ground was cold but the air was hot, everything seemed blown by a great wind but he felt nothing on his face but sweat, tears, and blood.
When he reached the edge of the foothills, that place where the plains of his hometown give way to sloping mountains of rock and trees, Draynor could see that he only had one hill between him and the blistering, white light. It was the man-made dam that held back the weight of the Horseshoe Reservoir.
The Reservoir was a giant lake that the city used for its water reserves. It was a great place to fish and have picnics. It was a magnet for families and lustful couples and cliff divers. And Draynor could see from the bottom of the hill that the light seemed to be hovering just above the lake. Or maybe even in it. But he couldn’t see anything yet except the same humming, light-filled air.
As he pushed past the rocks and yellow grasses he felt forced to look away from the light. But for some reason, his mind would not allow him to look away. He knew that you had to watch for loose gravel and slippery grass, places that attracted a fall back down the sloping hill, but he could not pull his eyes away from the light. He was too close. The buzz was too loud. So he stumbled and fell and stumbled and fell all the way to the top of the hill.