Creative Writing: After High School

Storm pulled the oversize sports bag off the back seat, unzipped it and took out the two backpacks stuffed inside. He swung the straps of the three bags over his shoulder and set off up the path to the surgery entrance. At the top of the steps, he tapped the five digits into the security control keypad. The was a metallic click from the lock mechanism, the lights flashed to verify the sequence was correct, and he turned the key.
The oxygen tanks were easy to find inside the storage room, right where Franchette said they would be. It took a few more minutes to find the regulators, masks, hoses, and carry holsters. The sports bag seemed to weigh a ton as he dragged it across the floor to the front door of the reception. Much harder to locate
Was that the plan? I want to know.”
“There was no plan.”
“The plan to have me killed before I talked to anyone. Like what happened to the others in the observatory.”
“You're a smart boy. You have surprising gifts and talents. Now you show me you are as stupid as the rest of them—Davenport is dedicated and as such he is very useful. No, he was not planning to kill you, and I never told him to do that.”
Martyn paused again.
“His time here is almost over. Your time is not. You and I may meet again. If we do, I should think we will be near the end of both our journeys.”
After his conversation was finished Storm gathered up the backpacks. The bloody oxygen tanks! They were as heavy as hell. He shouldered the bags as best he could and launched himself through the open door. The orange light overhead reflected off the shiny white paint of the clinic and the sheen on his sweat covered arms. He dared not look up. Instead he concentrated on keeping a tight grip on the
The whole region had heard it. A sound like that made by a stick run around the rim of a large bronze bell, like a Tibetan singing bowl. A colossal singing bowl. He remembered during a science class a teacher showing them a video of one being used. But the sound he was hearing was almost a grinding groan. The frequency amplified by the firmament itself. So very loud.
His legs began to shake as he reached the car. Martyn's final words repeated in his head. “You have to keep moving. Make haste to your sanctuary. You are running out of days.”
The awful grinding around him ceased as suddenly as it began. He let the bags down as gently as he could to the ground not wanting to break the vials Franchette had him locate, and fumbled with the keys. Off in the distance came more subsonic booms. Meteors breaking through the sound barrier as they raced above the cloud mass. He lifted the bags onto the back seat and closed the door.
Champ was missing. The mutt must have slipped out the door when pulled the bags from the back seat. He slammed the door and jabbed the key into the ignition. Then he heard a wet noise under the dash, and he knew at once. The dog was curled tight against the firewall. Eyes so wide they were almost all whites stared up at Storm. Champ licked his jowls once more and gave a long and pitiful