Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Fan Fiction ❯ A New Lease on Life ❯ 2: Death Was Only the Beginning ( Chapter 2 )

A quick note regarding colloquialism in dialogue and odd words: Symbols at the end of a sentence or word mark words or references defined at the end of the chapter. I try to define the stuff that's really odd, heavily altered due to pronunciation, and local slang that non-local readers might not pick up. This will become especially necessary once Amber starts letting out her oddities (and going through frequent crisis-induced 'relapse' speech, which is heavily brogued with a southern twist) but this isn't a frequent occurrence until the end of Part I.

More references to Inferno. I still don't own it.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Including but not limited to Tornados, Severe weather, Town destroyed by tornados and severe weather, shock, graphic imagery, corpses, violent death, mentions of religion. This one's a bumpy ride, Folks - hang in there.

Suggested Listening: Linkin Park "Iridescent"

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I remembered black skies, the lightning all around me.
I remembered each flash as time began to blur,
Like a startling sign that fate had finally found me… —————————————————————

2: Death Was Only the Beginning
Willsdale, Missouri, Sunday May 8th, 2011

The sound of violent retching woke Amber with a start. Judging by the fact that she woke up sprawled on the carpet in a pile, she fell off the sofa sometime during the night. As sleepy disorientation faded into exhausted annoyance, she glanced off to her right. Sure enough, the bathroom door hung wide open spilling bright light out into the cramped hallway. She snorted and commenced crawling back onto the lumpy sofa. "Good thing you've got short hair, Willis. I ain't gotta feel guilty about not holdin' it back for ya."

"Fuck you, O'Bri—" Aaron's guttural retort was interrupted by another round of heaving.

"I told ya that whisky would kill ya." She swiped one of her long brown braids back over her shoulder only for it to swing right back down and smack her in the mouth. "Ugh, cannae ya no'?* Aaron, your usual beer is water compared to that whisky; smells like goat piss, too." Clutching her stiff back, she stumbled off the sofa and limped into the tiny kitchen seeking coffee. A note stuck to the fridge told her their host had already headed to work, and the bitter perfume of coffee filled the dog-stinking air. As she dug through the cabinet for a mug a tiny, half-blind and fully neurotic black and tan Chihuahua skittered in circles by the back door, growling and barking at her. "Quiet, Nina. Uncle Aaron's hungover." To no surprise, the dog snapped and growled again, then scarpered when Amber went to open the door.

"Let the damned thing out!" Aaron groaned into the toilet. "My head's killing me!"

"Again, not my fault; I tried to warn ya." Since Nina wouldn't come within several yards of anyone but Ma Willis without sedatives, Amber propped the back door open and returned to the coffee maker; when the neurotic dog rocketed out the back door like the vet was on her heels, Amber cracked a smile and shook her head. With the door shut and her mug set up, she took a cup of water and a bottle of Mtn Dew in for Aaron. "Why your cousin thought gettin' you pished was a good idea, I'll never know."

"Oh, come here you sweet, beautiful bitch." Knowing Aaron didn't mean her, Amber shoved the soda at him, laughing under her breath, and left. Some things never changed, and his Mtn Dew addiction numbered among those things; so too did the way she and her best friends got along by harassing one another.

The Terrible Trio started with Amber O'Brien, only child of a Scottish immigrant and unable to fit in with the locals even after she took on their twang. It became a duo with the inclusion of Mercy Ross, a bristly beauty with an affinity for cows and a horrible homelife. Then in High School the two odd friends met Aaron Willis—a son of a local and the epitome of a country bumpkin. Years went by and the three friends only grew closer and more obnoxious, and they became a fixture in town. Even after Aaron's family left Willsdale for nearby Glenville after Graduation, they kept close contact until he moved into a double-wide trailer near Amber's home.

Aaron Willis was disinterested in love, sex, and the like—he never showed any interest in anyone and spent years oblivious to Amber's puppy love crush on him—but deep in her heart, Amber knew the truth. Even if he did harbor interest in relationships, he would never be attracted to her, and it didn't bear considering. That ship had long sailed; she wasn't the sort to pine after someone who couldn't return her feelings, and it became clear in time that they would have been horribly suited. Still, even if romance was an option, Amber was sure she wasn't Aaron's type—she was plain, barely 5'3, and morbidly obese. Her brown hair started going grey in her teen years—an unfortunate hereditary condition—and she couldn't walk a straight line if she was paid to. Love she could keep was never in the cards for her, and ever since she was hit by a van during college, neither was meaningful work.

Amber scoffed and took a swig of her coffee. 'Gawd almighty, quit your whinin' O'Brine! You're alive, you're not dyin' in an RCF, you're got a roof over your head, food in my cabinets, an' two kickarse friends. Things could be so much worse than random booty calls, sexual frustration, an' an end-table ass.'

Mid-rant, Aaron collapsed at the rickety wooden table, burying his head in his arms. "Please tell me Ma left donuts." 

"Nope," Amber answered with an innocent expression, and poked his springy blond curls. Sproing. He swatted her hand away. "She left your favorite pizza…but it's got pickles on it."

Aaron jerked upright and launched himself toward the fridge. "Sacrilege!" She didn't—she wouldn't!" A moment later, with the fridge door hanging open, he slanted an accusing glare at her over the rims of his glasses. "Quit pickin' on the hungover person. Pickles on pizza…you need your head checked."

"We a'ready know that, Willis." She snagged an éclair from the box with a crooked, playful grin. "Thanks for the YouTube footage, by the way: Drunkard milks bull; it's sure to be a hit."

"I what?!" he squawked. "Oh, Hell naw! You post that an' I'll piss in your garden! On your roses!" 

The two friends passed the rest of the morning with good-natured bickering, terrible coffee, stale donuts, and bad daytime TV. They never could have known this would be their last such visit. Soon, though, they would find that their world had changed forever. 

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Once Aaron's hangover had abated, they returned to Willsdale, blasting Quiet Riot and Black Sabbath the whole way. As they crept over the city limits, though, the silence in the car deafened them, and soon, Amber's beat up red Civic pulled into an empty driveway—a driveway without a building behind it. It wasn't sinking in; how could so much happen in one weekend?

The once-bustling small town was battered and broken, and what remained resembled a war zone. Vacant cars lay crumpled along the road between downed utility poles. Fallen, splintered trees littered the landscape. Debris was everywhere—hanging in trees, pinned under fallen structures, blowing along the ground—and Amber noticed neither the tears streaming from her eyes nor murmured reassurances from Aaron. Every structure they passed was demolished. Every landmark they knew was erased. The power station, the cemetery, the house with bright purple siding, and the store with broken windows...all that remained was rubble-strewn dirt and asphalt.

Even knowing what she'd find there, and even knowing the sight could break her, Amber pulled into her driveway before she knew it. Her house—the small, cluttered bungalow she had called home for years—was reduced to a pile of timber and siding. Out back, her struggling garden lay buried under shattered brick, shingle, and wispy pink fiberglass insulation.

"Amber," Aaron called as she crept from her car to what was once the front step. "Amber, wait!" She shook her head, frantic and frightened, and she dug through the debris pile over the porch; in her shock-addled mind, she could only think of getting inside and curling up on the sagging plaid couch. It never even registered that not only was the sofa probably ruined, but the house also itself was no longer standing. Cursing, Aaron scrambled over fallen brick and fractured supports to tear Amber away from the ruin.

"No!" she cried, fighting to get free. "It's my home! I've gotta—"

"Amber!" Aaron framed her face in callused hands, anchoring her eyes to his and willing her to hear him. "Amber, it's gone! You're gonna hurt yourself!"

Memories flashed before Amber's eyes, blocking out the familiar blue, the wreckage, and everything in between. Without warning, dry, chapped lips met hers fiercely as strong arms held her like she was about to be torn out of them. When Aaron finally let go, she buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing as they slid to the sodden ground. As if mocking them, the clouds broke open anew; thunder rolled, lightning flashed, and torrents of rain mingled with hopeless tears. 

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Sunday, May 15th, 2011

Over a week later, Amber and Aaron were still sheltered at City Hall with countless other refugees. Neither had a home to go to, now, and with the phone lines and cell towers down, Aaron couldn't get word to his mother or sisters. Amber wouldn't contact her family—her mother and father, her awkward uncle Bart, or even the cherished and gruff grandparent she affectionately called "Gran'Da"—and insisted it was pointless. That made no sense to Aaron, but none of what was happening made sense.

With every tearful story and gut-wrenching news report on the radio, the truth became clearer. The night after Amber and Aaron drove to visit his mother in Glenville, an EF-5 tornado spawned just outside of town. Before it fizzled out, it destroyed much of the town, several outlying farms, fields, and homes, and left nearly a hundred dead, injured, or homeless.

Amber's home was gone. Aaron's home was gone. No one could get ahold of Mercy Ross; Aaron worried what this might mean and heaved a heavy sigh.

Search and rescue teams descended on the ruined town with a vengeance early on, working their way through it with military precision. Everywhere, codes had been spray painted on crumbled structures and vehicles. Survivors found, dead discovered, hazards present—just overnight, Amber's life had become an endless parade of neon x's, scribbled codes, and body bags, interspersed with canned soup and crying children. Every hour of every day it rained more and more, and Amber sat in a quiet corner staring blankly at the wall.

Aaron Willis watched her as he helped hand out bottled water, forlorn and frustrated with his uselessness. Amber's fear of storms dated back farther than their friendship, and he was used to witnessing anxiety attacks over the lightest drizzle. Now? Now she seemed empty and never spoke. Something was wrong with her, but Aaron had no idea what he could do. It was heart-wrenching to see her so dull and lifeless. Worst of all, he kissed her—he finally gave in to his years-old hidden crush and kissed her—but for whatever reason, she didn't realize the significance. She probably thought he was just trying to comfort her, he reasoned, absent-mindedly crushing the life from an empty water bottle. Frustrated and helpless, he threw himself into making himself useful in any way he could and made call after call that never went through.

When the rain finally let up that afternoon, unbeknownst to the rest, Amber left her corner and slipped away. At first, she wandered in silence, hopelessly lost in the town she'd spent her whole life in and following some lure only she saw. Everything was changed, everything was gone, but she felt nothing at all. Surely, she should be feeling something;instead, as she walked past a bloodstained, crumpled truck wrapped around a tree, she felt nothing. The horrors around her and the circling vultures should be jarring at the very least.

A battered wooden sign came into view as she crested the hill. Though most of the letters were missing and the building behind was half-toppled, she knew this place without a doubt. After all, she spent the last several years scrubbing the school from top to bottom every weeknight for most of the year; even with her eyes closed, she would know it by the smell, by the sound, and by the feeling of unbelonging it gave her.

Amber drifted through the shattered glass doors like a lost ghost, scanning the trashed hallways without registering what she saw. Her feet led her to the library and a familiar shelf she spent her teen years reading top to bottom. Brushing debris aside halfheartedly, she trailed her fingertips across the spines until she found her target: Dark of the Moon. It was a poetry volume long out of print and rarely found outside of libraries, and while she was a student, the book spent more time in her backpack than on its shelf. It would be a shame for such a book to be lost forever, she thought hollowly as she leafed through the age-fragile pages; like her, it was a product of a different time and culture and surrounded by people who didn't appreciate it, and like it, she confused and disturbed people who never ventured from the mainstream.

Movement out the window caught her eye; thunder rolled, clouds menaced, and a jagged grey tear loomed above the horizon. Off to the southwest was the monster she feared most of her life, and it was heading her way. The numb woman watched the horizon in disinterest, uncaring of the strange, disembodied ticking sound or the sudden calm that enveloped her like seeping tar. Rain pelted the cracked windows, sounding like a hail of gunfire; wind howled, kicking up clouds of debris from the already battered landscape. A deafening, grinding roar like a fork in a blender splintered the air as the tornado drew near. All the while, Amber stared it down, never flinching as her ears ached from the pressure.

Perhaps...perhaps this was her only choice...the only way she could find peace. If she was in her right mind, she would be horrified by the thought, but she wasn't in her right mind at all. That foul monster stole her home, her town, and her very life, but there was one thing it would never steal…

Heedless of the broken glass underfoot Amber dropped to her scarred, aching knees. Head bowed, she prayed. She prayed for the safety of her friends and family, prayed for the souls of those touched by the destruction, and prayed for peace in the afterlife.

The window exploded inward and shattered glass rained over her head. The world burst into shards of blinding light and creeping shadow, and a deafening roar and dumbing silence, then, just as suddenly, there was nothing. In the silence that remained, her only regret was that she never found love worth living for.

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The next day, a bedraggled search-and-rescue team combed the school for survivors.

"Hey!" The first, a short man, clambered toward the shape of a woman kneeling before the shattered windows. He reached for her shoulder but recoiled at the bloody wound on her head; her body was stiff and cold, and she had no pulse. "Why on earth did you come here?" he wondered aloud. "Why didn't you seek shelter?"

A fractured block of cloudy green glass lay nearby—a glass brick—the jagged corner stained with blood. The scene told a heartbreaking story of a woman in shock who was taken by surprise and could not bear to fight; it illustrated what happened when humans pitted themselves against nature. At least, the man considered with a grimace, it was likely quick; this woman died on her knees, perhaps praying for her life, but at least she didn't suffer long.

The second searcher—a brown-haired woman accompanied by a dog in a Day-Glow yellow vest—noticed the book cradled in the dead woman's arms and wrenched it free. The body fell to the floor from the motion, as if unable to remain upright without that last tie to life. The book's title didn't ring any bells.

"It's a shame," the man remarked as they eased the stiff body into a black bag and zipped it closed. Someone would come by later on and cart her to the morgue with other casualties for identification. "This book clearly meant something to her—she thought it was worth dying for. It'd be a pity to leave it behind when the building will just wind up razed." Moments later the team had moved on, a neon orange code on the tiles of the front entryway Amber's only memorial.

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A vast, dark place somewhere beyond Time

'Wha…where am I?' Amber scanned her surroundings, bewildered and dazed. The last thing she remembered was a book…what book? Oh, right; Dark of the Moon, that poetry anthology that she coveted for years. Why did she covet it, though? Was it not hers? No matter how she tried, the details of her life were slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers.

She existed in a vast expanse of bleak, black nothingness, her only company the incessant ticking of a legion of unseen clocks and the smell of dust. How did she get here? She couldn't recall—everything was a blur! Confused, she wracked her brain for answers that continued to evade her. In a deeply engrained stress habit, she reached to pull one of her twin braids over her shoulder, intent on tugging at the loose tuft at the end.

Nothing happened. 

She knew she moved, and her brain sent the proper signals, but she had no braids—no hands—no body! 'What's happened to me?! Did I…no, it can't be…I didn't…' She stilled, scrabbling for answers in a sea of nothing but questions. 'Did I... die…?' 

All at once, her uncertainty solidified into begrudging realization. 'I'm dead. I'm farkin' dead. Well, this sucks. But if I'm dead, why am I alone? This place is awfy dead even for the Afterlife. Unless…' Not for the first time, she wondered if her beliefs were rightly placed. If there was no God, no Heaven or Hell, then where was she? Of course, she reasoned, if that was true, why was she even conscious that she existed? Without a body of her own, how could she exist?

Unbidden, familiar words filled her memory in between ticks and tocks. This is the vestibule to Hell, where those who would make no choices in life are condemned. Neither warm nor cold, believers nor blasphemers—you see them in the hills. They chase a banner they will never catch. 

'Of course,' she realized with a bitter and soundless scoff. 'Inferno—Niven and Pournelle's take on Dante's Divine Comedy. I read that danged book to tatters, an' it never even occurred to me. I must be in the vestibule in a lil' bronze jar. Great….at least my fat arse finally fits in something one size fits all.* But if I'm in a jar, that means I can get out!' Focusing with all her strength, she repeated the phrase that had been Allen Carpenter's saving grace. 'For the love of God, get me out'a here!'

If she hadn't been stuck in a little bronze jar in Hell, she'd have heard crickets; instead, she only heard the maddening ticking sounds. Amber winced, going over the phrase again in case she misspoke; maybe her would-be rescuer passed her by over rudeness? 'Um…please?'

Her tiny empty world was sucked into oblivion as she hoped against hope that she wouldn't wake up at the feet of Benito Mussolini.

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Up next:  back where we left off in One Life Ends, Another Begins

🎵 Linkin Park, “New Divide” 

Glossary in order of appearance

• Cannae ya no' - Scots, can't you not? Simply put, Amber's getting annoyed with her hair.
• Pished - Scots, drunk
• Awfy - Scots, awfully