Look to the Sky....

From the moment the rocks from outer space began descending across the earth, the humans that were fortunate to remain across the globe, soon found, that this fortune to be alive had been a cruel, vicious joke. It had been a higher power’s form of bad luck, spread to the few human soles, that struggled to live on.

Cold, bruised and suffering from a cut in her leg, that would soon become infected, Grace Mathers, courageously held both her children close. The sky, scorched and blackened from the meteor shower that had lasted three whole years, reduced its ferocity just a little, over the last few weeks. The atmosphere angry and fierce and unrelenting. At times it became difficult to breath outside as the floating raining of ashes circled them at random times. Then no wind or breeze. The heat absorbed any semblance of it, making it stifling, suffocating at times.

Desperately seeking freedom for the chaotic world, they who had the misfortune to inhabit it, lived frantically with the tyranny that ruled quietly alongside the rubble, the dust, the nothingness that pervaded. Maybe they should have died in the global catastrophic shower that blighted, what was called earth. Men were enslaved in camps to generate revenue for the vicious warlords that preyed on the weak. Women and children captured into rebuilding humankind, by being forced to enter crushed unsafe buildings and pull out anything of value. Gold, watches, jewellery, medicine, food, cash, water, anything that could be traded with other equally villainous groups around the world. For Grace Mathers and her two children, their world albeit a whole lot smaller, operated amid the intensified brutality of an interminable, dangerous, frightening, existence.

Peter and his sister Yolanda, hugged their mum inside the wrecked remains of a multi-storey carpark in central London. Moving from one shelter to the next, provided safety, especially at night. Night time made the darkness completely black. So much so, Grace, Peter and Yolanda could not see a thing.

‘Where are we’re going to go to next mum. Where running out of safe places to stay’, Peter at fourteen years old, couldn’t be fobbed off with fantasy type explanations. Grace stopped moving, limping.

‘Peter, we have been moving around for years. I’m not sure how long for. I’ve kept you both alive so far, away from the warlords, the wickedness and near death, and I’m not going to stop now. I have scoped out a few other buildings that might work for us. We just need to be near water and food wherever we can find it. And that old pocket radio you found. I’ve got it working. That will all help. I can feel things turning’, she told her son, as Yolanda look up at her older brother and mother.

Grace’s straggly mop of mousy brown hair, matched tired brown eyes, as did her one-year old black Bob Marley t-shirt and orange men’s jacket, she’d found in a charity clothes shop.

‘Is it okay to have a look outside?’, Yolanda asked her mother.

‘Yes you can. Nothing has changed though. Its still the same out there my love. No one around, broken cars, windows, buildings, all human life as we knew it decimated.’

‘Mum, please!’, Peter interjected his mum’s rambling, which she did from time to time. For now Peter had to be voice of reason, coping superbly in the circumstances.

‘Sorry son, just need to find an end to all this. Need to find something for my leg too’.

‘I’ll go – while we have some light of sorts. I’ll be back shortly’. Without allowing his mother to respond, Peter moved quickly out of the parking structure in to the inhospitable atmosphere along Oxford Street, near Regents Street corner. Pulling up a year-old face sky blue facial scarf over his mouth and nose, Peter followed a well-worn path along the London streets.

Peter now had immunity from any shock at witnessing no Harrods or Hamleys or any other of the main well-known globally recognised retail stores remaining standing. Climbing over rumble and the skeletal remains of bodies, that were strewn amongst the debris, Peter headed for the open door of the nearest chemist. If he was lucky the medicine he sought my just be still within its usable date.

Grace sat on a boulder avoiding the metal spikes, with her young nine-year-old adopted daughter, worrying about Peter’s frustration having to grow up so quickly in such horrific and unimaginable circumstances. Grace reached into jacket pocket, pulled out the radio, then prayed quietly, closing eyes briefly. Yolanda joined her mother, closing her eyes too. Resting on her tanned skin, below a grey sport hoodie she was wearing, was a silver heart shaped locket. Yolanda placed her fingers on the locket and rubbed it gently as Grace muttered a few words from the Lord’s Prayer.

‘Shall we try it now and see if this radio works’, Grace asked her daughter.

‘It will work mum. My special locket always helps us, like it did before’, Yolanda told Grace with a warm smile.

Grace turned the dials, rolled her index finger over them. Nothing at first then, a crackle. Followed by more crackles. Grace anxiously played with the dials now, searching, seeking some connection. Early evening had nearly arrived, and with Peter still outside their safe zone, Grace worried further. Grace felt the temptation the throw the radio into the ground and smash it in frustration. Yolanda stopped her. ‘Let me try mum?’.

Grace handed Yolanda the pocket radio and stood up. Looking outside through the unbroken windows in the car park, the real darkness commenced is descent and was about to envelope them again for day one thousand and ninety-five. Grace already knew they had minutes to move back further into their home - the car park office for warmth and security. Hopefully Peter would bring back medicine water and maybe any scraps of food.

‘Is anybody there?’, a voice cackled over the poor signal from the radio.

Grace turned to see the beaming face of her daughter. The distorted voice continued.

‘If anyone in London can hear this and is still alive we have a haven of sorts near south bank. We have limited food and water, but we have a connection into Europe and the USA. Show yourself at any of these landmarks and we will pick you up. We cannot wait too long. Tomorrow at noon is the time. The locations are as follows; Hyde Park (near Hyde Park Corner); Trafalgar Square; Waterloo Station. Good luck and god speed’. The male voice signed off.

Yolanda stood up and hugged Grace. ‘I told this would help us’, Yolanda told Grace holding onto her heart shaped silver locket.

Thank you my dear, you have been a blessing in these troubled times’, Grace pulled away so she could see the bright hazel eyes, the calm, angelic face that presented itself to her.

‘What about Peter? Will he be back now?’, Yolanda asked the question Grace didn’t want to contemplate.

‘He will be I’m sure’, Grace answered in trepidation doing her best to withhold her truest feelings, that her adopted daughter already understood.

Peter loaded down with an old rucksack on his back, filled with a variety of medicines, water and tinned food, puffed out his cheeks. The street lights no longer worked making the impending darkness hazardous for so many reasons. And since the meteor shower the temperature at night fell quickly to sub-zero. His fast-paced walk became a run as he recalled his mental street map, his route home from memory. Fortunately, he had been in the school athletic long-distance training camp since he was nine years old. He had managed two successful years when the global disaster metamorphosed humankind forever.

Only a few minutes from ‘home’, what was the multi-storey car park office. They used duvets from the stores on Oxford street to sleep on and cover themselves with, and for insulation, to keep the sub-zero night-time cold.

Then Peter heard a sound he hadn’t heard in nearly three years. The sound of a dog barking. From his left. A Dalmatian, trotting aimlessly along the rubble strewn streets. Peter halted his running, attempting to work out what to do. Leave it alone and head home, or interact which could lead him down another path with unintended results. Then another strange sound. Like a radio, squawking. Strapped to the Dalmatian, a two-way radio around the poor dog’s neck, making distorted noises. Peter’s curiosity overcame him and he walked over to investigate.

As he neared the dog, Peter stooped low, hoping the dog would realise he was not a threat to him. It seemed to work. The Dalmatian stopped and Peter could now hear what the words were coming from the two-way radio. Repeatedly the message said ‘Look to the Sky; your freedom is undenied’. The message stopped after the seventh iteration, then it crackled back into life. ‘If Yolanda is still alive; we want her back, she is the saviour, the world will be surprised’.

Peter snatched after the radio, hearing the last message. The Dalmatian squealed in response and ran off in the opposite direction. Peter stood erect in complete darkness now. His stopping to investigate had cost him the vital minutes of light that remained. On his key chain in his pocket, a small pen sized light. Miraculously, it worked, however he had to keep his finger depressed to gain the benefit of the narrow swathe of light that mini torch emitted.

Tossing a thousand scenarios in his mind about his step sister, his mum and their ultimate survival, Peter arrived at the parking garage and headed for the office room, with is hoard.

Grace hugged Peter, although she noticed the troubled look in his eyes. ‘Can I speak to you for a moment. I just need to treat your leg first’, Peter explained in a quietly commanding manner.

‘Yes sure. Did you get enough things together?’ Grace asked.

‘I did. You best sit down mum’, Peter informed her as he pulled out a bottle of water, some pain killers, a bandage and some antiseptic spray.

Whilst Peter attended to Grace’s leg, Yolanda lay snoozing under the multiple duvets they had.

‘I saw a dog today you know on my way here’, Peter mentioned

‘Well we have news too. The radio worked you know’, Grace told Peter excitedly. ‘Well at least Yolanda got it to work and there are more people alive Peter. They have sanctuary over in South Bank and it sounds like they are free of the enslavement from warlords too. We must leave early tomorrow to get to Hyde Park corner for noon, where they'll pick us up. Isn’t that great?’, Grace told Peter beaming.

‘How can we trust what you heard mum. We have no clue who is alive, who is bad or good or what they really intend doing. They could be part of the warlords trying to capture extra workers for their own selfish reasons. Anyway, I have news too. This dog I saw had a two-way radio around its neck. It had a message repeating itself about looking to the sky and about freedom being undenied, whatever that means’.

‘Don’t be so suspicious Peter. We have a chance to get out of this hell-hole. We have survived for three years on wits, luck and Yolanda’.

‘Exactly. Yolanda. Who is she really mum?’

‘Peter don’t be so rude after everything I have taught you and what we’ve been through. How could you?!’

‘The message that I told you about when it stopped, it started again. This time it said; if Yolanda is still alive; we want her back, she is the saviour, the world will be surprised’.

Grace’s face turned ashen white. As Peter completed his mending of his mum’s leg, the heart-shaped locket around Yolanda’s small neck started to glow….