The Randoms

For about 4 months I fell into a doozy of a writer's drought. It wasn't necessarily that I had no ideas during that time, it's simply that I had no time to translate my ideas. My head was so focused on other things during that time that even when time was given to me in abundance, I couldn't properly write like I had in the fall and winter. Near the end of my drought, however, I did begin to write some things and the ideas I had held in my mind began to take shape. The words spilled forth, the images splashed around in my head again. I could see my characters and settings once more, and finally I was heading toward a path to recovery. I wrote two short writings (Protocol and Oilists) right before I wrote At A Standstill and I decided to post them here. Look at these not as my best efforts, please. These two writings were merely creative methods for me to try and break free of my slump. These are almost like warm-ups, with At A Standstill being the primetime performance. So, if you find these to be weak, I probably agree with you, they're uneven and not fully thought out, but they are also glimpses into what a struggling writer is thinking.

Enjoy.

Protocol

I had been told by a nameless man in a well-tailored suit to "expect anything" and to "Shoot first. Ask never." The man made it clear that certain things happened here that no one could know of. It was bound to be exciting work. I had been working for three years now and knew the ins and outs of the entire 3,000 acres. I knew the building's layout like the back of my hand and the open fields surrounding it were like my backyard. The road that led to the place was not on any map that could be bought and no satellite in the sky could spot it. The property was owned by blacked-out names on pieces of paper that could not be traced. Everything that went on here was paid in money that came from nowhere and yet came in endless amounts. I received a paycheck every two weeks, but even after three years, I wasn't exactly sure who paid me, and I never asked. I knew scientists worked here, but I also knew they didn't work on behalf of any corporations. I was a soldier like the other guards here, but none of us wore medals, pins, or badges, and we were surely never awarded any. Nametags were not needed. Clearances were issued through barcodes tattooed on our forearms and through biometric scans. We had full permission to shoot intruders without fear of repercussions. My existence here was a trick of the mind, the fields did not exist, and the buildings were mere illusions. Even the air that we breathed here was just a figment of our imagination.

I got the call just as the moon reappeared from behind the clouds. The illuminated crescent lit up the grounds of the compound and distracted me from answering my walkie-talkie. I finally broke free of the hypnotizing beauty of the landscape and took the call.

"Lieutenant," it was the voice of my Captain, "We have a Red Alert."

I immediately took the safety off my gun.

A Red Alert could mean one of three things. It could be that a toxin had been released and evacuation measures were being taken. This seemed unlikely, seeing as none of the soldier's had gas masks on. Two, an animal test subject had broken free of the scientist's control. This was not the case as the building is constructed to resemble a maze and would take the most brilliant chimp hours to escape. Therefore, the soldiers would still be inside, checking the corridors and air vents. Process of elimination meant only one thing, there was a test subject on the loose, but this one was more like us.

The floodlights from the building shone down on the grass and did away with the stranglehold the moonlight had on the field. The spotlights from the watchtowers clicked on and swept across the ground like a painter's brush. Men with automatic rifles charged out of the many exits of the building and formed strategic patterns to move around in. I stayed a lone wolf, my rank giving me the choice to do so. If I chose, I could have taken control of one of the small groups now making a diamond-shape and giving each other hand signals.

A shot rang out from over my left shoulder, slightly startling me. A second shot came soon after, and then my walkie-talkie came to life.

"This is Tower 7. Target sighted heading to the Northeast corner. Repeat. Northeast corner."

Without hesitation I made a break for that direction, running as fast as I could while being weighed down by my boots and gear. Up ahead of me was a two-man team. One was crouched while the guy behind him was looking all around, walking upright with his weapon clenched close to him. I had never seen these two before in my life, but for all I knew they could have been working here longer than I had.

I went down on one knee for a moment, gathering my strength and catching my breath. I was about to radio the tower that had spotted the target when suddenly the two-man team came under attack. I fell to my stomach and aimed my gun, ready to shoot at their attacker. But peering down my gun's sights at the men some fifty yards away, I couldn't see what had ambushed them. All I could hear was the sound of punching and kicking, and the resulting painful cries from the soldiers as they continued to be violently beaten. I decided to flip open the LCD-screen attachment on my rifle, a special accessory that allowed be to see heat sources. Through my infrared view of the scene, there was definitely a third person there, thrashing away at the men with its own fists and soon with the men’s' own guns. By now they were surely dead, but the figure continued crashing down blow after blow upon the soldiers with the butt of the stolen gun. I looked away for a split-second in an attempt to contact the watchtowers as to the thing's position, but by the time I looked back, it had fled the scene. All that remained were two immobile lumps on the ground, slowly growing from red to yellow on my heat-sensing screen.

A rush of questions came to my mind about this thing, but I needed to focus on killing it first.

I stood up quickly and scanned the grounds through my infrared screen when I caught the figure heading for the forest surrounding the property. It was unimaginably fast and becoming a smaller and smaller target for me to hit. Finger on the trigger, I popped off two shots, both of them hitting the thing in the back. A guttural scream was unleashed from its direction, leaving me temporarily paralyzed, and staring off into the darkness. On the screen this thing lit up a glowing bright red, but with my God-given vision I just couldn't spot it. And that noise it made, that noise was animalistic.

I couldn't tell if the shots had stopped the figure or not, as there was no sign of it left on the infrared. I unclipped my walkie-talkie and radioed in backup to my location. It wasn't more than a second after my call ended that I was struck in the chest with the force of a full-speed truck.

My mind yelled out in pain, but with the wind knocked out of me, my mouth couldn't relay the message. My senses were assaulted from all directions. My ears heard nothing but a high-pitched ringing, my eyes seeing stars and blurred images of the moon above me, and the taste of blood flooded my mouth. The jarring impact had to have come from the thing I had shot. Within seconds the figure had raced over to me and drilled me. I managed to get up one one knee and noticed my left arm was a little limp. It had been knocked straight out of its socket, dislocated and useless to me now. I spit a mouthful of blood out and tried to regain my vision, intensely looking all around me for this thing. I clutched my rifle in my one working hand and hoisted it up high enough so that I could see through the screen. I jerked about in every direction with the gun shaking in my weakened arm. It didn't matter; I could see the figure now with my own eyes. It was on its hands and knees no more that 20 feet away, gasping for breath.

I finally dropped my rifle, both because I had become too weak to hold it any longer and because what I saw. It was a man, no doubt, but only pieces of him. I could see in the bright moonlight a part of his right arm, his upper thigh, his feet, and half his face, but no more. This was a man as disconnected to himself as my arm was to my shoulder. Protocol told me that the instant I had the opportunity to complete my objective, I had to take it. In this case, it meant killing this thing before me. I unlatched the sidearm from my hip holster and took aim, but I hesitated. I never hesitated, but this man kept me from doing my job. He looked at me with his half face, full of anger and pain. He was an experiment, obviously. He could have easily been a soldier from here who happened to draw a short straw as much as a captured enemy. Of the few things I knew, I knew the scientists here didn't discriminate on whom they tested on.

What was I supposed to do?

That was a question I hadn’t asked myself in years. I was expected to know answers. This was unacceptable of me and I knew it, and yet I stood still. I wanted to know more about this man. What had happened to him? Was he a part of some research into invisibility? Clearly they had partly succeeded.

"What are you?" I asked, still aimed right at where this man's chest would be.
He looked at me, unblinking, with a steely glare. He strained to speak, but he managed to deliver a haunting reality to me.

"I was just like you."

I heard approaching men on their way. To be found next to this man with him still breathing would have meant my immediate dismissal or worse. So I shot him. I killed him right there, without remorse, just as I was supposed to. No bullets remained in my pistol when I was done.

The soldiers arrived and questioned what had happened. I calmly explained what had gone on, and told them I would have a full report on the situation in the morning if they had any more questions. I walked away, leaving them to clean up the mess.
Just another day at work.

Oilists

I'm going to be honest with you; I don't like the titles and cutesy names thrown at me. I'm not a propagandist, I'm not a spin doctor, and I'm sure as hell not a liar. If I could choose a name for what I do, I would call myself an Executive Truth Argumentarian. But seeing as how that doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, the press tends to label me with those other words. My job is vital, like a spinal cord or a carotid artery. In the past they used the title Press Secretary, but today it is officially designated by The Government as “Press Liaison,” which, as fancy and fabulous as it sounds, isn't for the faint of heart.

Lucky for me, I'm living in a world at peace with itself. Neighbors love thy neighbors and everyone's got a chicken in their coop and a car in their garage. The poor saps before me in this role have dealt with famines, holocausts (nuclear, racial, and environmental), and political corruption. They've been turned into human dartboards by reporters, throwing pointed question after question at them, demanding to know how Situation A is going to be solved while Situation B is still going on, and little do they know Situation C is about to rear its ugly head. But me, well, I have not had to deal with any of that.

Like I said, we are living in the closest thing to perfection that this planet has ever seen. We haven't had a war in 30 years, unemployment is something from the previous generation, and money is plentiful. We've transcended capitalism, democracy, and equality in the process. You can ask me how the hell we got to this point, but I won't have an answer for you, and I promise, it'll be the only time you'll catch me without an answer to something.

We live in peace, harmony, and tranquility. Marked only by the occasional terrorist bombing.

It's nothing, really. It's like the hiccups, it pops up out of nowhere, annoys you for a short while, but then it goes away and you get on with your visit to the mall. I've managed to live with it, and as is my job, I've made the public live with it. It's an inconvenience at worst. This being the only "danger" in our world, I can focus my full attention on it, and make it seem as if it about as big a deal as a car crash. It happens, a loved one dies, and we move on with our lives. This is my job; I see the bad shit going on and make it palatable for the people at home watching the nightly news.

If it weren't for me, my countrymen would be living in a state of constant fear. But thanks to my careful wording and comforting attitude, I've allowed Mom and Pop to take their kids to the playground and worry as much about a terrorist strike as they would a lightning strike on a sunny afternoon.

However, some have claimed I'm a liar. That I look at an occurrence like last week's train station bombing and say, "shit happens." These people don't know that I anguish over every life lost in these incidents; I just manage to get myself together during the press conferences and deliver my briefing. They say I'm disregarding the threats around every corner, but you know, it's almost as if my critics want to be in fear around the clock. They want their kids to be afraid. They want little Johnny and Susie to know that the train station bombing killed 45 people. But real numbers scare people. I can tell the truth to the public just as easily by saying, "a number of our countrymen and women were struck today in an unfortunate event." Where's the lie in my words? Is that event not unfortunate? My critics wish us to live in fear while I try to lead the people to realize that life is good. We are safe.

These terrorists though, I'll admit, are craftier and more dangerous than in the past. These aren't Russian Separatists, or Islamic Jihadists, or any kind of Neo Nazi. Laugh as you might, these are people dedicated to a dying resource. They're fighting for survival in a match that's already declared them the loser. They will die out eventually, but until then we have to endure the chaos they cause.

These men and women are labeled as "Oilists," dedicated to the near-dead resource until they die. As the rest of the world developed, and breakthroughs in technology led us into a world of solar-powered transport and various other "near-to-naught" emissions machines, these people stuck to their guns. There's not much nuance to them, in the beginning they'd strike wind turbines, "green" factories and buildings, and anything else they considered anti-oil. Soon they moved smaller. Striking the cars of average countrymen, and it was then that panic spread. Anyone with a carbon-conscious possession could be struck. Their history is really as pointless as their existence, so I'd prefer not to discuss them much more.

All that needs to be said is that they are striking still, striking often, and striking hard. But thanks to my work and the work of The Agency, we've calmed the public down and are working on tearing down this fledgling organization. Scientists have told me that they've pegged the last drops of oil to be consumed within three years. In my relaying words to the public, I've assured them that, "The end is on the horizon and coming fast. In a world free of Oilists, true peace on earth can finally be achieved." They gobbled it up. Fear had been quelled for another day and millions of lives were able to continue uninterrupted. They didn't need to know Oilists had blown up an ethanol plant and killed 103 that day, what good would it do? My job had been done.
________________________________________________________________________

He had written his last will and testament the night before. He knew what his mission was. He knew it was more important than any before and that his one act would change the direction of the way people perceived him and those like him.
Today, he would change the world.

He walked through the terminal with stoic confidence. He had mastered an emotionless face over the past months and it was all being put to the test at the moment. He wanted to sweat, and they knew he wanted to sweat, so they developed an intricate cooling system around his body. Small tubes of chilled water ran all around him under his clothes, ensuring his body temperature remained at 98.6 degrees. They knew he was afraid, but there was nothing they could do about that but promise him that what he would do was for the greater good. His monumental feat would open the eyes of everyone, and that this is what they had all been working for.

He got through security easier than expected. Screenings were minimal in this day and age, and this proved to be incremental in the mission. He smiled as he past the attractive security guard. He didn't look like what she was looking for. Which was exactly why he was chosen.

For too long they had been stereotyped, but now they would use that preconceived perception against them. Their cause was as strong as ever, and as distorted as ever. He could remember the beginning, he was there, the historical moment it began, and it amazed him how far they had come. That warehouse where he stood along with hundreds of others, cheering, chanting, and yelling. Calls to "Never Fall" nearly blew the roof off the place. He had sworn an oath to himself to follow this noble effort wherever it took him, and after 10 years it landed him in the largest airport in the world, carrying a backpack full of ammonium-nitrate fertilizer and diesel fuel canisters.

He and his fellow activists had been in a long battle that had led to the death of many friends of his. He shook each one off and carried on, knowing that the cause was bigger than one man. Except in this case. His enemies reigned supreme, they created laws and enforced them, they made executive decisions, and they ruled over him and all his countrymen. He and his like-minded thinkers fought The Government with every breath they took. He hated them because he knew what they did, what they were doing now, and the unimaginable things they would do if he were to fail. They had waged deception upon his fellow citizens constantly and had been for years. They gave them freedom in exchange for ignorance. Peace for obedience. What was worst, in his mind, was that all the others knew it, but they just kept their mouths shut and lived. The press had never backed down, but knowing they were harmless against them, The Government continued to humor them.

He wanted to change that. He fought the increasing propaganda to "Buy Green, Buy Wind, Buy Solar." He saw irony in the fact that these were all things that were free to all, but that The Government had seemingly gained a monopoly on the environment. Other countries followed suit. The remaining oil empires eventually lit their reserves aflame and watched an end of an era go up in a thick black cloud.

He couldn't let this happen. Governments around the globe were gaining money in unthinkable quantities, establishing laws that ruled out any chance of competition. They controlled the land in a new way now. They called themselves democracies, but were slowly trying to eek out competitors everywhere, aiming to become a company running a country. The one chance to set things back to normal was to get oil back in the picture. While everyone had wind and sun, oil existed in finite amounts. When some have and others have-not, competition ensues.

This is how the Oilists began.

He could never explain it well enough in words. The concepts involved were complex, and this issue was very difficult to understand. When discussing it, he boiled it down to this, that the governments had become monopolies thanks to alternative fuel profits and were cracking down on any sort of competition whatsoever when it came to the business. His organization fought for capitalism, and believed that the resource of oil would reignite the lost economic approach. To do so, alt-fuel sources all over the world would need to be struck. Air travel, factories, fill-up stations, and even the cars of average countrymen. There would be massive casualties, innocent people would die, as they had in the past, but they would get over it when they realized they had been freed from such an oppressive system.

He was the catalyst.

He would set the world on fire.

The plan was set up so that everyone involved would know when each bomb went off. When he started it all, the next guy would set his off at his location, and then the next and on and on until the fuse burnt out. It would be a chain reaction of terror. He hated to use or even think of that word when he considered the plan, but he knew fear would beget results. The result would be change.

He saw the departure gate thirty yards ahead and knew he was at the threshold, the point where nothing could stop him. This fact brought a smile to his face, especially when he heard men far behind him begin to yell. They screamed in panic and with a strain to their voice. They knew who was and what he was going to do, but it was too late. He turned around to look at the men as he continued to walk to the gate, the smile still prominent on his face. He walked on, past the woman asking for his ticket, and onto the plane. The plane, clean burning and environmentally friendly, was a prime symbol of The Government's stranglehold on energy and power.

This symbol was now at his mercy.
_______________________________________________________________________

The news came on at 6 o'clock on the dot. The screen clicked to life and the blurry image of the anchor and his desk slowly faded into a crystal clear picture. The newsman, usually composed and objective, was in obvious disbelief. His hand on his sweating brow, he couldn't bear to look at the camera right away. He shook his head, barely able to comprehend what he was being TelePrompTed to say. The news had come so sudden, with such shock to him, that it forced away any ability to keep himself together. He finally moved his hand over his mouth and stared at the camera. He was trying hard to get to the point. He knew his audience was waiting with bated breath and tears in their eyes for him to say it. They needed official word. They needed to hear it from someone they still trusted. The newsman had to tell them. Moving his hand away so he could speak, he brought himself to announce the news.

"Ladies and Gentlemen at home and around the world, good evening. I'm here tonight to bring you news that I myself have trouble believing could ever happen. At exactly 5 this afternoon, a plane in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia was blown up in what is almost unanimously believed to be a bombing by the terrorist group The Oilists. 130 are believed to be dead. Reports coming in have not given us any hope for survivors. This started a chain reaction of epic proportions. Around the world, locations were struck, places seen as symbols of hope and the future for us as a human race. Massive truck bombs and various other devices leveled alternative fuel plants in the United States. Wind farms were systematically destroyed in Australia's Outback. The solar fields of Egypt were blown to bits, beyond repair. Worst of all, in mine and many others' eyes, were the attacks today on the things that help transport us, the things that we take for granted. Aside from the plane bombing in Riyadh, 46 other planes were bombed in countries all across the globe. Freeways from Los Angeles to Hong Kong were reduced to ash as either planted explosives or car bombs mixed in with traffic blew up thousands of cars. Planes fell out of the sky today as mid-flight detonations turned them into freefalling firebombs. No estimations have been made yet since the worldwide chaos ended, or hopefully ended, approximately half an hour ago. Deaths could range from 50,000 to 100,000 killed in total. Staggering figures that just buckle your knees and makes you wonder 'why?'"

"The Oilists website has been all but wiped clean for the time being. A simple banner remains, reading, 'Today We Changed The World.'"

At A Standstill

The town dies around midnight. Everyone is in their homes and off the road, beginning to wind down from their day. The traffic lights give orders to no one as the streets lay silent. The world is at peace.

Rick Lahser, however, is restless.

He's alone in his car on a dark side street. His eyes are fixated on a house to the left. His heart is racing. He can't keep his eyes off it. The house is taunting Rick, with its porch lights on and its thin, airy drapes, daring him to come over. But he remains in his seat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel while his right leg jitters up and down anxiously. The song playing on his CD happens to sync with his situation, asking him, "Oh well, whatcha waiting for?" He looks at his stereo and cracks a small smile at the coincidence. Normally he would take this as a sign, as a means to get out of the car and follow through with his plan. He doesn't, though. Rick continues to think to himself that someone from inside will see him and ruin everything. He's unwilling to take the risk that the Rick of old would have done in a heartbeat. This new Rick is wary, more cautious, less willing to put it on the line and go for it.

So he starts up his car and leaves.

Angry with himself, he curses under his breath, shaking his head at his inability to act. He turns onto the main road and flies down it, trying to release his aggression in some way. At a stoplight, he puts his head on the wheel and thinks of the all the possible ramifications of this inaction. Every possible and far-reaching possibility floods into his mind, each one hurting more than the last. He blew it and he knew it.

He looks at the passenger seat and sees the envelope. Inside it contained a letter saying everything he couldn't. It was meant to be a love note to his friend whom he had harbored a crush for over 3 months now. Rather than taped to her door, it sat there mocking Rick. He couldn't look at it any longer, for it made his stomach turn. He stared up at the light, now green, and he hit the gas.

Her name was Michelle.

He had been so calculated around her in his last year of high school. Every interaction with her was carefully plotted out in advance. His conversations with her were so intricately prepared that they could have been scripted. This was just how he went about courting someone. He couldn't be blamed for not being himself, even though he seemed to try and plan every situation with Michelle to make himself come off as a great guy. This was just Rick's way of flirting with a woman. He had been the same way with the woman he fell for before, but after she rejected him, it sent Rick into a season-long depression. He thought he was fully recovered, but it was apparent that he was still hesitant when it came to expressing himself. While inside he saw himself as chivalric, quixotic, and romantic, he knew that tonight he failed to live up to any of those qualities. His love for Michelle would remain a fact known only to him for another lonely night.

Rick pulled into the nearby gas station to buy some comfort food, namely a Yoo-Hoo and a Twix bar. There were no customers, not much as surprise at 1am. Rick, knowing the exact layout of the store from hundreds of visits, quickly had his supplies in hand and waited at the counter for the attendant to show up. A minute passed without any movement from the back room. Rick looked around for something saying, "Back in 5" or "Closed," something he may have missed, but from what he could see, there was no sign of any sort. He rang the small bell lying on the table, but with another minute having passed, Rick gave up. He left his money on the table and a note listing what he purchased for the attendant to see whenever they decided to get back to work.

Rick got in his car and was hit with a very odd feeling, a sense that something very bad was about to happen. From the spot where his car was parked, he thought it might have been the sudden fear of a carjacking. His nerves got to him as he started up his car and peeled out of the gas station lot as quickly as he could. He shot down the street on his way home, having told his father he was only going to the gas station. He had made no mention of any side trip.

Pulling into the driveway, Rick didn't immediately leave the vehicle. Instead, he once again sat, staring ahead, thinking of what this missed opportunity would cost him. She'd find someone else, surely a guy unworthy in Rick's eyes, she'd move away to her college, her and Rick would stay in contact for a few months, but after that it would be all over. He wished that she, along with many others from his high school class, wouldn't go anywhere, that everybody would just stay put. He had so many chances in his senior year to tell her how he felt, but he had just let his insecurities get to him. And again tonight the demons from his past had stopped him from following through, leaving him sitting in his car wishing he hadn't been a coward for that one moment.

Rick turned off the car and grabbed his stuff, pocketing the envelope and heading into the house only to be pounced on by his dog, Mike. He brought his candy and drink into the living room to finish watching the baseball game, and where his father was reading the newspaper. It was a game on the West Coast, so although it was closing in on a quarter after one, it was still the bottom of the sixth. The game had been paused, apparently, thanks to the magic of Tivo.

"That's alright, you didn't need to pause the game for me," Rick said to his father.

He snagged the remote and hit 'Play.' The screen stayed still. He let out a sigh, thinking the television was messed up just months after they had bought it. He looked at the screen and kept hitting the button, hoping it would just start up again randomly. As he squinted at the screen, he noticed something. The image showed the pitcher having thrown the ball and the batter was still in his pre-swing stance. The umpire was still leaning on the catcher, having not made the call yet. The ball, however, lay on the ground just in front of the catcher. It was as if the batter, catcher and umpire had not even realized the ball had been thrown.

"You see this, Dad? Dad?"

Rick's father continued reading the paper, not acknowledging his question or Mike as he jumped into his lap.

"Dad?"

Rick was use to his father becoming so involved in the newspaper that he wouldn't respond right away, but this was out of the ordinary. Rick went and looked over the paper to see his father with an unblinking face, not looking at Rick, just solely concentrated on the paper. Rick shook his father's shoulder, but without a reaction. He was warm too, as if he had a fever. He was still breathing as well, but it was shallow.

"Mike, stay here."

Rick ran to his mother's room, where she was sleeping, and turned on the lights. He shook her, but she too was unresponsive. He was then hit with the fact that his normally light sleeping mother did not even awake to the lights turning on, this usually being enough stimulus for her to shoot out of bed. He continued to shake her, now more vigorously and with worry in his eyes. Still nothing. He noticed something odd; she too was extremely warm. She looked completely normal, but obviously she wasn’t right. Staying by her side, Rick took out his cell phone and called his friend Ken.

He quietly whispered to the phone, telling Ken to pick up. When the voicemail answered, Rick began to panic. If the normally technophile Ken wasn't answering, something was definitely wrong.

"Hey Ken, I need you to call me back, alright? S-Something's wrong. See ya."

Rick went down his contact list and spent 15 minutes trying to reach anyone he could, but every call ended up reaching the voicemail rather than the person. He paced back and forth from the bedroom to the living room, checking on his parents, who were still unable or unwilling to move, he wasn't sure. He finally hit a point of extreme anxiety and dialed 9-1-1 for the first time in his life. It just rang and rang, without an answer. He threw his phone on the couch and picked up the television remote again, turning on the cable news in a desperate attempt to see if this was happening elsewhere. When he switched over, he found the anchors to be frozen in mid-conversation with each other, not moving an inch. He went up a channel and found nothing but the same, with the political pundit looking at the screen, mouth half open and eyes in mid-blink.

Something was definitely wrong.

Though a normally smart and logical thinker, Rick felt vulnerable and afraid, as he couldn't find grounds for this event. He had seen enough thrillers and horror movies to think about toxins and viruses as being the cause, but quickly dismissed those as unlikely. Rick, without knowing the cause for this occurrence, certainly couldn't come up with a solution. For no reason other than to have it and feel an ounce safer, he sought out his father's gun from his sock drawer. As he was rummaging through the socks, he decided he was going to drive over to his friend Quentin's house. He didn't know Quentin's number so he wasn't able to call him. He only lived a block away and figured it was worth a shot. With gun already in hand, he swiped his keys off the kitchen table and got back in his car.

This whole deal was still so sudden and so strange to Rick that his head was still having trouble wrapping around it. He tried breaking down everything, trying to look at this as logically as possible. His mom and dad were immobile. They were very warm. None of his friends, and not even the cops for that matter, was answering their phones. The electricity was fine. The televisions worked, but the game and the news were frozen. Both of those are shown live, meaning that this same thing was happening in those studios and on the West Coast. This wasn’t isolated case, but why was he ok? Thinking over all of this, the well-read and educated Rick still could not come to any conclusions about what had happened. Something this widespread seemed to have taken placed instantly. Again, why was he the exception to this?

He continued to pour over the details as he pulled up to Quentin's house. Just half an hour ago, everyone was fine; he was leaving his house and saying goodbye to his responsive father, on his way to Michelle's house. Now things were different. Why?
As he walked up to the door, he saw lights were on inside and noise was coming from inside. Voices. He knocked repeatedly, calling for Quentin, but no one answered. He jiggled the doorknob, and it obliged, having been left unlocked, allowing Rick inside. Upon his entrance, he saw that the voices were coming from the old sitcom playing on television. Moving further into the house, he saw Quentin in the hallway, leaning up against the wall, looking at his cell phone.

"Quen? Hey, buddy, you hear me?"

Nothing. Rick swore over and over, frustrated and nervous. Everyone was at a standstill. There was no logic behind this, no reason, and yet, it was happening right before his eyes. Rick looked at the clock in Quentin's dining room. It read 1:34 in the morning, with the second hand slowly making it's way around. The clock ticked on, but everyone seemed to be stuck in time. It still didn't make any sense to him. He put his head up against the wall, gently bumping his father's pistol on the back of his head, trying to knock some answers out.

Suddenly, with a roar, a car raced down the street at high speeds. Rick turned his head and ran outside, feeling the adrenaline kicking in. When he reached the sidewalk, he looked both ways and spotted the vehicle at the end of the street, nearing the main road.

Rick hopped back in his car and went into hot pursuit of this other driver. Someone was certainly up and moving other than Rick, probably in a panic and looking for answers. He needed to catch up to them. As he reached the main road, he pulled out into the middle lane and stopped. Putting the car in park, Rick got out and surveyed the area. He listened intently, but could no longer hear the growl that other engine made. Neither direction featured a car or any evidence one had been on it. Again, all Rick could do was let out frustrated obscenities.

He knew sitting around waiting was worthless, he had to continue moving, looking for someone that might have survived whatever had gotten hold of the rest. So he drove at a snail's pace, down the main road, scanning over every square foot for movement of any sort. Another fact popped into his head as he drove; Mike was unaffected. He was still in good spirits and had the same yippy personality as before. Maybe only humans were affected, Rick thought. Just another piece to a puzzle he couldn't solve.

Flashing headlights caught Rick's attention, shining brightly in his rear view mirror. He instantly hit the brakes and stopped the car, getting out, but not forgetting the gun. He put it in the back of his waistband and waited for the car to reach him. After a few seconds, it got within a distance that Rick could make it out. Coming toward him was a truck that looked fairly new and sped at him at a brisk pace. He began to wave his arms over his head, trying to get the driver's attention and for him to stop. The driver, however, seemed to have no thought of slowing down for Rick. The truck continued to speed toward him, who quickly realized that this vehicle was stopping for no one. Rick dove out of the way and watched from the ground as the dark blue behemoth smashed into his car, disabling both.

He couldn’t believe what he had just seen. Rick sat there, breathing heavily and unable to figure out just what had happened. This driver had tried to kill him. He had to do something; he couldn’t just lie there forever.

Absolutely frightened, Rick pulled out the pistol and moved slowly toward the truck. While he had the poise of a veteran police officer approaching a dangerous room, Rick had never shot a real gun, and only had television and the movies to go off of in terms of handling and shooting. He grabbed the truck driver's door handle with one hand, making sure to keep the gun in the other and trained on the door. He took a breath and ripped the door open.

The car was empty.

Rick was left speechless. He didn't know what to think anymore. He felt helpless at this point, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. It was as if Rod Serling was suddenly dictating his life and that he was in store for something even worse. No, there was one person he could go to, he thought, one who felt an obligation to protect. Michelle.

Now without a car, he had to walk the five blocks to her house. Rick moved with a purpose, still listening and looking in every direction, hoping to catch something in the distance or in the corner of his eye that might hint that someone else was out there. All he heard was the slight breeze touching upon the summer leaves. Their rustling usually calmed Rick, but now it only gave him chills. The darkness seemed pervasive, stretching into every corner, the light from the corner stores and gas stations fighting it as best they could. Nothing on this familiar road felt soothing to him anymore. Where had that truck come from? And the other that raced down the street? Rick was not a man who usually cried. He had worked hard over the years to create a happy and humorous persona that kept his darker emotions at bay. But now, in the middle of the street, he wanted to cry harder than he had in a long time. And yet still, he resisted. Crying meant giving up and he refused to stop. Although he was faced with a seemingly impossible situation, he had to cope with it. So he walked on.

He saw her street in sight when he heard another car engine come to life. It snarled like a beast and then kicked into gear. Rick just knew that it was coming toward him. He ran now, at a full sprint, down Michelle's street. Her home wasn't far off the main road and he reached it in mere seconds, pounding on the door the moment he reached it, screaming her name and hoping someone would open it. The noise from the far off car grew louder, closing in on Rick. He was burdened with more questions. Why was it coming for him? And why did he know that it was? He didn't care at that point. He looked at his pistol in his hand and then at the window next to the door. He cautiously shot the window three times, shattering the glass and allowing for a way in.

Rick kicked the remaining shards and ran as fast as his legs would allow him throughout the house. He saw what was probably Michelle's father lying on the couch, staring at the TV, motionless. He found the stairs leading to the second floor and charged up them two at a time. Pictures of Michelle at every stage of her life adorned the walls in the home, things he would likely take time to look at if this were a casual visit. This was a rescue mission, though, and Rick knew Michelle had to be close. He ran to the end of the hallway, now sweating buckets, and turned right to see a room decorated in posters of rock bands and movie stars. This had to be Michelle's room.

For all the rushing he did, when Rick found her room, he felt as if he could no longer move. He didn't want to see what was likely in that room. This was the room of the girl he had been idolizing for months, building her up in his mind to be the perfect woman for him. But he knew when he stepped a foot in there that he would find that same woman frozen in place like all the others. But he knew he had to do it. This time the past and his fears couldn't stop him. He took a step.

Rick turned left and saw her, beautiful as always, but just as he expected, unmoved. She was sitting there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, huddled up in a ball on her bed, watching the small TV in her room. She was watching the exact same game he had been. For some reason that tore him up and nearly brought those tears out. Still, he held on and moved closer to her. Rick knelt on one knee in front of her. For a brief time, he just stayed where he was and looked at her. He had never taken the time to really do so. She really was gorgeous even without makeup, just naturally amazing. Finally, he cleared his throat and tried whatever he could to "awake" her.

"Hey. Hey, Michelle. It's Rick."

He stopped. He felt stupid doing this. Could she even hear him? Did it matter?

"It's Rick. I'm here for you. You know, I don't know if you can here any of what I'm saying, but something's happened. No one's moving out there. Nobody. And I-I don't know what to do. I just thought, you know, I'd come here. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Rick paused, gathering himself.

"But obviously, you're not. I'm sorry. I don't why I am. I just feel like I failed you somehow. I was outside your house earlier, actually, I came to drop this off."

Rick took the letter out of his pocket and showed it to the unresponsive Michelle.

"It's, uh, it says everything I've wanted to say to you for so long. I couldn't do it though; I just got too afraid and left. I love you, Michelle. That's what it basically says. Everything about you just blows me away. And now, here you are like the rest out there. I messed up."

A car door slammed outside. Rick looked out the bedroom window to see the interior lights from a sedan slowly going off, but he couldn’t see anyone. He closed the blinds and shut the door to the room then went back to Michelle, picking up where he left off, this time with a more Rick-like humor and nostalgia in his voice.

“You remember back in middle school, when we had science together, when we first met? That day I accidentally knocked your stuff on the ground? I actually, uh, did it on purpose to get you to notice me. Ha, and all those times I teased you, you know it was just because I liked you. But after that last year in middle school, things between us just kind of went away. They were dormant for a long time. But this year, you made me fall for you again, and I don't want to let that pass me by. I want you to wake up, Michelle. I just want you to wake up so bad. I love you; I can't have you be like this. Wake up. Come on, Michelle. Come on. Come on. Michelle! Michelle! Wake up!”

Rick shot a bullet past her ear, trying whatever came to his mind to wake her.

"Damnit, please, come on and wake up. Everything will be alright, just move. Move, move, move, just a little bit. Please."

Rick rested his head on the edge of her bed, exhausted and out of ideas.
A sharp banging began at the bedroom door, causing Rick to jump. The whole door seemed to shake, with the fragile hinges threatening to break at each hit. Rick aimed the pistol at the point where the intruder’s chest or head might be when the door broke. He knew that door was going to fail, and that he had to protect himself and Michelle from whatever was on the other side. Now he was feeling it. Chivalric. Quixotic. Romantic. Death itself could have been knocking on that door, but Rick would have stayed right where he was.

The cause of all this didn't want anyone to move. Rick was going to follow suit.

A final thunderous bash blasted the door into pieces, causing Rick to shield his face with his free arm. He regained his composure and waited for the invader to reveal itself. But as he continued to wait, holding the gun with a rock hard grip, he wondered if anything was going to appear.

Within the course of half an hour his world had come crashing to an end. Nobody, including the person he cared so deeply for, could as much as bat an eye. An invisible force had destroyed the door and driverless cars had pursued him. Why? Rick didn't know. These events defied logic. Was this an act of God? Was He trying to show Rick the impact if someone doesn't make a move, and just using it on a large scale to illustrate it? Anything seemed possible now, but right now Rick didn't care. He was with Michelle, and whatever happened, he would stay with her. Rick decided to sit up and park himself next to Michelle, putting an arm around her and resting his head on her warm shoulder. The gun still tightly clenched in his hand.

Rick stayed there, motionless with his love, the clock in her room continuing to tick on.

Day broke hours later to a world that refused to wake up. One man could still move, but he rejected to do so. Rick Lahser stayed awake throughout that night, gun trained on a quiet but ominous doorway. The woman next to him, Michelle, remained huddled up, eyes glued to a frozen TV screen. Neither would move for hours. Birds would sing that day and the sun would still shine, but nothing else would be the same for Rick. His focus on that empty space in the wall was so intense he began to have tunnel vision. He saw nothing else. He even missed Michelle blink.