Circular, Blue

By T. C. Kelln

Traston has a theory about the world that no one is ready to accept. Seven years ago, the world of Revere was all but destroyed by a mysterious apocalypse that left its surface decimated and teeming with monsters. The few who survived were gifted with extraordinary abilities, seemingly designed so that they might contest with their new, harrowing home.

 

But Traston sees things differently. He sees the new Revere as a world where everyone--and everything--got exactly what it deserved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. C. Kelln
• Release date: Sep 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393168447

T. C. Kelln

Born to two biologists, Taylor was imbued with reverence for the natural world and the sciences at a young age. He, however, diverged from his parents' path when he specialized in geology instead. Now, he works as a geologic consultant by day and an avid novelist by night. He began writing serious fiction when he was in his teens and continues until this day, seeking to instill insight and wisdom into engaging stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1 — Ruin

The events entailed occurred upon the decimated world that was once Revere. As you surely know, no ship has been able to land planet side since . . .

DEATH AND DISASTER brought none of these things: neither suffering or pain. It was the life after that brought both—binding them to the lives imprisoned by its cold grasp.

The frozen winds howled above the earth like wolves ravaging the flesh off a fresh kill, only these winds were not decimating a carcass, they were decimating the face of the world itself. Traston did not know how long he would be able to survive while exposed to such weather as he hobbled along the ground, hindered by the throbbing pain in his left foot. The air rose up underneath the rags he wore, and through the holes in his already light jacket, chilling him to the bone. Was this how it was to end? Was this how Roth, his childhood friend, would leave him? He was cold, battered, his clothes ripped to shreds. Surely, there was no saving his friend, he knew that now. He was so cruel, so lost to the desire within.

Traston hobbled over to a storefront, placing a hand upon its charred plaster walls in support of his own weight. He lowered himself, bracing his back against the wall to shelter himself from the wind for as long as he could. To imagine this store as it had been in the Old World was a demanding task. Ever since the Flash, he only received small glimpses into the past, small windows into his very own memories, when there had been color and light upon the world.

The street he had trudged down had many other storefronts similar to the one he hunkered down behind, yet they were all in a state of disrepair. Some had toppled walls with heaps of rubble below, the walls that stood were often burnt black or covered with ash, and nearly all the window glass was shattered, leaving nothing but razor-sharp shards protruding from the frames like the teeth of a drake of Mahr. The street was a similar story. Its surface was cracked, disintegrated to ash in some places. Sink holes littered the places where Old World drainage pipes had once been, leaving bomb-shaped craters here and there. It looked as though a war had struck this town, yet Traston knew that no war had ever touched these soils, only judgment had.

Within the interior of the store, he heard the sound of glass shatter. He knew what it meant. He was not alone. Roth might still be nearby, or perhaps more of the Others. Though his fingers were purple and he suspected the same for his toes, he had to keep moving. He was not far enough out of the city yet. The danger was still present, still real.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, fingers groping for cracks in the wall through torn gloves, fumbling for anything for the slightest support, the slightest relief. He heard a chair slide across the wooden floor, letting out a stark creaking sound before it toppled over. He glared into the darkness of the store’s interior and saw nothing. But he knew something was there, watching him.

Traston hastily began to limp away from the shelter of the store’s wall, once again at the mercy of the howling winds. If he was going to survive this he would have to put a good deal of distance between him and the city. It had been a damn stupid idea to have wandered through there in the first place. He could have lived a few more days without food, he knew that much. Never attempt to save yourself unless you’re absolutely desperate, he had learned. Considering Roth, Traston wondered if he had been desperate.

The pain in his foot throbbed once more as he smashed his toe against a slab of upturned pavement where it had buckled and cracked open. He let out a moan of pain and fell to the cold, hard ground in a heap of pain and exhaustion. His face felt as though it would stick to the icy surface of the pavement if he stayed long enough. With all his reflexes, he couldn’t even prevent himself from tripping. He turned his body over, hands shivering from the cold as he pressed his body off the ground. Glancing up, he saw that he had fallen under a tree, bark black as crow’s wings and limbs reaching to the sky like scraggly black fingers. There was no green anymore, but even without it, the fossil tree still had a certain degree of beauty to it, a fractal symmetry that reminded him of what was, and what still may come to pass. Even in death, a thing can retain its beauty.

Then, he looked back at the faded city behind him. It was nothing short of disgusting. In the far distance, he saw grey, featherless wings circle the skyscrapers like vultures waiting for a morsel to feed upon. Why was it that they were so fit to inhabit this world, flying against such cold and wind, and he was not? Why was it that Roth was fit to inhabit the new world?

I need to get Roth off my mind, Traston told himself as he brought himself to his feet once more. His vision became blurry with tears. He had hoped. I am the only one . . . There is no one else . . .

In the distance ahead, he saw it. He saw it, the coast where none of the Others would dare tread. He pushed himself at the sight of the dead, grey waters, placid, save for but the tiny crests of waves which crashed against the shore. The buildings of the city were far behind now, leaving nothing to surround him but ashen lands. Soot whipped in the winds in great heaps, pounding his body as he attempted to keep the weight of his injured leg. The world was trying to kill him for his failure, and he thought that would be just fine. All he wanted was to feel the water once last time.

As he avoided a sinkhole, he heard a howl from behind. He did not turn. He ran, stepping upon his throbbing foot as he jammed his feet into the ground as fast as he could. There was still one way he did not want to die.

Suddenly, he reached beach, tripping and tumbling down a sandbar, rolling his body closer to the dead water. He stopped in a heap at the base of the sandbar and did not move. He could feel the blackened sand covering his face and body. He could feel the tiny grains under his eyes lids, scraping upon his corneas. It was in his ear and mouth. It tasted of pure carbon. He could barely open his eyes. His foot shot pain up his leg. It would surely be broken after such a tumble.

That was not mattered. It would likely be over soon.

With the last of his strength, he reached his arms out toward the water and began to drag his body across the blackened sand, leaving a trail behind him like a great scar upon the smooth, ashy beach.

As he dragged himself along, he looked up at the heavy, grey, looming clouds above. He would have given anything to see one last glimpse of sunlight. Yellow had been his favorite color, and he had loved the sunsets of the Old World for its sake. That was one of the only memories that flashed before his eyes every so often, though he did not remember much about where he had been, nor who had been with him. All he needed was a glimpse of that sunset.

Behind the emotionless faces of the mountains beyond the coast, he thought he saw something warm on the horizon. His hands were shaking so fervently from the chilled wind that he could feel them no longer. He imagined he was still pulling himself along, but could not tell. He was too focused on the horizon. For a moment, he thought he saw the glow of yellow against the grey of the sky. That was enough.

Traston let his head down upon the ashen sands and let his face stick to the cold. He curled in his fingers and what he could of his toes. With that last glimpse, he closed his eyes, let out a deep sigh, and waited to die.

He never reached the water.

Chapter 2 — Life

Traston found himself in an odd place, one that he had not seen for nearly seven years. He was in his room, sitting upon his bed with its navy blue sheets, the same ones that had covered his bed all his life. Poster lined the walls detailing franchises long past, heroes from an age when such fantasies were trivial, when they could be afforded to entertain. His dresser lay before him, messy and cluttered, clothes scattered across the ground. Atop the dresser was his video helmet, the same one he used to play some of his favorite games on. Electricity had been such a wonderful thing, but nowhere near as wonderful as what he spied through one of the nearby doors. Beyond the threshold he saw the porcelain gleam of a working toilet. He had half a mind to go sit on it now, the one luxury he missed so dearly, but this was not something the memory would allow.

Almost unconscious about what he was doing, Traston found himself on his feet, pacing toward his second-story window. The shag carpet beneath his feet massaged his toes. It was soft. That was another texture he had not felt in seven years.

Yellow light streamed through the window pane in thick beams. Beyond the window, he saw it. Color. The green of the grass, the faded purple of the sky, and the blue of his mother’s flowers planted freshly on the front lawn.

He listened. He listened closely for them, for his parents. He waited, but he could not hear them. The memory would not allow it. Instead, he heard the yelping of a dog down the street, across the road, at the corner of the intersection. The dog was barking loudly as if it were trying to ward off an intruder, then it yelped as though it were trying to get away. He remembered now. The dog had been at it all morning.

Its barks and yelps were coming from his friend’s house. It was coming from Roth’s house.

He could not say how he found himself on the street approaching Roth’s front door, but he was. As he reached the front steps, the barking suddenly stopped. He knocked sheepishly on the red door. No one answered. He knocked louder. Still no answer.

Stepping off the front porch, he made his was around to the backyard where the yelping had come from, careful to mind the shrubs and flowers planted around the house exterior. He found the gate to the backyard. His fingers were just thin enough to fit through the crack between the gate and the fence. Roth’s parents never seemed to mind, he was always coming over to hang out with their son anyhow.

Pushing the gate open, he paced around the side of the house until he found what he was looking for. At that moment, he wished he had stayed in his room. Roth, he shouted, what have you done?

Roth knelt in the backyard over his dog, hands covered with crimson blood dripping from the end of his fist. He clutched a jagged rock in his right hand. Clumps of the dog’s fur adhered to the rock from the chunks of meat and blood that caked its surface. The side of the dog’s head was red and looked misshapen.

Roth glared at Traston with cold eyes. He did not look scared or sorry. He looked like a predator. He wouldn’t be quiet. . . he whispered.

Those words rang in Traston’s ears for the rest of his life. There was nothing he could find to say. They both had played with that dog their entire childhood. Roth had grown up loving the animal. Are . . . Are you hurt? he finally managed. Did he hurt you?

Roth couldn’t seem to let go of the rock. His grasp was like iron. No. He wouldn’t be quiet. His tone felt distant, as though his mind was in a far off place.

Traston treaded over to the dog’s still, dead corpse, petting the fur near its hind end, where the fur was still clean. It was still warm.

I got some of the blood in my mouth, Roth said slowly.

Traston saw a few drops of blood on his chin and to the side of his mouth.

I doesn’t taste so bad.

When Traston was older, he would think more gravely of that comment, but at the time he dismissed it as his attention drew toward the dog’s bloodied head, now seeping tears of red onto the lawn, watering the grass with its life-force. The stillness of the body disturbed him. Why wouldn’t he be quiet? He wanted desperately to understand.

He wouldn’t be quiet, Roth repeated like a broken audio message, shaking his head slowly. He wouldn’t be quiet.

The words rang back and forth in Traston’s ears, heavy with remorse. He felt a pain in his stomach. The word rang louder. He wouldn’t be quiet.

Of all the colors from the Old World, red was the one he missed the least.

The pain hit his stomach again and he opened his eyes, jerked back to reality. Before him were the cold, black waters, lapping in small waves upon the ashen beach. It was warmer now, still cold, but warmer than it had been during the storm. He could see that his hands were pink now, instead of purple.

Oh . . . he groaned, saddened. His stomach hurt but at least he could feel his face. I am not dead.

No you’re not, a stern voice said from above.

Traston peeled his face from off the ground, cheek covered in ash. Above him stood a female with long, matted hair, with a cap across her cranium to keep it all down. Her golden-brown hair was dull, and split ends pervaded the tips. Her clothes were in a sorry state but still resembled Old World clothing. Her boots were uncomfortably close to his stomach. It was nicer than anything he had ever seen, let alone worn. Behind him, he heard the sound of reactor engines and squeaking wheels.

What in the hells are you doing here? she asked, voice dripping with disgust and condemnation.

I am laying here, Traston replied with some level of sarcasm, plainly.

I can see that, she reiterated. "Why are you laying here in the path of my caravan?"

I did not intend to be here when I woke.

And where else was it you expected to wake if not in the same stop as where you fell asleep?

I intended to die in the storm.

I see, she said in a softer, though still harsh tone. That was one of the worst storms this area has seen in quite some time. It would have been a glorious death for something as worthless as you. When I walked over here, I had half a mind to let you join our caravan because I find myself in a position lacking of many decent men. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps you should have allowed yourself the pleasure of death.

It would have certainly been more of a pleasure than this conversation, he replied.

The woman appeared to be unaffected by his snide remarks. Her blue eyes were as glass, solid and calculating. You have lost something, she said softly. I see it. I have known it.

He did nothing.

She leaned over some. Do you know the best thing to do when you lose something? she asked, unmoving.

She stayed silent for a moment, and Traston wondered if she intended him to respond.

. . . The best thing you can do is to carefully remove your head from your ass—to look up and realize that everyone else has lost just as much—if not more.

Behind her, he saw a truck hauling a large white trailer roll past across the sands, nearly getting stuck in a handful of places. Behind that truck, he saw numerous others, following the lead truck in a line. At the top of the beach, one vehicle had already becomes stuck in the sand, digging four inverse wheel wells into the sand with three men trying their best to dig it out before one man walked up, stomped on the earth and the truck rose out of the ground on black sandstone pedestals.

Now, the woman continued, I am giving you the opportunity to replace what you seem to have lost—if I am correct in that assumption.

What I have lost cannot be replaced.

Yes it can, she spat back, standing up straight. It will not be the same, but it will be something. And in your case, you look like you’d be glad to have anything.

He did nothing.

Suddenly, she became annoyed. Or, perhaps you could continue to lay on the beach like a goddamn seal, pissin’ away your pain. It matters little to me. You are a worthless sack of meat.

She went to kick him in the stomach again. With unnatural lightning fast reflexes, Traston reached down, grabbing her by the ankle before her foot could make contact with his skin. For a moment, she tried to push her foot forward, to get the tiniest satisfaction out of striking him, but his grasp clamped upon her leg like a hydraulic claw and his reflexes adjusted to her every movement, making it so that she could hardly move her foot. Not while I’m awake, he said sharply.

She eventually pulled her foot back, placid in her defeat. She leaned over him once more, this time coming close to his face. She reached her hand out. That was when Traston saw that she did not have nails on her hands, but claws, long and retractable. She drew them out, running the claw of her forefinger down his cheek, putting him in a very uncomfortable position. Her claw was sharp as a dagger. He felt the seal of his skin break under the pressure. Even so, he did not feel fear, nor did he ever imagine she would do him harm.

Neither while I am awake, she said, eyes narrow like a cat. She withdrew her hand, stood, and walked away with one last glance at him.

He did not know what to make of it all.

Suddenly, a hand grasped his forearm and lifted him to his feet. A man stood before him with black hair and lightly shaved stubble across his chin, bringing his chapped face to a point. His eyes were oddly soft for a man of his complexion, a light purple, just as his father’s had been. He too wore ragged clothing of the Old World, a heavy jacket, filthy scarf, and wrapping around his hands. Forgive her for that, he said in kind, but hard voice. Helda can be a bit of a hard-ass sometimes, but we love her just the same. I’m Darion. He held out his hand.

Traston took it, shaking it with a firm grasp, similar to the one he had held around Helda’s ankle.

Darion seemed puzzle, or amazed by it. He stared down at Traston’s hands, lost at the sight of them. Why that’s . . . incredible . . .

Traston eventually had to rip his hand from Darion.

Sorry, Darion apologized. Here . . . He drew Traston’s arm over his shoulder to support his cold, stiff body. Let’s get you inside, you can stay in my trailer—

It did not seem like Helda wanted me.

She acts like that to everyone, Darion replied. Especially the men we find. She wants to muster up the last of their honor. She’s actually very gentle with the women we find. She has her ways with both.

My honor was lost in the Flash. What if I don’t want to come with you?

That’s fine and well, Darion replied. But at least have the decency to think it over. And if you do end up still wanting to off yourself, do it in a seemly place, one far from here. I’ve seen too many people die and I not willing to witness another one without giving you a chance. Yes?

Trastion said nothing. He did not want to go with them, for he still wished to die. He could easily break free of this man’s grasp and could easily elude him, and all of them for that matter with his reflexes, but there was something other than the man’s grasp holding him there. He couldn’t say what I was, so he allowed Darion to drag him all the way.

Darion took him to his trailer, one of the few out of the caravan that was parked properly and ready to be utilized. From the look of things, it must have been near the front. It was an odd conglomeration composed of many different metals nailed and strung loosely together, yanked from their proposed applications to form a menial shelter. The rims of the wheels were rusted and bent in a few places, and the tires were old and bald.

The truck that hauled the trailer was a similar sight, mostly rusted with many dents, mars and missing pieces. Holes in its body had been covered with sheet metal, and its windows were either barred or covered completely, designed as an impenetrable shell to keep the dangers of the New World on the outside. As Traston was helped up the steps into the trailer, he caught a glimpse of what was in the truck bed: matted clothing and empty containers. It was a place for trash that might someday come of use again.

The inside of the trailer was dark and dank. Traston could not see much of anything inside. Small pockets of light shone down through the cracks in the infrastructure, casting small beams of light down onto the floor and walls as if the trailer had been punctured by a hundred needles.

Darion let him down on some sort of loose canvas, though Traston could not tell for certain in the dark. Soon after, he was brought a blanket. It felt good to be out of the wind. In the absence of the chill he was already starting to warm up. Darion’s feet clanged across the trailer’s metal floor. He reached up, pushing aside a trapdoor in the ceiling, letting a flood of light to pierce the darkness.

That was when he saw them. Guns. Across the trailer, lined up like toys in an Old World store. Below he saw buckets of dull steel cases mixed with a few golden brass ones. He noticed there were no laser or solid light weapons among the classic striker fired weapons. He doubted any truly technical weapons still existed. Their batteries would have run dry, or their components would have deteriorated.

In the corner, he saw the uneasy glare of another person, a woman who looked a few years past his age with pin-straight black hair and a dry face. She glanced at him for a moment, then continued what she had been doing, cutting old clothes and rags into long ribbons. Behind her lay spatters of browned blood, crusted and painted on the walls like slime molds. Cots lay to her right and left. They were in worse shape than the walls were.

Sorry about the mess, Darion said to Traston, apparently aware of what he was looking at. We lost our healer about a month ago. Things have been . . . costly . . . since then. And much more colorful at that. He walked over to check some papers on a rotting desk, peering at Traston with intent. You wouldn’t happen to be one, would you . . . ?

No, Traston quickly replied. No.

Darion’s attention turned to his papers. Ah . . . That’s a shame. Could have used a new one.

What’s she there for then? Traston motioned at the woman in the corner.

Nadia is in the position of diagnosis—She is a reader.

Nadia did not lift her head from her work.

Darion continued. The injured aren’t always as descriptive as we would like. Usually we just get yelling and screaming and ‘stop the pain in my leg,’ or ‘stop the bleeding.’ But Nadia uses her gift to go into their mind, feel their pain, and then patch it up . . . I believe she has experienced more pain collective than I, hard to say.

She still did not lift her head from her work.

Traston’s attention refocused on the weaponry across from him. The wind seeped through the cracks in the wall, chilling him in small pockets. He stood, wrapping the blanket tighter around his body. It was itchy but warm enough to make due. It was certainly better than the rags across his chest.

He absentmindedly found himself wandering across the way, toward the guns, toward the bullets, toward the bench. There was something captivating about them. Perhaps it was their dull steel, or their scratched barrels. Then again, perhaps it was because they had survived time, the past and present.

Nadia tells me you have fascination with effects of that bench, Traston suddenly said, interrupting his thoughts. In ordinary circumstance, I would not be concerned with such an infatuation. Many men are left in awe at such power, both by seeing and by wielding. But, in light of your attitude, I find myself perplexed by your intentions.

Traston stopped over the bench. For a time, he simply stared at the weapons.

He felt Darion come up beside him. They are not loaded, he stated plainly. Though, in the time it took me to walk over here, I suspect you might have been able to slip a few rounds into one easily. Am I right? He paused and make a sound. Nadia tells me you haven’t.

Quite a hat trick, Traston said in regards to Nadia.

Darion disregarded that comment. Do you know how to use one? he asked, motioning at the guns.

Maybe . . . I don’t remember, yet I have the feeling I might have . . .

Darion grabbed a simple one, holding by the barrel with its grip to Traston. He took it without a second thought, holding it gently, allowing the weight to fall into his hand and wrist. Very nice.

You hold in your hand the original superpower, Darion remarked. That hunk of steel is both independence and reasonability—something we all must live with at present.

Traston held the barrel to his temple as though he were going to shoot himself right then and there.

Darion didn’t seem threatened or moved by the action.

The cold ring of the barrel left a sensation tingling over Traston’s skin. It was a frightening, yet intoxication sort of feeling. Death was so close, he could feel it, but it would not be brought without the gun’s second half. Feels alright, he said stoically. What about below the chin? He held the gun below his chin, between his mandible, on the soft part of the flesh just under the tongue. He was unsure. Too risky of a miss I’d say . . . What about . . . He shoved the barrel of the gun into the mouth so that the ring of the barrel rested upon his pallet. His voice was muffled by the cold steel between his teeth. Da outh.

Darion was still unmoved. "I’ve always been partial to the side of the head myself. Seen a lot of comrades go that way and I seems to be clean. But, there are benefits to the mouth. Seems to be the steadiest with the highest likelihood of destroying the