ELYSIAN FIELDS
A/N: Hey Guys. This story originally started off as a oneshot, and then I realized it would be one hell of a long oneshot, but if I made it a story I could do short chapters. Plus it gives me a break from the other two stories. It's gonna get pretty dark, hence the M-Rating. I'll put up a specific warning at the beginning of particularly M chapters. But by now just expect the swearing throughout. I mean really. Disclaimer: I own nothing. Elysian Fields Chapter 1 April Is The Cruellest Month 10:28am Flagpole clangs like a midnight train rolling through fog. Cords and streamers weighed down by pulleys clash the metal post in the whirlwind. The fabric whips in red and white flashes against the earthen building and the granite sky. The flag is a stunted action. A salute. A solution, standing at half mast. At the front of the school, bulbs of April tulips dot the dirt-filled plots. Blinks of pinks, yellows and reds buried among the shoddy sod growing elderly from lack of basic elements. The building stands three stories tall, but doesn't cast much of a shadow under overcast skies. The molding around the ancient front entrance swirls upwards into two prominent quills which impale the sky. A plume of smoke leaks from the back left side like blood spurting from a broken vessel, but the wind quickly beheads it. The smell of burning brick and concrete wafts in the air. Assails his nostrils like charcoal from a barbeque. "Greg." Eddy, face like a mountain side. Eyes squinting through the absence of light at the fuming side of a high school. Gloved hands flat on the hood of the rig. Fingers do a sports wave every few seconds, fabricate thunder. "Stairwell is the last position right? That leaves us four plausible entry points. You have to—" "No one's going in until someone checks in." Muscles in his face fall slack and his eyes don't leave the premature sprout of smoke. The building's lapsed exhalation. "Four entry points is going to take—" "Ed, I have four men downwind." His ear is dead. There's no static. There's no hiss. There's no tick. There's no heartbeat. It's not from the residual shockwave. Not from the explosion. "I don't need another." Eddy shifts towards him. A rigid action which doesn't loosen any of his limbs from their rusty sockets. Lips press and he swallows in an action louder than his mute ear. An action louder than the snap of the violent flag. "How long?" "Five minutes on radio silence." No need for a watch. Each second is focused. Hyper extended to back curve into an hour, than a year. Like looking at amoebas through a microscope. Then the details on them. Then details on details until eventually everything is just a smoking high school. "Five minutes could be nothing Greg." "Five minutes is enough to bleed out." There's no answer. Not from Eddy. Not in his ear. The flag snaps. The pulley knocks against the pole with a tinny reverberation. Sirens consume the atmosphere. His mouth is a little dry. Tastes like woodchips. A campfire. A forest fire. A house fire. A charred body. Six minutes. Draft of smoke clear cut by the vicious wind and force fed to him. So he does all he can. Watches the crown of the school. The pooled steps like ripples in time. Like a shockwave. The puff of smoke like a haughty exhaled breath. Clears his throat drawing moisture from his gums and speaks again, "Spike. Raf. Sam. Jules. Someone speak to me." 10:15am(?) Black. Day. Night. Dark. Jagged little piece of concrete compacting his nose. Tip turning up. Nostrils hammer heading. Breath in. Seal coated respiratory system. Coughing out dust for months. Road killed on his stomach, amphibian eyes blink again out of tune. Left one starts and halfway through the right joins in. Dark. Just dark and black in a what? High school. Been awhile. Always getting hurt in high school. Gut punched and locker stuffed. But this—basement—hallway—storage room—stairwell. Stairwell. He was in a stairwell of an ancient high school with the others. Windows at the second floor with school pride lanyards cobblestoned up. Double doors out onto the main level. Came through double doors and— Tongue completely coated. A lollipop dropped in sandbox. A tree trunk where people put out their cigarettes. Smacks gritty lips together and tries to push himself up, but his body crumbles. Right wrist. Right wrist not right. Yowls like a cat getting run over by a car. Can keep the beat with his wrist. A metronome. Elaborate seconds to minutes, minutes to hours and hours back into seconds. His knees act as rods for structure, the fabric breaches and untainted skin meets mangled metal and concrete. Sits. Thinks he sits, but is at an obtuse angle. Threatening to fall over to the left side. Wrist clung to his chest like he's petting the splattered cat. Left hand ventures into a pocket full of high school ceiling to retrieve a flashlight. Bites down on the devices and sheds light on his beautiful new bracelet. Wrist so engorged with blood that amethyst crystals might bejewel his skin. Wonders of it's broken. Left index finger touches the red balloon, rubbery and mirroring the light. The stairwell re-explodes in each cell. "Yeah it's broken." Air hisses out the end of his pulled balloon cord. But there's no one to listen. Not to the falsetto scream of the stretched mouth letting air rush against rubber. Not against the full out flatulence of the released hot air. In the disorientation and physical distress he forgot the three other people. For an instant he forgot the three other people. "Spike, that you?" But they didn't forget him. Fires his flashlight out like a lighthouse beacon, scopes it slowly over numerous piles of rubble all interchangeable in his mind. Support beams, concrete, cement, limestone, mortar, red brick, the flipside of the red brick which has been painted a cream and graffitied by generations of students. "Yeah Raf, it's me. Are you hurt? Where are you?" "I'm not doing too good, Man." Strong voice stringy. Hangs in the ambiance of the room thick like rainforest vines. "I'm by the doors." "Okay." Voice neutral. Gray. Taupe. Beige. Difference undetectable because he doesn't know anything. Hobbles himself to his feet. His head is full of helium. His hinges are made of wood and his movements aren't his own. The blast tossed him like a sack of garbage. He landed facedown just a few feet away from the stairs. The stairs vomiting up the second floor because of the bad aftertaste. The ground is mountains. The ground is frozen waves. The ground is glaciers. The ground is lava. The ground is an ice rink. The ground is used medical supplies. Every step is potentially fatal and every misstep potentially fatal and every step not taken potentially fatal. Raf actually appears quite comfortable when the spotlight hits him. His back is flat against the wall; his legs sprawled out before his body, his arm over his torso. His face is slick with a soft sheen of sweat, and he grins weakly. It doesn't bother to reach his eyes. "Hey Spike." "Raf, Buddy." Anxiety lights his fingertips on fire and he wants to rub his hands together, but he can't because his wrist is a dog's panting tongue. The limp body of a run over cat. A deflated balloon. "What's going on?" Raf shifts his torso. His hands push into the ground for elevation, but the rest of his body is like his own useless wrist. "Can't feel my legs. I can't move them." Oh shit. "How did you land?" Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. It's all he can think. Because the stairwell is large. It's large for a stairwell. Large for a high school because the high school is large for a high school because it takes in a lot of students. But four of them in the same enclosed space when the bomb went off and sent then scattering like a dropped handful of marbles. Oh shit. "My back. It hit the wall and I fell forward." Raf observes him with bloodshot peripherals. "Sort of pushed myself back up." "Okay, well this might just be temporary. The trauma could have caused it." Oh shit. Needs to help Raf. Needs to get him out of here. Needs to find Sam. Needs to find Jules. They all need to get out of here. "Can I take a look at your back?" "Yeah." Helps him forward as much as he can with a baby duckling wrist. Discovers a lead pipe with gnarled spokes protruding from the wall, which is what Raf slammed into. A gash slashes the back of his coat with blood puddling the floor. Blood and something else. At first he thinks the pipe might have been plumbing, might have leaked water. Depresses one side of the coat and more leaks out. The liquid is clear and coming from Raf's spine. Swallows hard, and shifts him away from the pipe. Leaves a speckled trail of blood and fluid on the rubble. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" "No." There's a pause and squint, then a twitch in his left eye. Muscles being plucked like harp strings. "I mean I have a headache, but that's expected. Right?" "Yeah." The ear popping. The blood flowing out of their ears in currents. The parting of the red sea. The tear streaks of plasma from their lobes. Halloween costumes to scare young children. He has a headache too. But he has all his spinal fluid. A groan zombies through the cavern. Not from his own plum wrung wrist. Not from Raf's spilling spine. A third groan enters the party. There's a shift and the clack of concrete against concrete as a body moves. "Raf—" "Go on Man, I'm not going anywhere." Hesitates without saying a word because he's been overly optimistic and not entirely truthful. Wouldn't want to be left alone down here. Doesn't really want to travel off alone even less than fifteen feet away. It was so much easier when he was lost in pain and darkness with a cat and a balloon. Raf places a hand on his shoulder. It's heavy and slides off quickly and back onto his dead legs. "What if they're like me? You have to go help them." Swallows the dust slushee in his mouth and nods. Finds his flashlight for him and replaces his comm. link into his burst eardrum. "Try to contact Sarge." Stands on precarious baby goat feet. Head falls into an empty gorge. The room is dark. It's tight. The air is hot, smells of engineered chemicals, and piles in his lungs. Uses his flashlight and the dust motes shine like Christmas snowflakes. A still, calm winter's night where his breath ballroom dances in the air. The light drools over the ground. Laps back and forth with his uneven steps. Stumbles and almost catches himself with a wine stained wrist. Instead puts his shoulder into it and squeaks out some of that hot air. Something swings from his coat like a pendulum, threatens to trip. Insidious intent. Half crouching like a terminal tiger, he manages another few feet before collapsing. The flashlight clatters and rolls between rocks and wires. Wedges highlighting Sam as he pushes himself to a reclined sitting position. He's in the alcove beside the avalanched stairway. His one hand ungloved and flat on the curve of his skull. Eyes guarded behind lids as he groans in pain. "Sam?" "What the hell happened?" "There was—" Hand slips sideways between the crevice of concrete rocks to retrieve his flashlight. Strains his fingertips as he finally pinches the light and yanks it free. "There was an explosion and—" "Jules." Sam's hand jerks away from the back of his head. The fingertips stained the same red from Raf's back. The same red from all their ears. Despite the injury, his neck rotates at insane angles in search. "Where's Jules?" "I don't know I—" "You don't know?" Jams a hand into his pocket and retrieves a third flashlight. He's already standing. Knees bouncing like orange balls on tarmac courts. Throat lets out another groan, and sweat rolls down his cheek collecting the dry dust. "I was helping Raf. He's really hurt, Sam." The comment, the seriousness of Raf's condition seems to quell any misplaced anger Sam feels. "Sorry." It's flat, blatant but valid. "I just. I have to find her." "I know." He knows how they are. They all know how they are. So he stands on his own used up legs. Follows him like an old dog. Like a fat pony. Watches him spin and do calculations and placements in his head. Where the blast would send her. Watches the stream of blood on the back of his head weave through his hair, down his neck and disappear underneath the collar of his coat. They don't utter a single syllable. The only thing linking them is the crunch of material under their feet, the slow loop of their lights, and the SRU on their backs. Seconds turn into minutes and not back into seconds. It's making his whole body sink. But Sam's head darts up, like he catches a familiar scent. He runs to her. Doesn't stop running and slides through the razored ruins like they're on a baseball diamond. The sound of fabric and maybe skin ripping echoes. Beam from the flashlight cascades on them. She's wedged on her side between two of the concrete pillars. If she was an inch or two in either direction— "Jules?" Sam's hand blankets her neck. Finger's touching, searching for a pulse. Other arm cups her waist as he bows his head to her chest. Face, washed in dust and years of miseducation, cracks the definition of a genuine grin. "She's breathing. She's has a pulse." He laughs. A single tear falls from one of his eyes and rips a clean streak on his polluted skin. "She's alive." "Okay, we'll have to take her over to Raf because—" "Jules, come on Sweetheart. It's time to wake up." Arm disintegrates behind her as he probes her back for injuries. The movements she creates are not her own, but from Sam's hand kissing her spine. "I'm going to use your blender." Vocal cords tremble like Raf's but from a different kind of pain. There's a brief daybreak. A brief lapse in privacy, giving him a skewed view into their personal lives. What happens after they leave the SRU with her stuck to his side. And Sam's dependency becomes overly apparent. "If you don't get up I'll use the blender. I swear to God, Jules." "Sam." Cakewalks the last few steps to his teammate. Drops a sloppy left hand on his shoulder. Sees the same soot painted on Jules' face. The team insignia of bloody tributaries dried and flaking from her ears. The same gouge in the back of her head as Sam, the tail of incarnadine curving over her neck and under her coat. "She's unconscious. You're not going to be able to wake her up." Sam nods. Sniff and snorts sweat, dirt, dust, blood, and ash. Softly, so his actions lack the basis of sound, he glides his arms underneath pinpoints of her body. The backs of knees and shoulder blades. Blood against blood. Dust and dust. Ash to ash. On his feet, sturdy as a stead. As a human statue. Atlas with the world in his arms. Smiles at him, but it's a dash. A quarter of a smile. A facial tick. "She freaks out when I use her blender. I figured it was worth a try." Sam follows him. A blind guide dog. The clips and cricks of the rubble. The unevenness of it, but it constantly shifts. Appears in fractals. Chaos Theory. A geisha sips tea in Japan and a high school blows up in Canada. None of them were conscious to hear it, so did it happen? Can't remember what birds sound like right now. Early morning birds that comfort him in the satanic morbidity of 4am. When every dream he has comes with a crocheted landmine. Cat ate the birds. Cat ate the birds and then got run over by an SUV. The beam from Raf's light burst outwards. They drift towards it, floppy moths to a zapper on a sticky summer night. Eyes won't unglue. Won't disengages the light and through his headache, through the muddy vision he views the veins in his eyes. Stares at the light too long. Staring at the sun will make you go blind. Staring at the moon will make you go insane. "Hey Raf." Re-greets. Been working with him for over a year. He should what? Stand up and introduce himself again. Hi, my name's Michelangelo but no one actually knows or remembers this. I'm an SRU officer, I've been one for almost eight years, but other teams keep scoping me out and you guys have no clue. Currently I'm buried in the stairwell of a fucking school with the rest of you so if we could all just focus on getting out that would be amazi— "How are you doing? Did you get in contact with Sarge?" "Comm. link's broken. Is—Is my flashlight still working?" Each word syncopated by a flooded engine breath. To his left, Sam rests Jules on a large piece of vacant wall. Red brick with capillaries of white stepping through them. Positions her on her side, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. With the voicing of Raf's question, he and Sam share an identical expression of concern and confusion. The light is in his hand, rocks back and forth against the laughing lines in the ceiling like spotlights outside of downtown theaters. Touches Raf's gyrating hands. The physical equivalent of boo because the flashlight hits his dense thighs and clatters to the ground. A wavering of illumination which make him and Sam wrench their eyes shut until it stops at the wall. "You're flashlight's fine." Full hand compressing the bridge of his nose and his eyes, Sam staggers away from the slab of wall to rummage through the web of rubble for the light. "That's what I thought." "Raf, what's going on? You're not—" "I can't see." Raf's head tilts in avian bounces. The muted birds from the predawn fly back to his mind. Bobbing heads lining up on a telephone wire. Nodding to distinguish positions. His. His own. Eyes wide, red and robotic. All the human attributes have leaked from his back. Except his voice, his voice retains a buried terrified twang. "I can't see."
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