Cloud Nine
by Kyle Rader
Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:
“Can’t I go out? Even for a few minutes?”
Drew knew the answer would be no, yet he still asked the question. Despite all that had happened, he was still only a boy—eight or nine now. In the early days, Mr. Thurston often said, “Everyone has to pull their weight if we’re going to survive.” As time had moved on, he’d grown silent, sullen, as had the rest of their community, numbers ever dwindling.
And yet, Drew wanted to play, to run around, climb trees and onto the granite boulders in the woods behind the big house they’d sheltered in, the original owners lost in those first awful days. Drew didn’t remember their names, and the survivors had taken all the pictures off the walls long ago. He looked outside from the large bay window, the same spot he curled up in day after day, peering through the cracks in the paper and cardboard they’d taped onto the glass. A bike lay mere feet from the front stoop. It was in the tall grass, rusting and forgotten by all save Drew. Oh, how wonderful to ride it! To take it down the street and feel the wind through his hair and the sun on his face!
“Get away from there, boy. You know they can sense us.”
The voice belonged to Tammy, once his neighbor, now de facto mom/prison warden. Once, she was kind and laughed at damn near everything. She was the kind of person to hand out full-size candy bars on Halloween. That person was gone now, had died alongside her family, all of whom she’d watched lifted up by the clouds, all of whose bones she’d heard crunch and whose blood she’d felt soak into her skin and eyes as it had rained down from swollen, wispy bellies.
Drew knew better than to protest. His back and legs bore the bruises from the last “correction” he’d received at Tammy’s hands. He took a last, longing glance at the bike and slipped off the windowsill. The light peeking in from the slits in the window covering went dark as he trotted off into the house. The windowpane groaned from the pressure as a cloud pressed against it. It lingered for a moment before vanishing with a high-pitched hiss, allowing thin beams of light to trickle back inside.
Drew was made to perform chores, things that once seemed important, vital even, to their survival but had more or less become irrelevant, ways to occupy the time. The adults (six of them left) abandoned these tasks to Drew and the remaining children, Sally and Tom. The adults lay scattered around the old house, curled up into balls or weeping (if they had tears left). Tom, the eldest of the children, said they were “depressed” and would soon be unable to do even the most basic things for themselves or anyone else.
Drew had drawn the short straw that week, and thus latrine duty fell to him. They had four buckets, one on each floor of the house, and today they were rancid. Drew focused on his steps, gagging from the stench, trying not to slip on the dirt-strewn wooden steps and tumble down, making a mess. It’d happened to Lisa Wogen the second week they’d taken up residence. She wailed for four hours straight before Mr. Thurston took her upstairs and gave her one of his wife’s pills and she slept for a day. Lisa mostly slept now, pills or no.
The basement floor was earth. Drew placed the buckets at the foot of the stairs and set to digging a fresh hole for the waste. The old boiler hissed as he worked. Every time he heard it, he thought of the clouds. No one knew if they even were clouds or aliens or what. A broadcast they saw on the old tube television in the house had a scientist on, some big-shot in theoretical sciences. He claimed that they were “natural creatures” who lived in the upper layers of the atmosphere, places we couldn’t really see or get to. He said that what they were doing what any other creature did when their food source ran out: they sought out another.
They got no more television after that. All stations they tried to pick up on the antenna came back with either static or a test pattern. The radio was no better. News came in spurts for the first few weeks, then slowed to nothing. The only broadcast still going was some religious program led by Pastor Joe. They kept it on at first, mostly for the company, but also in the vain hope that the man would pause his near-breathless ravings to provide real news. He did not, and Mr. Thurston shut it off shortly after Pastor Joe started talking about “embracing the Lord’s angels.”
They had been twenty then.
Finished with the hole, Drew emptied the makeshift chamber pots and covered them up. Job done, he returned each to its spot and went to find a bit to drink and something to eat. He entered the large kitchen to find Mr. Thurston holding court. He sat on the island while everyone else sat cross-legged on the floor. He’d lost weight—they all had, but on him, it was noticeable. His once cherubic cheeks were gone, his face now that of a ghost unaware of its fate. Drew knew that there’d be no drink or food for him. Meetings like this meant only one thing.
It was time for another sacrifice.
“Anyone need a moment to get right with God?”
Those chosen—four in all—said nothing. They looked at their feet or straight ahead.
Their names were chosen by Drew, pulled out of a hat held by Mr. Thurston. Everyone’s names went in. Everyone contributed.
During the early days, right before the first sacrifice, a few people balked at performing their duty—a married couple, Dan and Elizabeth Chabot. They out and out refused, leading to a major crisis within the old house that threatened to tear the whole thing down and leave everyone to the mercy of the clouds, would have, if not for the action of Mr. Thurston. As they argued, as the Chabots began to sway others to their side, Mr. Thurston came up behind Dan and brought a pipe wrench down on the back of his skull, repeating his swings until blood soaked into the floorboards and Dan’s leg twitched and quivered. The house was stunned. Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to scream or cry, was able only to repeat “Why did you do such a thing,” said it even as they opened the door and shoved her outside.
No one questioned the process after that. Mr. Thurston was elected to be in charge, and it wasn’t mentioned again. Dan Chabot’s blood left a sticky spot that they couldn’t clean no matter what, so they moved one of the loveseats over it rather than waste energy. No one ever sat there.
The four were split into teams of two: Lisa Wogen and Patrick Greer in one team and Cody Breen and Geoffrey James in the other. That left Mr. Thurston and Tammy as the sole adults in the house. Drew found himself jealous of the chosen. Oh, how badly he wanted to be outside! He’d never had his name pulled from the hat, not once. There was a kid who did, but their name and gender escaped his memory.
The chosen would leave the house from different exits, three in all. The ones in charge of the doors would undo the tape from the doorjambs and open them wide enough for the chosen to squeeze through before slamming them shut. The doors would not be opened until the chosen had returned, and only if they returned with items of value. Empty-handed meant they weren’t contributing, weren’t worthy of sanctuary. Outside, they’d run for their lives down the street to find essentials: water, food, medicines. Two dozen homes lined the street; they’d only managed to go through three. The clouds were fast.
Early on, someone realized that sending out lots of people wouldn’t matter much if the clouds swarmed. They figured that, like any other predator on the planet, they’d go after the weakest of the herd first. Thus, someone would have to be sacrificed to give the others a chance. This choice, too, was determined by fate, and that day, fate had caught up with Geoffrey. Drew saw the tall man shudder as he tried (and failed) to keep his tears inside. Drew didn’t know Geoffrey very well from before or even after he found himself in the house, but he knew he moved from the city after a “nervous break” or something (Drew wasn’t sure what that was; Tom told him it meant Geoffrey was crazy).
“Thank you for your courage.” Mr. Thurston patted Geoffrey on the shoulder and handed him a wooden spoon to bite down on. Sally, Tom, Drew, and Tammy, on door duty, started to peel the duct tape and cardboard off, moving slowly and deliberately to avoid any tearing or other unnecessary noise. No one was sure whether the clouds could hear, but no one wanted to risk being heard. Drew was on the door where Geoffrey would exit, so he had a front-row seat to the sacrifice. Not that he was paying much attention. Geoffrey’s exit also happened to be the closest to the bike Drew coveted.
Mr. Thurston knelt down by Geoffrey’s leg, holding a steak knife. Geoffrey bit down on the spoon so hard his face turned beet red. Drew had never seen so many veins bulge out of a person before. The hint of blood hung in the air, unmistakable even in the stale, recycled atmosphere of the house. It dripped to the floor in a steady, gentle cadence. Mr. Thurston cut deep but not so deep that Geoffrey couldn’t limp far enough away from the house to give the others a chance, so that he could have a chance. Drew looked at the wound, fascinated. It was shaped like an upside-down diamond and appeared to breathe as Geoffrey struggled to put weight on it.
“It’s time,” Mr. Thurston shouted, and the house went into action. Drew pulled the door open, and Mr. Thurston shoved Geoffrey outside. He and Drew quickly slapped tape and cardboard back in place, leaving a small gap in the window to watch Geoffrey’s progress. Mr. Thurston was coated in sweat. He kept wiping his face, leaving one hand held high, waiting to signal the others to make their run.
Geoffrey moaned and shuffled into the unkempt lawn, listing to his left. The trail of blood behind him grew thicker and darker the farther he got. He made it to the street, got halfway across with no sign of the clouds. An old barn stood across the street that the town had converted into a makeshift marketplace that hosted both flea and farmers’ markets every other weekend. The group had long since picked it clean, but Geoffrey made a beeline for it nonetheless. It was shelter. It meant safety.
It wasn’t one but two clouds that scooped Geoffrey up. In school, before, images of the weather hung up in Drew’s classroom. Clouds were represented as white and fluffy or, if they were storm clouds, dark and gray. These clouds, these creatures who lived on outer space’s front stoop looked nothing of the sort. They were wispy and thin like strands of hair or pasta. Their full forms stretched out across miles and miles of open sky, only coming together when they seized upon their prey. In Geoffrey’s case, two tornado-like swirls of ice and vapor curled around him. He screamed and screamed until the pressure snapped his spine in two. His upper torso listed forward and was carried up, up, and away, while his legs moved off in the opposite direction. The clouds grew dark with red until they turned black. The blood soaked through and plummeted to the earth.
Mr. Thurston’s hand dropped. The scavengers moved. They were out and the doors shut and taped in less than ten seconds. Mr. Thurston moved away from the site of Geoffrey’s sacrifice to monitor their progress, as if that would accomplish anything meaningful whatsoever. Moral support wouldn’t save anyone, wouldn’t make their legs run faster, wouldn’t hide them from the clouds.
Drew remained, peering out at the bike. No one was paying him any mind. Their thoughts resided on the border between panic and hope, their stomachs greedy for the promise of new food, their throats dry and ragged, demanding fresh drink. Through his tiny view-hole, he craned his neck to the sky. Harmless blue, empty and ominous, was all he could see.
He heard a cry as he unlocked the door. Tammy, but not crying at him. Her hand covered her mouth, and she wept. “Oh Lisa,” she said. Tom and Sally hugged her, and the rest hung their heads to mourn. Drew licked his lips, took a breath, and stepped outside.
The sun hurt his eyes. He squinted as he ran to the bike, holding a hand over his head, trying to ward it off. His skin tingled. It was the first time in he didn’t know how long that it’d absorbed the healthy, natural light. The world felt brighter, louder. Drew tried to put it out of his mind, focusing on the next step, and the next, as he pumped his legs towards his prize. He wasn’t afraid, not really. He’d seen more death, each more horrible than the last, than most soldiers did in a lifetime. Tammy told him it had cracked their brains, each and every one of them. “Normal people don’t take to sacrificing each other like we have,” she said to him a few weeks back. “Who we were ain’t who we’ve become. I just thank the Good Lord above that we won’t have to endure it for very long.”
Drew wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but Tammy cuffed him on the head and curled up on the floor and refused to speak.
The bike was heavier than Drew expected. Lifting it up a Herculean task that almost toppled both him and the bike. It was an adult bike, much more intricate than the one he left behind to rust in his garage. It didn’t matter; he’d make do. He had to. This was his chance.
He tried to swing his leg onto the seat, finding himself a few inches too short. Undeterred, Drew pushed the kickstand up and rolled the bike down the street. The tires squealed an unholy sound as they moved, knocking rust and inactivity off. A warning in the back of Drew’s mind sounded, telling him to drop the bike, to run back for the house and end this childish nonsense. His life was in jeopardy. Didn’t he understand that?
He did full and well. He simply didn’t care. Not anymore.
The bike was moving now. Drew put his foot on one of the pedals, hopping along behind it then pushing himself up and onto the seat. It was harder than stone. Drew grimaced as he took his first tenative pedals. The tires were flat. The gears sticky with un-use and rust. A few wobbles threatened to send him tumbling to the pavement below, but Drew kept pedaling and soon, he was riding.
What a feeling, Drew thought. The air cut through him as he pedaled faster, moving farther from the house. He took a corner and circled around Main Street. Debris of the fallen—crashed cars and trucks, broken glass, and junk, littered the street, making him swerve and dodge. He drove over something white and brittle—crunching it sounded like eating stale cereal—realizing moments after it was someone’s bones. The horror should’ve unnerved him, but Drew was lost to his ecstasy.
He planned to circle around the block and be back to the house before anyone knew he was gone. Screams preceded his return. Overhead and to the right, a cloud soared up into the blue carrying Cody Breen with it. Cody’s head disappeared into the foggy ice before popping, sending the insides down to the earth. Another cloud came into view, rumbling and churning from white to red as it devoured Patrick Greer, dropping his arms and legs. It swooped down and caught them mid-air before rising again, munching on its prize.
Drew pedaled hard for the old house. Soaring around the corner, he yelped and brought the bike to a skidding halt.
He’d left the door open.
The clouds were inside.
Drew could only watch and listen. Tammy dove through a window, landing hard only feet from him. Glass shards embedded in her arms and face, she still possessed enough fortitude to rise and make a run for anywhere. It didn’t matter. The clouds were faster. They enveloped her, and her screams turned to wet gurgles as they feasted upon her flesh and bones.
The other survivors, Mr. Thurston, Sally, Tom… their screams died out. Drew was alone. Clouds, bellies stained red with gore, hissed as they moved toward him.
Drew pedaled hard and fast, standing up from the seat and pushing with his full body. The town raced by him—trees and buildings turned to blurs. It was incredible. He felt on top of the world.
Even as the clouds caught him and lifted him high above the town.