Scorpion String | Chapter 5

Serial Fiction | Novel Draft

—Matthew—

Eternal seconds tick by, each echoing into the next as the chaos of this mid-May day bleeds into a dark, oppressive night. Dawn’s light, once a beacon of hope, now seems a distant memory as shadows creep over us, morphing the day into a relentless trial.

In the suffocating embrace of night, my companions and I lie defeated on the ground, our flesh a battleground for swarms of supernatural locusts. Each hour stretches, a torturous eternity frays the edges of our sanity.

Jack and Diane’s chests heave in silence, starkly contrasting the earlier cacophony of their screams. Their bodies, limp and brutalized under the moonless sky, bear the telltale marks of raw, abused throats.

Around us, the once desperate cries have dwindled to a chilling quiet.

Amidst this, I find myself teetering on the brink of insanity, each moment of clarity slipping through my fingers like sand.

Every now and then, my hand lashes out, swatting at the invisible locusts that skitter across my skin, a testament to a psyche unraveling at the seams.

The night air, heavy and stagnant, seems to echo our despair. The darkness around us is not just the absence of light but a tangible presence, enveloping us in an abyss where time and sanity have ceased to exist. The endless onslaught of the locusts erodes our spirits, leaving us in a state of desolation, our minds fractured by the unyielding horror we endure.

Diane’s form barely stirs, sprawled out and besieged by an invisible enemy. Sweat beads were on her forehead, glistening in the dim light as if her very pores were crying out from the venom’s burn. Each pulse of pain from the locusts’ stings blazes through her, not just a physical torment but a fire ravaging her mind.

Angry, raised welts tarnish Diane’s once flawless skin, pulsing rhythmically as though each welt pulses with its own malevolent life. It’s a harrowing sight.

Despite the night’s warmth, Diane’s body convulses slightly, her arms wrapping around herself in a futile attempt to find warmth. This involuntary shudder hints at the fever’s cruel grip on her, even in the balmy air. The air around her thickens, charged with the ominous flutter of locusts. Their grotesque shadows dance over her, a ceaseless assault that transforms her existence into an endless nightmare.

Diane’s eyes, clouded with pain and delirium, flicker in my direction. A momentary relief seems to breach the torment, reflected in the slight easing of her furrowed brow, as she observes the dwindling swarm around me, the relentless locusts retreating to leave but a few behind.

My features, carved with the exhaustion of endless night and the shadows of madness, stand in silent testimony to the ordeal, a beacon of a different kind of suffering from the relentless storm still raging over Diane.

“Matthew…” Diane whispers a hoarse rasp, barely audible above the din of the locusts’ wings. But her call goes unanswered, lost in the cacophony of our shared hell. My mind is in a chaotic whirlwind, and I don’t have the strength to answer.

Diane’s brow furrows, her eyes distant, as if she’s navigating through a storm, only she can see. Beads of sweat dot her forehead, a testament to the fever raging within. Suddenly, her lips parted slightly, a whisper lost in the wind. I wonder if her mind remembers the story I shared with her.

I shared my understanding—my story about the day the world shifted. The vanishing of millions of people, a mystery the officials labeled as alien abduction. I had painted it in the hues of the divine—the Rapture. I had told her how the faithful had vanished, lifted from the chaos yet to unfold. They were to be spared from a world unprepared for the trials ahead—the judgments we now endure.

Diane’s shallow breaths and the flicker of recognition in her eyes reveal her memory of my words, intertwining with the present’s harsh reality. I’m sure she remembers.

There is no way she could have forgotten.

Not now.

The memory of this story collides with the raw, visceral reality of the moment. My thoughts spin, weaving a tapestry of confusion and despair.

Diane’s foster parents, the only semblance of family she had known, disappeared in that mysterious event—the event the government proclaimed as “The Great Purging.”

Jack and Diane, still ensnared in the locusts’ grip, had grown close in the weeks following the vanishing, his kindness a beacon in her world of loss. She had come to love him, a secret she harbored close to her heart and now seems as distant as the stars above.

“Jack…” she tries again, her voice breaking with emotion. But there is no response, only the unending torment of the locusts and Jack’s muffled groans of agony.

I try again, mustering the strength to say something, anything, to let her know she’s not alone, but my voice betrays me.

My mind begins to spiral further into the chaos, each thought more disjointed than the last. I imagine conversations with loved ones, whispered words of love and comfort that will never be spoken again.

Diane shivers. I suspect her fever rages. If her mind is anything like mine, she is blurring between reality and hallucination, past and present, love and despair.

In this whirlwind of emotion and pain, Diane’s body convulses, an involuntary response to the unrelenting assault. She shivers uncontrollably.

My mind is teetering on the edge of madness.

And then, in a fleeting moment of clarity amid the chaos, she locks eyes with me. Our gazes meet, a silent exchange of shared suffering and understanding.

But the moment is fleeting, and Diane’s consciousness slips away, her body succumbing to the fever and exhaustion.

In this intense, suspenseful moment, the psychological chaos of my experience reaches its zenith. I look at the lump of crawling insects that is Jack, though I can find no resemblance to him. The boundary between the physical and mental torment blurs, leaving me in a state of profound vulnerability and despair.

Then, the world around me fades.