Chapter 01 | Waves on a Cement Beach

Dark waves lapped at the cement beach. Rent metal handrails dragged helplessly back and forth in the current. The waves swept from the mainland towards this island, rushing over a still-floating American flag at the end of a massive flagpole that had toppled. And then there was the man. Tall and skinny with short black hair and sapphire eyes, he was bending over the flagpole clumsily wielding his pocket knife. He had not planned to come here alone tonight. He had only wanted to go for a night row in a small craft—but something unseen had pulled his attentions and curiosity to this island.

From here, he could see that some of the city yet burned. Ash blackened the night sky. Some ash fluttered down to the earth. During the days, the sunlight diffused evenly across the landscape, and the shadows took the shapes of wolves that roamed the city and hunted humans. Their motives were unclear, other than their taste for human flesh. But at night, like it was now, a dark blanket set over the land; the only lights were the gleam from the eyes of those vulpine creatures. He was unsure which time of day was more dangerous.

Ellis Island had once been the first stop for all people immigrating to the United States—their first impression of a new life; a better life, perhaps. What would that impression be now? The remains of New York City lay in the distance, visible even without the broken aluminum stand-mounted binoculars. It was an oddity. Despite the obvious colossal damage to the city itself, much of Ellis Island remained in tact. Sure, it had its share of upturned pavement and riven architecture—but the buildings all looked relatively untouched. Maybe the damage was isolated to New York City. If that were true—why had no one come? The bay surrounding the island had protected it from the fires that had ravaged the city. The island’s buildings had been spared of all but the tremors.

Not to say, of course, that they hadn’t been in danger from the waves caused by the tremors, but they had miraculously outlasted those so far as well. It could be, however, that the tsunamis were imminent. Presently, the sea was lapping the shore wearily. In the distance of the ocean? The tremors likely set into motion a giant series of waves that put them all in danger.

The man passed leather gloved fingers through his hair. He was weary, but he was here to collect supplies to survive off of in the coming days. Survival was all there was left at this point. To serve that end, anything must be done. But it all had to be for the good of all of those alive; not just himself. He glanced to the tattoo on his left arm. In an old script, and relatively small, the words “facta aeternam” It served him as a reminder of the words he now forced himself to live by: The ‘Eternal Fact’ as he had come to call it: the things that we do in life echo in eternity.

Perhaps that notion was only a more selfish version of being kind, but one had to be selfish at times to survive. Sometimes he wondered if living a more selfish life would have gotten him more out of life—or would perhaps keep him alive longer in the days to come. But he had to live by his creed. He knew that he must because he knew that it was right.

As he coiled the rope, Turner looked around himself trying to imagine the dynamic life that was once here; the millions of people who had passed through this island. It was of no use. The island was now dead, and it's mTurner was all that remained. It was now just another pathetic abandoned island. At least that was what he hoped. Any naturally friendly entity that remained here would have greeted him by now. But even if there was no one here, perhaps at least there would be a kitchen that might hold some food he could take with him. It had only been a few short days of running, fighting hostile people and shadowy creatures; and trying to find nourishment. That last one was becoming frighteningly scarce frighteningly quickly.

Logically, he knew that there must have been a crowd of people—possibly in the thousands—on this island the night everything went down. Where could they all have gone? Had they found an escape from the confines of the island? Were they hiding? Or would he be finding unburied bodies in the next few hours as he delved into the prison island? These questions lit a fire inside Turner. He felt a need to find something. Anything. Maybe these shadow wolves couldn't swim; maybe this was a true safe haven for him and the other survivors. The Underground was cold, small, and hard. And not well protected. An island glowed with the promise of paradise—and Turner dared to give into it. He just hoped that he wouldn’t be disappointed. Or leave hungry.

Tying off the newly coiled rope, he decided to begin his search for life. There were plenty of abandoned buildings to choose from surrounding him. So many possible hideouts. There were plenty of places to start, but one in particular caught his eye: the prison. The prison had been built shortly prior to the fall of humankind, among constant and unending protest about where it was being placed. A lot of people didn't like that it was a new development on Ellis Island, one of the country’s most notable attractions. Still, there were those who wanted to use the buildings for something more than museums.

Regardless of the politics, its construction had occurred. Turner hadn’t given much credence to it—he didn’t even know if it had been opened. Parts of the prison now caved in, demolished. Stone rubble lay strewn about the ground. The flagstone walkway leading up to it had chipped in places and fully uprooted in others. The fenced-in recreation area appeared abandoned. Could people survive in there? The prison walls looked ancient in their ruin. And while it was neither the most comforting place nor the safest place to start, Turner wanted to check it out first just to be done with it.

Something unseen pulled him towards it. The more he thought about it the more he decided to just trust his intuition. He would have to go there sooner or later, so he might as well get it out of the way now. Maybe he could even find some weapons and protection while he was there as well. Heaving a sigh, he set out towards the building.

Silently following the wire fence around the perimeter, he worked his way to the gate while keeping a sharp eye for any movement inside. He was looking for either a break in the fence or in the barb-wire above. But he wasn’t certain the fence wouldn’t give an electrical shock to him. He could hear the deep rumble of an automatic backup generator somewhere behind the building. He thought about shutting it off—but that would alert anyone inside that someone was here. He decided to wait to shut it off until after he had searched the building.

As he neared the gate, however, he noticed it had already been crushed inward; the fencing near it was bent and torn apart. Someone—or something—had already gotten inside. He subconsciously reached for his belt knife. While Turner would have prefered a weapon with a longer range, he hadn’t wanted to ask Adam for the key to the weapons closet. That would have alerted Adam to Turner’s desire to explore at night, and that would have been a fight of its own. Turner regretted keeping things from the group, especially since he counted Adam as his closest friend—but some roads were best walked alone. As soon as the sun hit the horizon, however, Adam would gather a search party. Turner had to finish this before the sun rose.

The possibilities of the cause of the broken fence ran through his head: people stuck on the island trying to find a safe place to go? He hoped so. What about the prisoners inside? Were they still locked up? Turner figured they were likely not. This was not built as a high-security facility, and the inmates sent here had only been charged with minor crimes. They could have escaped by now. Still—the grip on his knife tightened as he wearily stepped over the broken gate and fence, heading into the courtyard of the prison. There was still no movement or sound, save for the gravel beneath his own feet. It was not good to be so out in the open with no backup protection, but he had little choice besides moving inside quickly; away from the eyes he felt on his back. Perhaps it would have been smart to bring Charlie or Amika—but he hadn’t wanted to wake anyone.

Thankfully, the entrance to the building was easy to find, although it was locked. He looked around for something to bash the lock. A brick that must have fallen from the building during the tremors was what caught his eye. It was cracked, but it would do. He held it in his hand playing out the possibilities in his head. He knew that he needed to do this as rapidly as possible; it was going to make a noise that would draw attention to where he was. Glaring at the brick, however, he also knew that there was no other option. He adjusted his hold on it, and began to hammer the brick down on the lock, his calm concentration focused entirely upon getting inside. The first bash did nothing. The second hit came harder and rattled the lock. He continued to hit it until it snapped, the force of the final blow almost pulling him down. The brick fell out of his hand and narrowly missed his feet. Sparing only a moment to glance back towards the courtyard, he pushed open both doors. He stepped inside and shut himself into the darkness. There was a definite presence here besides his own.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the flashlight which he now carried. It took D-cell batteries, and it was heavy—but neither of those were much of a bother. There were plenty of free batteries around, and the extra weight could act as a bludgeoning weapon if it came to it. He pressed the button on the side, and held his knife in his other hand. Slowly, he made his way down the hall as quietly as he could move—listening for other signs of life as he moved. There was no need for subtlety. Whatever might be here would have heard his entrance. He would be ready for the fight—be it with man or wolf.

Turner turned a corner and his flashlight hit a face of fear that darted away. It was there and gone so quickly that Turner thought that perhaps it was an apparition from his lack of sleep. No. He could have sworn he had just seen someone peer around the corner, and it was not a shadow. Was he going crazy? Probably. Turning around, he considered going back, possibly bringing someone else from the Underground to come with him. It would surely make him feel more comfortable exploring these halls. But it was too late for that now. He had made his choice when he had snuck out. He had made his choice when he had rowed to the island. Then he heard a grating noise from behind: "Ahem."

Fear froze him. That was definitely a human noise, rough as it was. He relaxed his grip on the knife—not because he thought he was safe, but because he was preparing to throw it if needed. He had some experience playing darts in Adam’s bar, and he had proven his ability with throwing knives a few times throughout his life—years ago now. The first thing he noticed when he turned around was the orange. It covered the man from neck to feet. A small black serial number was printed above the left breast. There was no sign of aggression—but the man casually wielded a butcher’s knife. Turner had to remind himself that he too held a knife, and that it was perfectly rational to carry some form of protection when meeting a stranger these days. But something about being alone with an inmate equipped with a knife in a narrow hallway didn’t sit quite right in Turner’s mind.

The man was dressed in the standard jumpsuit indicative of being an inmate. Turner couldn’t imagine a guard or anyone else who might have worked here wanting to pretend to be an inmate. The man looked dirty and gruff, yet somehow like he commanded authority. He was just standing there, hands at his side, awaiting a response. There was something oddly familiar about the man, yet Turner couldn’t place the face. He studied the man’s features, trying to figure out if they knew each other or if he simply bore a resemblance to someone else.

Light brown hair the length of Turner’s sat atop an angular face with dark eyes that lacked a human quality. He was a tower of muscles that Turner doubted he could best in a brawl, even with help. He might be able to outrun the man, but that would not be ideal. Unless he could get back to his rowboat with enough time to cast off before being caught. There was only the one boat—but still. Adam’s slogan since the end of the world had been that the Underground needed more members. That meant all candidates. Besides, there was no reason to trust or distrust this man, despite the jumpsuit.

Realizing that the man was standing there waiting, he chose to speak first. It was hollow and absent-minded, but conveyed what the man would want to know. "Hello? I'm Turner, and I mean no harm." He kept the knife he was holding in clear view at his side, not in a threatening position. Survival came before friendship. Building numbers that couldn’t be trusted would lead to nothing good.

The man shook his head and snorted. "Turner, huh? What a name." As the other man took a step closer, Turner realized he was quite a bit older—perhaps in his mid-forties. Not old, but the signs of aging were plainly visible. His cold eyes bored into Turner asking for more, but before he could offer it, the other man continued. "If that’s yours, mine’s Cross, but call me Kris." Neither initiated a handshake. Turner felt himself being surveyed—although totally logical, it felt unsettling. He wondered why this man had been in prison, but felt it better to not ask.

Perhaps it was just a funny coincidence, but Turner felt that he was beginning to place the man. Kris Cross was a name he once knew himself by: Kris Cross Junior. That name had stuck with him until shortly after his father had forced his way out of his family’s life. Turner was his name ever since that day. Perhaps it was not his birth name, but it was his name in every way that mattered. But his birth name—his given name—his eyes widened ever so slightly, and the grip on his knife doubled as the revelation began to set in. He could feel the hilt starting to bite into his hand, but he barely cared. His hand could fall off for all he cared at this point. What he knew to be true was so improbable.. Anyone could have that name. That name… His name. No, his father had been a businessman. There was no way he could have ended up here. Turner forced his hand to loosen, and regulated his breath. If he acted calm, he knew he could fool his body into being relaxed.

With terror, Turner realized he had to admit that this was his father. Take away the facial hair, give him a good long bath, throw a suit on him; and it was him: Kris Cross, Senior. Turner’s father. He heaved a sigh. This was the day he had been hoping for, but it was not happening anywhere near what he had expected.

Coming to a more calmed set of senses, he realized that he hadn't said anything in over a minute. Kris had to know something was up. He just hoped he didn't know exactly what was running through his mind right now. Seven years had definitely changed Turner more than it had changed Kris—he just hoped it would be enough to keep his father from realizing who he was. It was strange how the desire to punch his father slipped away. Seven years of hatred slipped away. It was nothing. This man was nothing.

Though he knew the truth would come out eventually, he realized that he couldn't deal with this right now. Not here. He needed to get away and think before the truth was revealed. Turner knew that he couldn't just run though. He had to say something. He still was on a mission to find survivors—and he had just found one, even if it was someone he had never wanted to see again anyway.

Taking one more deep breath, he forced some more careless words from his mouth. "It's a real enough name for the moment. Are there any others here?" He was referring to survivors in that second part; not names. He was scatterbrained, and not presenting himself clearly. The stress of the chance encounter and lack of sleep were getting to him. He hoped Kris didn't notice the stutter in his voice—yet he knew that it was unlikely he would have missed it. The father Turner remembered was astute. One question kept ringing in Turner’s mind, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know the answer: why was his father in a jumpsuit?

The man squinted at Turner. Perhaps he now recognized his son. Perhaps Turner was reading into a squint too much. Kris spoke more quietly, though not any more gently. "Others? I haven't found any. I presume they've all been released—or just very good at beating a spy at his own game." His eyes grew vibrant for just a moment, but became vacant once more rather quickly. There was a pause, followed by Kris letting out a sharp laugh that rasped and rang in the dark hallway. Turner watched patiently as his father regained his composure. The two stared at each other with a silent understanding that they both knew each other. His voice held a hesitant sinew. "So tell me, kiddo... What's going on in the outside world? I’ve been in here…” There was a slight pause and a curling of the mouth before, “the whole time."

That didn't make any sense to Turner. A spy? His father was a spy? Who did he spy ont? Turner was just getting more and more confused. He could put all of that on hold until he got out of here, either with or without his father. Unfortunately he feared they’d be leaving together. He didn’t want to share the only boat off the island—but how could he get out alone? Some bridges didn’t deserve to be rebuilt. Turner forced such notions from his head. The world had changed so much that he might even be able to trust his own father. He took a long, hard look at the man in front of him. He saw a concern in the other man’s eyes. His father was silently pleading for something aligned with forgiveness—or at least inclusion. That trust would need to be earned.

Turner looked back into his father’s eyes. "Is there anywhere we can sit down in here? Maybe get some water? There’s so much to tell.” Turner was not about to tell his father everything—though he did deserve to at least know as much as anyone else.

Kris’s eyes didn’t change—yet his voice held hesitant surprise. "Sit? Well there's the visiting area. We might find a couple of seats in the rubble. Then there are some cells that are unoccupied and open. Is it really necessary? I feel like I've been doing nothing but sitting for the past…” his face was stone but his voice told a weary truth, “Feels like eternity.” It felt to Turner as if all these emotions were feigned, but he was given no respite to think on it. The man plowed on. “The sun doesn't show itself and we don’t have clocks. I haven’t known the day for quite a while now.” He paused for a moment, but before the younger man could speak, his father continued, now with arms crossed. “As for the water… There's only a few more cases of bottled water in the kitchens." He stuck out his thumb towards the hall behind himself. Kris stood there for a moment staring Turner down. Then, suddenly, he chuckled softly—without mirth—before turning towards the kitchen. He set out down the hall, slowly. "You coming, boy?"

Turner was shocked. Who was this person? While he was sure it was Kris Cross, the father he had only vague memories of, something was startling. The way he was talking—the way he was acting—this was not how he remembered him. Had the years changed his personality this much? Or had he always been this way and hid it? Did it have something to do with what he said about being a spy? So many unanswered questions, it was destroying the memory that Turner had of his childhood. Turner wanted answers—yet he was afraid to ask.

He hated being treated like a child. It simply seemed that Kris was determined to frustrate him. This man had never been a real father. Still—Turner followed the man to the kitchen. He didn’t know what he wanted from this man yet. An apology would not be enough, and an excuse after seven years was trivial. "Yeah, I'm coming.” And then a little sarcastically, “Lead the way.” He put his knife back in the sheath on the inside of his leather coat and began to follow, being careful not to get too close.

The older man shot back with a heated, "If you don't stop beating around the bush, I cannot guarantee what might happen." He stopped and glared at Turner sternly. It was a look he was all too familiar with receiving from this man. If there had still been any doubt that this was the father he once had known, it was gone now. But even so—how had he ended up here?

Before Turner could even think of a response, the man turned around and continued walking silently toward the kitchen. They were both silent. That look—those reproachful eyes—hit him harshly. It had sent him back to his childhood; back to a place he had never wanted to be again. Countless times, he would try to make his father proud—or at least please him in some fashion. The efforts had always been fruitless. His father would always ignore him—or else shoo him away, giving him that same look. It was a look Turner had hated and almost forgotten. Back when he was a child, it would bring tears to his eyes. He had never understood why his father was so cold towards him—or why he was being shunned when he just wanted fatherly affection. No longer. No more tears.

Despite this thought, he felt his eyes straining with water. He willed himself to keep it together. He would take great pleasure in telling his father of the end of the world. If the man had been a prisoner, he would probably have been counting down the days until his release—until he could resume his normal life. The fact that his life could no longer be returned to gave Turner a spiteful joy. He knew that he had inherited that spiteful joy from his father, and he hated that.