Hey everyone! After Earth Went Dark, Part 2 is beginning in early 2019. Here's a preview of what is to come. I'm very excited for the second portion of what has turned out to be one of my most favorite stories! Let me know what you think of it. And of course, if you're hoping to find out exactly when I'm uploading new chapters (of any story) just sign up for my mailing list at purplejubilee17@gmail.com You'll be glad you did! :P
I know it's a tough time of year, but I urge all readers to think about maybe directing some of their holiday leftovers to Nifty. They are so very helpful and accommodating with these stories, it's unbelievable!
Thanks as always! <3 PurpleJubilee
After Earth Went Dark, Part II Prologue
THERE WAS NO FLARE!
Entry 1, Date Unknown:
They tell me that it is my twentieth birthday today. I feel so much older though. The years spent here drag on slowly. That is the point. Two things have happened today that influenced the decision to record events from here on. I was given my name, Tyr. This means that I have nearly completed the Aesir program. One stage is left. I once went by another name, but the work and sacrifice put into earning my new name would be undermined to recall it. Even in my own mind it seems like a distant memory of an individual long dead. The few of us that have survived thus far earned our names today, and with it our clearance. With this clearance came the assertion in fact of a horrible truth that I have suspected for many years. Only now there is no escape from it. I cannot hide in ignorance, or the pretense of ignorance, and the knowledge of it has weighed heavily on me from the moment I read the report. The solar flare that destroyed the world as we know it was a lie. The ending of millions of lives over the course of these past years was little more than a controlled burn.
This project, flying under the banner of noble pursuits and peace, has been laid bare before my eyes. What once seemed a calling of impeccable virtue has been stripped to the bone. And all that is left is decay and corruption.
Life at Uncle Mark's was difficult at times, but not unbearable. It was, as Elliot had expected, drastically different from the luxurious lifestyle he and his family had grown accustomed to. The water was pumped mostly by hand, and everything was cooked over propane. One person showered every day with the help of a small generator, but the showers were short and lukewarm.
Elliot had never met his uncle Mark face to face before. He had only seen the pictures his mom had kept of a sharply dressed military man with a handsome smile and a trim physique. So, when Mark met them at the door with a shotgun, Elliot was more than a little surprised. Granted, all the photographs Elliot had seen had to be more than fifteen years old, but Uncle Mark looked like he had aged by at least thirty. His hair, though still fairly thick, was entirely grey, and he had gained a substantial amount of weight. He wore it well, distributed evenly, but it was a far cry from his Marine Corps pictures. His face was the most changed though. All the light had gone from his eyes, and permanent frown creases were etched into his forehead.
Mark eyed them suspiciously for a moment before recognition slowly crept over him.
"Emily?" He lowered the weapon. His rough exterior cracked for a split second but was almost instantly reinforced. "I thought you were dead."
"Good to see you too, Mark." Elliot's mother eyed the shotgun.
Mark slowly nodded several times and set the gun down by the door. He motioned for them to come inside before briefly hugging his younger sister. The house was spotless and decorated in a rustic lodge style. Hunting trophies hung on the walls along with landscapes of clear lakes and waterfowl.
"My god..." Uncle Mark looked them over. "Kara..." He said pointing, "and Elliot..."
They both nodded in turn, affirming their uncle's words.
"You're all grown up." He shook his head. "I've got the baby pictures your mom sent around here somewhere I just... never expected..."
"You never visited, Mark. You never called or anything. They grew. That's what happens." Their mother's voice was firm but not angry, simply stating a fact.
Mark nodded. "I know." He sounded distant, as if still unable to believe how much time had passed. "I just always thought that..."
"Who was at the door, Mark?" A voice came from the other room.
A young woman entered the living room from a hallway and stopped abruptly as she saw the three newcomers. She was a very pretty young girl, wearing an old-fashioned looking blue dress. She did not look all that much older than Kara.
Mark cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yes... Alice, this is my sister Emily, and her children, Kara and Elliot."
Alice curtsied neatly, a motion that looked practiced.
"And this is Alice... My wife..." Mark said slowly.
"Your... wife?" Elliot immediately heard the tone of disapproval in his mother's voice as quickly as she tried to mask it. "Lovely to meet you." She said woodenly.
The introductions had occurred almost two weeks ago now. Elliot had spent much of that time grieving for Tyr. He kept hoping that his friend would just show up at the door one day, but as time passed, his hopes of ever seeing him again gradually faded. Much of the rest of his time he spent eavesdropping on his mother and Uncle Mark.
The house was so well put-together that the floors rarely creaked. This made it easy to sneak up from the basement, where he and Kara had fold-out cots to sleep on, and listen in on conversations.
"Mark, you are forty-eight years old!" His mother said in a harsh whisper on the first night they spent in the house. "That little girl is a child!"
"She's nineteen." Mark returned, his voice gruff and low. "It was her choice, not mine."
"I bet she really had to twist your arm." She retorted.
"Emily!" Mark silenced her with a strong word. "It's a different world out there. She needed me, and I helped her."
"That's sick, Mark!" She spat. "Everything is a business decision with you. Always looking for how things benefit you."
Elliot had heard enough at that point and crept back downstairs. He overheard several more conversations over the next few days. Uncle Mark passing on his condolences for Elliot's dad's death, questioning about the Tournament, which he had actually heard of, and other things. They rarely talked about Tyr. No one talked about Tyr. It seemed like everyone wanted to forget. Elliot didn't forget though.
Every night he would read sections from Tyr's journal that he had found. All the while he would fiddle with the small knife that Tyr had given him, clasping it tightly in his hand as if determined to keep it from slipping away. Even when writing out his own thoughts, Tyr was maddeningly cryptic. There seemed to be so many locked doors in Tyr's mind that he would not even open for himself. After reading several weeks' worth of entries, Elliot still knew very little about this mysterious Project Aesir. It had something to do with how Tyr was so good at fighting, and it was a very long, difficult, and often painful process. This combined with the fact that it was apparently run by very, very powerful people, was virtually all Elliot had been able to glean from the pages.
All throughout, Elliot found himself wondering, if the flare was a lie, then what had killed the world?
His cot was relatively comfortable, and the work to maintain the small farm Uncle Mark had was hard enough, but even so Elliot slept very little. He wanted Tyr back. The warm and well-maintained basement of his uncle's house never felt half as safe or comfortable as sleeping on the ground out in the elements, with Tyr lying a few feet away.
Only a few people looked up as the dirty man limped into the bar. It was a rough town, so it wasn't particularly uncommon to see half-dead men stumbling around, or to find them in an alley the next day. Most of those that did look quickly averted their eyes. They knew from experience that minding one's own business was the best way to stay alive.
The very few that did not look away immediately however, noticed that this man was different from most of the wounded or dying men that staggered through town. First of note was his age. A thick layer of grime covered his face, and most of the rest of him, but it did not hide his relative youth from a perceptive onlooker. Looking deeper, despite large blood-soaked bandages on his arm, leg, and torso, it was apparent that he was not a weak man. His clothing was tattered and, in some places, shredded, showing underneath, a powerful physique. Lastly, the very keenest of observers would notice that the grime that coated him seemed to be equal parts mud and dried blood. However, that amount of blood could not have come from a man who was still on his feet.
In short, the wisest of patrons of the bar recognized a wounded predator when they saw one. And as they well knew, an animal injured is often at its most dangerous.
"Three shots of whiskey." The man's voice was hoarse, as though he had not spoken in days. He leaned heavily on the bar, obviously grateful for the relief.
The bartender brought him the shots he asked for and he immediately downed two of them. The third he unceremoniously poured out on the floor. The bartender observed this with a raised eyebrow but said nothing. If anything, the alcohol created a small puddle of cleanliness on the otherwise filthy floorboards.
This man had come to the wrong place though. Travelers and newcomers were rarely well treated in this bar, especially ones showing any signs of weakness. A small group of three men were already making their approach, looking to quickly relieve this man of any valuables, and possibly of his life.
The leader of this ragged band of three placed a hand heavily on the newcomer's shoulder, with a thin veneer of solidarity, designed to be just enough to lower the victim's guard.
No words were exchanged. A loud wooden thud echoed through the bar, followed by stunned silence. The man who had approached the wounded traveler had laid one hand on his shoulder and the other on the bar; and in the span of a second, the young man leaning on the bar had produced a small axe from somewhere and separated the would-be bandit's right hand from his wrist.
The ringleader fell back in speechless shock. He looked at the axe, still embedded in the bar-top, then at the stump where his hand used to be. Blood began to run profusely down his forearm. He managed a strangled cry before stumbling backwards and falling down.
"Another whiskey." The young man ordered calmly before turning to face the other two stunned assailants. He pulled the axe from the bar as blood began to run from the man's severed hand. It was clear now that the axe was little more than a heavy, etched blade with a very short broken-off haft protruding from it. What the weapon lacked in leverage it made up for in concealability.
The traveler's eyes were dead cold as he stared down the other two. He downed his new drink before raising his voice so that the entire bar could hear.
"I'm looking for someone." Almost every patron flinched noticeably as he broke the complete silence that he had created with his sudden violent outburst. The man's gaze swept the room, taking in each person individually, most of whom did their best to look inconspicuous or to pretend to not be paying attention.
The man spoke again, even louder. "I'm looking for my sister."