Scorpion String | Chapter 8

Serial Fiction | Novel Draft

—Diane—

November 11, 2038. More than five months have passed since that day.

The day the “Plague of Locusts” was unleashed was the most terrifying ordeal I could have ever envisioned. Time itself seemed to warp, extending that day into what felt like an endless nightmare, offering me a starkly altered perception of time. The experience transcended mere physical agony; it was a psychological ordeal that, without doubt, drove billions to the brink of madness. Words fall short of capturing the essence of that day.

It forever altered us—changed who we are.

As Matthew aptly describes them, these demonic locusts—and I find myself in complete agreement with his characterization—besieged the earth for precisely five months, aligning exactly with Matthew’s foresight.

To this day, I bear the scars and welts from the locusts’ scorpion-like stings.

The nightmare didn’t cease with the passing of that horrific day. The aftermath of countless stings was so excruciating that it felt paralyzing, trapping me in a perpetual state of torment, a cycle of madness. Thoughts of the pain consumed me, day and night, without reprieve until only recently.

Sleep was elusive, often disrupted by jolts of agony.

Using the bathroom is also horrific. But I won’t go there.

The locusts changed the world.

The plague fueled the hate.

The wealthy and privileged—the actual scourges of society—were not spared, yet they had access to pain relief medications. Though I heard these provided only slight alleviation. As bitter or malevolent as it may sound, there was a part of me that found solace in knowing that their pain medications were not entirely effective.

“What’s he up to now?” Jack interrupted my reverie.

“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice betraying a hint of frustration.

“He’d better hurry.”

I sighed and shook my head. “He doesn’t want to be down there any more than necessary,” I said, my irritation more pronounced this time.

Jack gave me a sharp look. “Why are you snapping at me?”

I was at a loss for where to even start, and I definitely didn’t want to delve into that conversation. Not now. “None of us wants to be here, Jack.”

He scowled, on the verge of saying more, but ultimately held back.

“Just keep a lookout,” I said, trying to end the discussion.

Jack’s eyes lingered on me, clearly wanting to probe further, but he sensed it was futile. Despite everything, I knew Jack cared for me—in whatever way love could still exist in these times. Love felt like a relic of a bygone era.

I saw Jack as he turned away, resuming his watch.

In the past five months, Jack’s resentment toward Matthew had deepened. From being inseparable friends, they were now teetering on the edge of enmity. Matthew had miraculously avoided the locust stings entirely, while Jack had suffered immensely. For reasons unbeknownst to us, this disparity fueled Jack’s bitterness.

Matthew and I had feared for Jack’s life. His condition was so dire.

“Diane?” Matthew’s voice reached me, a whisper-shout from below.

I quickly knelt and peered through the jagged opening in the concrete, the roof of the dilapidated Union Mission homeless shelter now our vantage point. The building, once a beacon of hope for the destitute, transformed over time into an emergency health center during the war, then a makeshift military base for religious interrogations, stood now in desolation.

“Find anything?” I called back, careful to keep my voice subdued.

“I found three, but I cut my hand pretty bad getting them. I don’t think I can climb back up.”

“That bad?”

He exhaled deeply, a mixture of pain and resignation in his voice. “Yeah, that bad.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll have to figure out a way to stack something… just stay put and keep watching.”

I nodded in agreement, “Okay.”

Three. The number ignited a flicker of hope, a rare sensation these days. I had dared to wish for a day’s supply, though in the back of my mind, I knew it was a lofty dream. The truth was, I hadn’t fully anticipated him finding any at all. Ration packets had become as scarce as a hot bath—a simple pleasure turned distant memory in the wake of the war’s upheaval.

Being here carries its own set of risks. Not necessarily the fear of being caught by the police, the military, or any sort of official authority, but rather the dread of encountering the thugs. They’re known as “Crusaders,” a darkly ironic title for those who have strayed far from any noble path. These lost souls, devoid of hope, are not so different from us on the surface. Yet, their desperation has twisted them; they’re willing to murder for a mere sip of water. And suppose they so much as suspect you’re a Christian. In that case, they won’t hesitate to capture and deliver you to the authorities in exchange for a single ration packet. Their moniker, “Crusaders,” comes from their relentless pursuit and perverse joy in hunting down Christians.

In the last five months, it’s become evident that Matthew has embraced Christianity.

His newfound faith in Jesus has stirred tension between him and Jack. Jack, who harbors no belief whatsoever, has grown weary of Matthew’s constant discussions about his faith. Even more so, Jack finds it increasingly difficult to be in Matthew’s presence, fearing that Matthew’s beliefs might lead to our downfall.

What truly aggravates Jack these days is my leaning towards Matthew’s perspective. I’m not entirely convinced yet, but the more Matthew explains, the more it all begins to click for me, much to Jack’s dismay.

“Well?”

Startled by Jack’s abrupt interruption, I jump.

“He found three,” I respond, raising my eyebrows, “and he’s figuring out how to get back up. He cut his hand and can’t climb.”

Jack peers down the hole. “Why doesn’t he just suck it up and climb?” He looks back at me, questioning, “Did he try to throw them up here?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why didn’t you just go down and check for yourself?” I retort.

Jack, visibly irritated, grinds his teeth and limps back to his post.

Neither Jack nor I could have ventured down there and returned unscathed. The locusts had made sure of that. The soles of Jack’s feet had endured multiple stings, severely hampering his ability to walk. Moreover, the toxins from the stings had sapped his upper body strength. There was no chance he could have navigated down that hole, even if his life depended on it.

“Matthew?” I called out, my voice a whispered shout through the hole. After a brief pause with no reply, I decided to lie on my stomach and lower my head into the opening. “Matthew?” I tried again.

Feeling a tad lightheaded from the awkward angle, I pushed myself back up and away from the hole. My gaze drifted to Jack, who had positioned himself against an old, rusted air conditioning unit that seemed as though it had been stripped, battered, and left to decay. He glanced my way and offered a thumbs-up. I nodded in acknowledgment before turning my attention back to the hole.

I let out a sigh. I had no clue what Matthew was up to down there, but he needed to hurry. The evening was gradually turning darker, and though there was still some time before the sun officially set below the horizon, the dim sunlight and the ever-present overcast skies hastened the arrival of nightfall. None of us wanted to remain here after dark.

I exhale slowly and deeply, my patience thinning. Jack occasionally glances my way, but I sense he’s stopped expecting updates from me. I don’t blame him; I’ve admittedly been somewhat short with him lately.

My frustration isn’t just with the current situation; it’s with the rich—no, the ultra-rich. When the world plunged into chaos, mere millionaires quickly discovered their fortunes insufficient to navigate the upheaval. As the price of a loaf of bread soared to $300, societal structures crumbled. Millionaires, unable to shield themselves from the anarchy, the Crusaders, or the collapsing economy, succumbed to the ensuing lawlessness.

It’s a bitter truth that the rich and wealthy have always been the cogs keeping the world’s wheels turning, albeit to their own advantage. Our disdain for them runs deep. They’ve drawn this ire upon themselves. Following the eight-month war they ignited, and as plagues and famines ensued, making bread so costly that a day’s labor barely covered a fraction of a loaf, they continued indulging in their lobsters, caviar, and wine.

While we faced starvation and loss, with survival slipping further from our grasp, they persisted in their opulent lifestyles, indifferent to our suffering. Their schemes and plans went uninterrupted.

The “Great Purge,” occurring just before the onset of the war, is often cited as the spark that ignited the conflict. Initially met with skepticism, the post-war reality has led me to see it as the catalyst the war had been waiting for—or, at the very least, a pretext for launching the initial assaults.

“Diane?” Matthew’s voice echoed, accompanied by a series of metallic clanks and crashes.

I rushed to peer down the hole. “You coming?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“The desks… I can’t maneuver them through the doors. They must have been assembled inside the rooms,” Matthew assessed his surroundings before adding, “There are no ladders or anything else stable enough to aid my climb.”

“So… what are we supposed to do?”

Matthew pushed two ration packets through the hangar hole with a broken broomstick. “Take these. You two need to find safety. I’ve got my share. I’ll stay here—”

“We can’t just leave you,” I insisted.

He exhaled heavily. “Diane, I’ll be fine. There are plenty of hiding spots here. You and Jack are more vulnerable than I am.”

I clenched my jaw, drawing a deep breath.

“What’s happening?” Jack inquired, kneeling beside me to pick up a ration pack.

“Matthew can’t come with us.”

Jack leaned forward to glimpse down. “What’s going on, man?”

Matthew offered a wry smile. “I can’t make the climb; there’s nothing here to assist me. And you two need to get off this roof and find somewhere safe. I’ll manage.”

Jack’s gaze shifted from Matthew to meet mine, then back down. “You sure?”

“Yeah, Jack. It’s better if you leave.”

“No,” I found myself protesting.

“Diane,” Jack attempted to reason.

“No, Jack,” I asserted with more force.

Jack’s irritation was palpable as he knelt again.

“Listen, Matthew has many hiding spots down there, and he’s got rations—which he found himself, hinting at undiscovered places even the Crusaders haven’t stumbled upon,” I reasoned out loud.

The implication made me frown.

“We’re exposed up here. Any attention we draw could lead trouble straight to us and, subsequently, to him. It’s in everyone’s best interest if we leave.”

I despised every word Jack had just said despite knowing he was right. Part of me still yearned to argue, to claim Matthew would never abandon us. But at this juncture, I couldn’t be sure of that anymore, and insisting on staying would only strain our already complicated situation further. “Fine,” I conceded reluctantly.

“Good,” Matthew’s voice echoed up to us, carrying a note of reassurance.

“We’ll be back after sunrise,” I shouted down, hoping my voice conveyed the promise clearly.

In response, Matthew flashed a thumbs up, his gesture cutting through the dim light.

“Alright, let’s go,” Jack said, reaching to take my hand. His grip offered a silent strength.

In return, I managed a half-hearted smile, appreciating his support yet feeling the weight of our situation.

As we headed towards the jumbled heap of debris that had served as our makeshift ladder, I glanced down at the ration packet. “MRE (Meals Ready to Eat) Asian Beef Strips” was announced in bold letters. I couldn’t help but groan at the prospect.

Curiously, I tilted my head, attempting to sneak a peek at Jack’s selection, hoping he might be open to a trade. I was just about to discern the seafood flavor he’d ended up with when, suddenly, a spark caught my eye. It glinted off the twisted metal of the old air conditioner unit—a brief, fleeting distraction. Then, without warning, the silence was shattered by the thunderous roar of a shotgun, its boom echoing ominously through the air.