Oct 01 2008
The Wingmakers, Chapter 1: Vision
Chapter One: The Vision
The gray sky darkened at the horizon, a foreboding message to those who dared to change, to travel from their city. It was a bleak world, a colorless world. Skyscrapers towered over the streets, casting dark shadows in frightening alleyways. Johnny Sparks rubbed his bare arms nervously as he stepped over the puddles of gasoline that littered the ground. Calls from unseen doorways, along with beckoning shadows, made him hurry as he walked. He did not turn his gaze, but still he saw the temptations out of his peripheral vision. They were temptations of drugs, sex, of living fully. But the time was fleeting, and after the crash, after the glorious trip ended, the sky seemed even darker, the world filled with smoke and the food tasting like ash. Johnny knew that once he succumbed, it was almost impossible to escape. He had been like that several years ago. He had been one of the shadows, a stranger in an alleyway tempting the passers-by.
But Johnny had a purpose now. Not quite a dream. The drugs had muddled his brain enough to make him incapable of ever achieving anything extraordinary. But he had a job that allowed him to pay his rent. He could spend the rest of his days in this city, maybe retire when he was old enough. Living life to the fullest was overrated. Johnny knew this for a fact because he had done so three years ago. Dreams were useless, weighing him down with disappointment when they inevitably failed. Practicality, the mundane, drab normality of everyday life; that was where it mattered. That was what held society together.
“Redemption, sir, I can give you freedom and salvation!” cried a voice.
Johnny did not turn to look, choosing to ignore the lunatic.
“It’s the 21 of December, sir, it’s the day the world will end! Countless prophets have predicted the catastrophe!” The voice’s owner sounded almost hysterical.
Johnny left the alleyway and sat down on a bench near the bus stop. The bus would take him to his office, and then he would spend the day calling people richer than him, asking if they wanted to buy the company’s current product. The company changed its product often, depending on how successful it was. If they had a good month, the product stayed the same, perhaps for several more months. But if their weekly quota was not met, the product was changed before the month even ended. Occasionally, Johnny found himself describing previous products when on the phone, the constant changes creating confusion in his mind. Even worse were the flashbacks from the drugs. He had indulged frequently in a drug called Glow, a stronger variant of LSD. A hallucinogen, it was named for creating a sort of “glow” around everything, almost as if was emitting an aura. Strange apparitions also appeared, and the sensory sector of the brain became distorted, mixing the senses in an attempt to discern what was happening. Johnny, as well as the many other users of Glow, enjoyed it partly because of the colors one saw when under the influence. Johnny would greet them as long lost friends, remembering the colors that framed his childhood in happy, vibrant rays. Except now, the over usage of Glow caused him to sometimes experience highs even when not using the drug, similar to the effects of LSD. It was not as though color no longer existed. It was just the smog, the factories, the buildings. Everything was gray. The attitude of the city’s population was depression, and that was reflected in the colors of their lives.
Johnny stood up quickly as the bus arrived, rummaging in his pocket for some loose change. His fingers grasped several quarters, and then two dollar bills. The bus fare was $2.50, so he had just enough. He waited patiently for all the passengers to disembark, and then hastily stepped onto the bus, well aware that he might be late for work. He handed the driver the money, putting the leftover quarter in his pocket. The bus lurched and Johnny quickly searched for a seat. As he sat down, he toyed with the coin in his pocket, pulling it out and inspecting the date on it. It was from 2001, and the once shiny exterior was slightly tarnished and old.
A large, bearded man coughed, and Johnny realized that he wanted to sit down. Johnny shifted over, allowing the man to sit by him. As the man bent to sat down, the bus lurched once more, swerving over to the side of the road. The driver cursed in surprise, pulling the bus back into the center of the street. As he did so, the bus lurched once more, and Johnny was aware of a faint shaking, not in the vehicle, but in the earth itself. He heard a sound, too, an immense wave of sound that was still building up, still swelling, the frequency too low for him to even register except as a pressure against his ears. Johnny cried out in fear as the bus lurched for the last time, the front end tipping forward while the back end flew into the air. Johnny felt himself flying forward, and the bearded man beside him grabbed onto the back of his shirt. Before he could thank the man, however, the momentum of the bus kept them moving forward, and the bus flipped over completely, sending Johnny crashing to the ceiling. His stomach slammed with a thud into the hard metal interior, and he found himself unable to breathe. The pressure he had felt around his ears earlier had worsened, and now the sound was high enough to hear. It was the sound of ripping, of destruction. Though the bus was still skidding violently, and a river of blood was flowing into his eyes, he could see buildings smashing to the ground through the window. He saw fires, huge car pile-ups, and, in one place, the street had cracked open, revealing a wide chasm beneath the ground.
