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Alaska Rising

By @HRJafael

B1 - 1.1

CHAPTER 1:

The Sun in the East

Tell-Washington Archaeological

Research Station, 2413 A.D.z

[1]

Morningrise of Day Hundredth Forty-Five



The sun was only rising above the horizon when the first few precious rays of sunlight made their way into the tent. The ray of sunlight went across a haggard-looking face that exhibitedy every attempt to gain a few more minutes of rest. It frowned in its sleep as the rays of sunlight grew in intensity and in number. The main aggressor came from the tent entrance but it was followed by several miniscule rays popping through the tiny holes in the tent-fabric, setting the packed-earthen floor ablaze with dots of light. The dots soon grew in their realm and began to cover the makeshift bunk-bed at the far inner side of the tent. The man in it began to stir and struggle to grasp the last few remnants of a bygone dream.

So far, sunlight was winning. It had always won when it came to waking up those beings of earth and spirit. It was only a few more moments before the man began to stir more often and, finally, after sounding a low moan of restlessness, the man sat up in a frail position on the bunk-bed. The bunk-bed, in turn, gave out a depressing creak and a protesting groan from the added weight gathering at one spot.

Then–silence. There was always silence when this man woke up from a troubled night. And, let’s face it, there had been a good many of those as of late. Why, not even the man knew–albeit that he had his suspicions as to the cause, he could not directly follow it back to its ultimate source. That was the difficult part–it was always difficult. It will always be.

Why on earth was he thinking such things this early in the morning? He should be getting up, have a good shave, wash up (God, I really could need that! he thought), dress appropriately for the task ahead, and getting ready for the strenous day ahead. As the man sat up more in the bunk-bed, he blinked wearily as he looked around. All was the same–just what exactly had he expected to see? Change? That was as unrealistic as rain in these parts. Everything was summer-dry, seasonally-hot, and earth-cracked.

It didn’t use to be this way, he thought, but as the man was a staunch believer in evolution, he believed that man adapted to the cruellest of circumstances, survived, and accepted the terrestrial fate that ensued. A rushing of winds, destruction all behind it, blunt and primitive savagery, blood and melted steel, and the years lost in a single day. It didn’t use to be this way…

Times were simpler. Now-it was the rule of chaos and its wake that held these sand-hills in an iron grip, a grip so tight that it seemed to be choking out grass, flowers, and any living thing, Or, at least, it seemed to him that the grass had died before the rule of chaos. And everyone knew by what. The grass couldn’t get away in time like the immense swaths of refugees, fleeing from the chaos that pursued them, killing everything and everyone with its poisonous air and the panic-stricken hearts. Men, women, and children-all were equal now: each was killed without warrant and heinously. Rivers ran with the blood of drunken wrath. They ran alongside the scourge of chaos. The air smelt of sulphurous misery…

And what next? The man placed his face in the palm of his hand. He felt like weeping but no more tears came. Even those had dried up like the river nearby for the season. What will plague this chaotic earth next? What more could it possibly take away from us? It was then that a fleeting desire struck the man aghast: he wondered whether or not this was even a life worth living… He suddenly found himself in a land inbetween, stuck on Earth, but attempting to fly away, to get away from it all… God forbid that I should take my life! It was all that was left and it was all that the next plague could take.

For now, that should be his only worry.

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