The Days and Months We Were First Born- the Unraveling

THE

DAYS AND MONTHS

WE WERE FIRST BORN

THE UNRAVELING

By

Christopher Hunter

_______________

Published by Christopher Hunter

Kindle
Edition

Version 1.14.13

Copyright © 2010
-2011
Christopher Hunter

www.christopherhunterfiction.com

[email protected]

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names
,
characters, places
,
brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which has been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Kindle Edition License Notes

This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please
loan via Kindle, or
purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and
it was not loaned to you
, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to
A
mazon.com
and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

The following two books of the “The Days and Mo
nth We Were First Born” Trilogy are now available as:

The Days and Months We Were First Born- The Post-New York Edition

And introducing the paperback version of the series:

The Days and Months We Were First Born- The Consolidated Edition

Book I

The Unraveling

July 28, 2068

I have heard countless versions of Awareness Day,
recollections from people who lived to tell them. And each story is unique, as unique to every man, woma
n, and child as their DNA. But n
o matter how different the versions, no matter how different the people who tell them, when I hear the accounts I know we’re all the same. Wherever we came from, whatever our ambitions, whatever we liked or disliked, whoever we loved or hated; it didn’t matter
once that day touched us
. The memories are there, neve
r to leave, never to fade. And t
he most common factor was we never saw it coming. I certainly didn’t.

My version began in my girlfriend’s bed.

I
was at the tail end of a dream,
a very strange dream. I was in a sphere of water, and I was naked and suspended. Imagine a grown-sized clone, gestating in a giant incubator. It wa
s completely dark beyond the water
, yet somehow I could still see. There were no tubes or pipes, the water was breathable, and my balance in the center was perfect, as if I were the core holding all together with my gravity. My mood was as calm as a person near death. I had no worries, no anxiety regarding my nakedness, n
othing. It was Zen-like—b
eautiful. And still, as beautiful and as
bizarre
as that dream was, it would have easily been forgotten. It would have disappeared from my memory forever, if it hadn’t been attached to that fateful day.

The dream fell apart with the smell of breakfast. Once that sweet aroma of turkey bacon on the skillet invaded my nostrils, the water disappeared and the calm awareness crumbled. The dream Zen was replaced with a new
Zen: the Zen of me eating soon.

Julie was a glorious cook. Every morning at her apartment I woke to the smell of something lovely; an aromatic alarm clock that I could always count on. It was one of the many perks that came with the relationship. Julie’s parents had taught her how to cook at a very young age
, and experience was delicious.

I didn’t live with my girlfriend. Technically, my residence was a tenement building in Soho. But once I realized I could wake to her breakfast, any given day, living among my pothead roommates couldn’t compete.

I also loved Julie’s place. She lived in a post-Municipal Explosion building on First Avenue, between 122
nd
and 123
rd
Streets. Her apartment was 23F, and it had this fantastic view of the East River and Randall’s Island from her living room window. She had a clear, hardened plastic dining set, a platinum-colored leather couch and matching love seat, a blue steel entertainment display, and a map screen that rotated on a ball axis. The map screen was my favorite thing in the whole apartment. I could touch, magnify, and rotate on any location in the world.

In her bedroom, she had a classic Tempur-Pedic bed. It was draped with a Venezuelan spread and soft, Egyptian cotton sheets. (It was so damn hard to get out of that bed sometimes, especially if I’d
indulged in
wine the night before.) She also had a cherry wood bedroom set made from real cherry wood, and in the dark, a multicolored light display reflected patterns of rippling water against the walls and ceiling.

The hallways were earth-toned, and lined with oil paintings Julie had created herself. She was an artist; she specialized in landscapes. If the paintings weren’t of the city, they were of her native Nebraska.

It had taken three months to convince Julie to date me, but waking to her breakfast, enjoying her company, and staying in her apartment had made it well worth the effort.

“Curtains open.”

The window tint faded and d
aylight flooded the room. I winced and squinted as my eyes adjusted. I pushed the sheets off and sat up.

“Television on. Channel five.”

The acrylic screen on the opposite wall came to life, first as a dull, blank gray, and then as the commanded channel.

The bar at the top read:
Saturday, July, 28, 2068/ 8:02am/ 24ºC/ sunny with clear skies.

The image on the screen, however, wasn’t of the news anchors, or of the meteorologist, or of the traffic lady. Instead, it was of the President. The President of East America: Joseph McArthur. As I wiped the crust from my eyes, I thought:
What in the hell does he want?

The President was
shaking with nervous energy
as he waited for his cue.
Instead of his usual suit and tie, h
e had on a white, button-down shirt with the buttons undone, revealing a maroon shir
t underneath. His face was pale. H
is
red eyes were wandering all around the room.
H
e was unshaven.

When the cue was given, he nodded to someone unseen and looked into the camera. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then he began.

“My fellow East Americans…”
He paused for a moment. He was actually fighting back tears.
“My fellow East Americans, it is my somber duty to report that at 6:46 this morning, I received news of a potential world-wide epidemic. I was told that it is a grave threat to the security of our nation.

“I have met with my Members of Cabinet, and we have decided to take drastic measures. I am hereby exercising my constitutional authority to declare martial law. I am also ordering a nation-wide moratorium on economic activity.

“If you are an employee of vital importance, such as in the fields of health, news, or public services, we need you to continue your…”

“Television mute.”

Slumping
into the bed
, I
pulled the sheets over my head.

As I write this, it’s hard to believe that I could have been so ridiculous. Here was the President—the President of my country—addressing us all and looking an uncharacteristic mess, shutting down commerce throughout the entire nation, and I had the nerve to put the television on mute. Perhaps it was subconscious denial. Perhaps some part of me knew that this was going to be bad, and that part was prolonging the inevitable. Perhaps that part was seeking one last moment of normalcy. Normalcy before the hell started. That reasoning makes sense. That reasoning is
reason
. But the actual thought that went through my mind was:
This is another one of those damn influenza outbreaks
.

They occurred at least once a year. The outbreaks killed a few thousand people in various parts of the world, t
hen either a vaccine was distributed
or the things simply died out. The
colds
had names just as hurricanes did, and they brought a flurry of media coverage and mass paranoia. But ultimately, they were nothing to warrant shutting down the entire country. In the bed that morning, I thought to myself:
This jerk is putting on a show because it’s an election year
.

Julie walked into the room. She had on her lavender
pink
robe, and her brunette hair was still wet from a shower she had taken while I was dead to the world. The light from outside gave her skin an admirable glow. She w
as a vibrant, fleshy
woman, with a beautiful, slightly freckled face, and blue eyes sparkling and true. At 5’11”, she was virtually the same height as me.

Julie had wanted me to propose to her. We had been steady for eleven months by that point. I did spend most of my time with her, and we were compatible in a lot of ways; but when it came to marriage, I had cold feet. She was convenient, she had her perks, and I was even going to move in with her by the end of that August; but when it came to the next step, when it came to a ring, I probably would have been on the fence for a very long time.

“Breakfast is ready,” Julie said, on her way to the bathroom. “Is that the President? What is he talking about?”

“I think he’s saying the world’s about to end,” I said. “But let’s eat breakfast. If we’re all going to die, let’s not go on an empty stomach.”

“Asshole,” she said.

We both laughed. Then I lunged from the bed and chased my girlfriend into the bathroom, grabbing for her ass.

***

I’ll always remember that breakfast; the last moment before it all changed. As we ate, Julie and I discussed what we were going to do that day. It was a Saturday, and on Saturdays, we always went to a park or beach, weather permitting. I wanted to go to Riverbank Park, which was on the other side of Harlem. Julie wanted to go to Carl Schurz Park, which was forty blocks south. We also discussed what to send her father for a birthday present. Should it be the usual shirt and tie, or should we just say to hell with it and send him a gift credit card? His birthday was a week away, and Julie constantly stressed over such things.

Now that I recall, we didn’t have the television or the radio on, which was unusual. Instead, we only sat and talked, and enjoyed our turkey bacon and eggs with hash browns. I drank peach juice while Julie helped herself to prune juice (her latest diet experiment). It was nice. It was a frozen moment in time.

Every now and then, I’ll close my eyes and imagine. I’ll imagine that I’m right there—right
on
the edge.

Just as we finished breakfast, the first call came through. Julie picked the phone up from the table and answered.

“Hello?”

She winced and held the phone from her ear.

“Mom!” Julie looked at the phone with surprise. She waited a few seconds and tried again.

“Mom! You have to calm down…calm down! Tell me what happened.”

Julie held the phone with both hands as her mother spoke, and I couldn’t make out a single word. Mrs. Silver’s voice was a frantic noise on the other line. But as Mrs. Silver went on, Julie’s look transformed. Her eyes watered
and h
er hands trembled.
S
he shook her head slowly in disbelief. A
nd a
fter a minute, Julie finally broke her silence. Her voice was aquiver.

“Everyone…How can everyone have it? How can you, Papa, Jodi, Lenard and all the kids have it? How the
fuck
can
everyone
have it?! How does that even happen?”

Tears streamed down Julie’s cheeks. Her face was a distressed red as she squealed in agony.

I was mortified. In all my time of knowing Julie, she had never cried in front of me. I began to tremble myself. I could feel my chest tighten. Julie dropped the phone, and then she collapsed to the floor. I wanted to walk over to find out what the hell happened, but the intensity of the moment had left me timid. Then I heard my PCD in the bedroom.
Immediately
,
I ran to answer it, as Julie wailed in devastation.

It was my father. His picture flashed in and out on my screen. I answered, bracing for whatever he was about to say.

“Dad!”

“Martin! Thank God! We’ve been trying to reach you all morning! Where are you? Did you hear the news?”

I thought of the television, and how I had put the damn thing on mute. A strong sense of embarrassment flashed over me.

“No. But I saw the President. He said there was some kind of epidemic and he declared martial law. What the hell is…?”

“Did you get tested?”

“Get tested? No. Julie and I just had breakfast. What is all this testing…?”

“Son! You have to get tested. Get tested and get out of the city. Get a mask. Get a mask as soon as you can.” It started to register.

“Dad. Are you telling me this thing is airborne?”

“Yes, it’s fucking airborne! What? Did you and Julie listen to the first thirty seconds and cut off the TV?” I chose not to answer. “Son, this is an emergency,” he continued. “Get a mask and get out of the city. It’s the goddamn end of the world. Your mother and I are going to die.”

I dropped the PCD. I felt lightheaded. A jolt ran through my body and my vision became blurry. My legs wobbled underneath me. I was tackled.
Blindsided
. That was the moment. The disheveled President wasn’t it. Julie imploding in grief wasn’t it. But when my father told me I was about to become parentless, that was when the gut-wrenching truth had finally set in: This shit was serious, and it was going to touch
everyone.

“Marty! Son! Are you there?”

I could hear my father’s voice clearly. The PCD was face-up on the floor. I bent to retrieve it, feeling as if I was doing the bravest thing in my life.

“Dad, tell me what happened.”

“Your mother and I saw the news last night. It started as a rumor on the ten o’clock news. We kept watching. Then they showed the lines at the health clinics and hospitals. All over the world, people were in line—being tested. Your mother and I tried to call you. We tried to call your brother and your sisters. But the phones were already overrun.

“This morning, there was an emergency broadcast. It told us to head to Southampton Hospital. So your mother and I went. And the line was long. Virtually everyone in the town was there by the time we made it. The NHC workers gave us masks as we waited to take the test. They had this breathalyzer. If the result was green, you were clear and told to go home. But if it was red, you were infected with some goddamn
cancer
!
Damn near everyone was red, son!”