Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (25 page)

What
the hell is that?

Danny's
touch forces a startled flinch from Bobby. When he looks into his
mate's eyes, he can read the worry imprinted there.

“
I'm
okay. I've just got something to do. I'll catch up in a minute.”

Danny's
face scrunches up again. His dazzling blue eyes curl into squints as
he cocks his head and searches Bobby's face for any signs of—what
he can only guess at—going crazy. After a second, he finds
nothing to support the theory and breaks out one of his reward
winning smiles.

“
Okie
dokie, but you better hurry if you don't want to stay after hours
with the only female teacher in the school that looks like a man.”

Bobby
nods and tries not to show the distraction, but it does no good.
Danny ceases his chuckling and follows Bobby's line of sight, but if
he sees the figure he says nothing. So, he turns back and slaps him
on the arm. With a spring in his step, Danny walks around the path,
keeping close to the fence with the bag slapping against his back.

Does
he not even sense that thing?

Lowering
his head, Bobby realises where he has seen the shirt and jeans he's
wearing before. He has never worn black jeans, at least not as slim
as these, but he knows someone who had.

He
glances at his bare feet, then lifts one foot to peek under the
bottom. Filth covers the heel and tiny stones create dents in the
sole.

Before
his mind can pose any more questions of how any of this came to be, a
stench drifts in his direction on the breeze. It forces his attention
back to the figure standing before him.

Bobby
moves across the patch until his feet touch grass. The fresh scent
from the caretaker mowing the grass usually fills his nose this time
of year. However, what he smells now is rotted meat and metal.

Curling
his nose up, Bobby prevents his gag reflex from jumping into action.
His initial thought is that dinner in the cafeteria sucked
the big
one
today. Yet, after a moment, he concludes the smell is coming
from the person draped within the cloak.

Squinting
his eyes, he tries to make out more of the person beneath as they
stare back. But as a gust of wind raises his hair from his scalp, he
notices that everyone moving from between classes has stopped.

Where
is everyone?

He
turns to glance behind, to the next path on the opposite side of the
pond, at the reception area and by the Maths block. He sees no one.
With a clear view of two downstairs classes in the Art block, he
should see students at their desks, but no one is. Nor is anyone
inside the English block. A wave of something cruel tightens in his
chest to create a horrifying and lonely sensation he cannot justify.

He
isn't averse to being alone. He has spent most of his life being
alone, especially after Benji's accident. With only one friend and no
relatives, he could say loneliness is a friend of his. Yet, there has
never been a hole this huge in his being before.

He
shudders as a droplet of rain falls onto his shoulder and seeps
through his shirt. When he glances up, the clouds open to bring the
world to life. Yet, the downpour bombarding his surroundings isn't
clear, but dark. The liquid doesn't carry the usual sting of rain,
but is warm. Scars of light dart through the darkened clouds like in
his dream, creating a static sensation throughout his body which is
so intense his insides ignite with fear. Within the moment he takes
to acknowledge what is happening, puddles are already covering the
pathway.

Thunder
and lightning storms would bring crowds to the windows on any other
day. What he is witnessing now isn't natural, so he expects to see
more attention, yet no faces glare out the windows.

The
memory of female teachers running from buildings when it used to rain
comes flooding back. Sometimes he would see them from classroom
windows, or pass them on an errand. They would use a book, or coat to
cover their hair, but the paths are empty now.

His
curls slick against his pale forehead and red trails run down the
rest his cheeks. He squints to see through the haze with his eyes
becoming sore.

He
can make out the blurry shape of the figure standing solemn on the
grass with its head bowed. It shows no signs it means to move out the
rain. As Bobby continues to watch the uncaring form, the cloak seems
susceptible to the weather as it remains dry.

It
isn't a sound that brings him back to the figure, but the scratching
behind his eyeballs. The agony stretches along his temple until he is
hissing and thick liquid is pouring from both his nostrils. Panic
sets in when he touches his top lip, then withdraws to find blood
covering his trembling fingertips. The taste in the back of his
throat is bitter like he has been sucking on copper pennies.

When
he glances back to the grass, the figure is no longer alone. More red
cloaks have joined the lone form on either side. They regard him for
a moment before setting into motion.

As
the breeze glides past the moving figures, their matching cloaks lift
to reveal where ankles should be, but there are none. As they hover
toward him with their heads bowed, the leader drops his hood back.
From what he can see, its hands are deathly pale and bony with crusty
fingernails that haven't seen a pair of clippers in years.

Bobby
does a double take at all three figures before setting his feet into
motion. His bare feet slap hard against the wet pavement, sending
liquid flying in every direction. The cuffs of the jeans hang under
his heels and squelch as they become soaked to the rough skin, but he
barely acknowledges them within the rush.

With
the pond now to his right, he spares a glance over to see the ripples
forming on the surface at a rapid rate. He has a second to process
the dark object parting the water, then a noise unlike anything he
has heard comes into existence.

The
windows rattle and the ground vibrates beneath his feet. When he
glances over to the Art building, he still finds no sign of people
inside, only the reflection of this new world.

Something
wet rolls over his foot, jolting him backwards. As he peers toward
the ground, he spots an eel skidding through the shallow tide. The
creature slithers its narrow body from side to side, then disappears.

As
he glances over his shoulder, Bobby doesn't see the creatures
slithering where the red liquid rises, or the forms now drifting up
from the pond. Instead, what he sees forces his face into a look of
horror. With his mouth agape, he realises what the sound is and where
it is coming from—across the pitch where the edge of the field
is, a momentous tidal wave rises into the sky.

Unable
to remove his eyes from the sea of blood, Bobby's feet stumble
backwards as though they have a life of their own. The noise the wave
produces is not natural, but mechanical. The only sound he can
compare it to is metal compressing as a submerged ship comes into
land, and it terrifies him.

The
figures drift along the grass he can no longer see with their cloaks
dragging into the liquid. As they come at him, he sees the other two
new members have also dropped their hoods to reveal vile, white
faces.

Crazy.
They're crazy!

Vacant
eyes poke out from deep sockets—a sight Bobby associates with
his mother. Their pasty flesh droops, dragging their lower lids taut
across their cheeks to reveal slits of sore tissue between eyeball
and skin. Below vivid, smirking mouths, their skin curls into rolls
at their necks. Their coats dull in patches to give more contrast
between the hues like a tapestry of meat sewn into cloth.

Above
their poorly constructed nose is a red mark like an exaggerated
bindi, but none Bobby has ever seen have leaked. The liquid dribbles
south in thick trails and veers across their cheeks.

As
the tsunami of crimson edges closer, Bobby can see trees and hedges
eaten. The one goal post this side disappears, and the wave closes in
on the buildings. It will hit the Maths block first, then the
English, the Art
and
then me.

Bobby
turns back to the reception area where the metal fence is with panic
racing through his veins. He should be able to see the teacher's cars
and buses beyond the fence, but all is gone.

With
nowhere else to go, he decides to hide in the English block. Yet,
when he turns, the building vanishes. It is hard to tell where the
floor ends and the sky begins because all he can see is crimson.

Bobby
feels the sudden warmth rush around his waist as his feet lift from
the ground in a sea of blood. The memory of the limb floating in the
sea within a dream flickers across his unconscious mind.

The
red cloaked figures are gone when he next turns. He glances around to
locate their position, but can find them nowhere.

Have
they gone under?

No
buildings are anywhere now, so there's nothing for the tidal wave to
crash into and destroy. The pond is no longer a pond, but blended
into the rising sea. The trees remain as a surreal testament to
humanity as the whole city drowns.

He
has seen tsunamis on the news where survivors have filmed the
footage. He recalls the wrecked buildings, cars, possessions and
people washing away. He also saw an amateur video capturing the
moments before one hit. The strong gales violently shook the trees
outside the hotel restort and the water sucked back out to sea to
collect and strike. The atmosphere was eerie—something he never
hoped to witness first-hand.

Although
the event appears staged in the throes of sleep, it is also too real
to be anything else.

Before
the wave comes crashing upon his head, something drags him under. The
groan from the surprise cuts off as his face slips beneath the water,
forcing the red liquid down his throat. As he grips his neck, he
wriggles against the rope-like appendage around his ankle, but he
cannot free himself.

In
the second before he wakes with a sting at the back of his throat, he
believes he spots the empty red cloaks suspended within the water.
The creatures who inhabited them try to latch onto his limbs from
below like skeletal branches in the woods at night.

He
sees more dark creatures in the water once the wave slams into him.
He tries to get away from them by thrashing his limbs, but all he
does is create foamy waves.

When
he reaches the surface, he gasps for breath and forces his eyes open
despite them stinging with fury. Although he spits the liquid from
his lips, the burn remains at the back of his throat from having
swallowed too much. Liquid intrudes through his nostrils to leave
them itchy and painful inside. He wipes at them, squeezing down on
the tip to subdue the irritation, but it is fruitless.

With
his head bobbing, he believes he has gotten away from the creatures
until one ghastly thin claw grips his ankle. The grip tightens around
his bone and the filthy nails pierce his skin before the pressure
yanks him down. As he opens his mouth to scream, his lungs drown in
putrid liquid and, although silenced, he can still hear his gagged
screaming as everything vanishes from him.

CHAPTER
NINE

As
Bobby observes the moon through the kitchen window, he drinks another
cup of water. No clouds block the craters on the scarred surface to
give him a beautiful sight. The belief that somewhere past the moon
and planets there's a black hole edging closer to swallow everything
is calming. In fact, it is bordering on pleasurable.

Shadows
form in the airy room as the white beams shine through the glass. His
bare feet are chilly on the tiles despite the lingering warmth in the
air. The contrast is a welcome sensation that drives away the
perspiration from his skin like a fevered illness.