old: We Are Waiting

What is there to say when you survived, and they didn't?

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-16th April 1912; approximately 3pm-

Her hair is tied back in two messy pigtails. They were neat and tidy earlier that morning, but now only succeed in giving her the look of a lower-class Boston school-girl.
This is entirely acceptable, considering that’s exactly what she is.
She doesn't bother announcing her arrival when she steps through the doorframe; instead, she takes her time unlacing her surprisingly muddy boots. She can't remember how they came to be quite so dirty.
"Darling, is that you?" she hears her mother's voice sound from the kitchen.
"I'm home, Maw," she replies loudly, roughly pulling off the tight shoes. The boots used to belong to her older brother - hand-me-downs, as were the majority of her belongings - and he happened to have irritatingly small feet.
"Come in here for a second, before you get started on your school work. I need to talk to you."
The girl blinks, not sure what exactly she wants from her, but nevertheless walks loyally to the kitchen to find her mother sitting at the small kitchen table hunched over what appears to be the daily copy of the Boston Times; she recognises the cheap paper.
Her mother's blue eyes find hers; she's beckoned over urgently.
"Maw?" she asks, concerned when she sees the panicked look in her eyes. "What is it?"
"Come here, Kacey," is the only answer she gets.
The girl does so quickly, eager to curb the growing curiosity.
"Did you hear about this?" her mother asks quietly, sadly.
Kacey gives her an inquiring look. "About wha-"
She stops the question halfway through as her eyes catch the headline on the paper her mother is brandishing towards her.
She gasps, horrified.

***

"Come on! Hurry, you have to see this," he grins at me excitedly.
"What?" I snap at him, irritated. "Don't you get it, Boris? No, I don't want to talk to you anymore. Leave me alone, will you?"
He snorts, his eyes returning to the floor. "As if I care. Besides, that's not what I was talking about."
He pushes my shoulder rather roughly; I turn to glare at him. "Leave me alo-"
"Shut up, will you? It's nothing to do with you and your stupid girlfriend."
"She's not my gi-!"
"Shut up already! Come on though, a bunch of us are putting some money together to buy a copy. You want in?"
"What? What the hell do you want?" I quip, tired of him by now.
"Have you seen any of the papers this morning?" he asks me, his eyes shining with an unknown emotion.
My face blanks as I'm caught off guard. "That's not out of the blue at all," I raise an eyebrow, regaining some composure.
He rolls his eyes at my sarcasm. "Have you?"
"No."
"Well then, come on!"
Seemingly tired of me, he turns on his heels and strides down the street to where a bunch of our mates are waiting. I'm torn on whether to follow him or not; Karen (said 'girlfriend') would hate it if she knew I was still talking to him.
Still.
Curiosity wins out, and I rush after Boris. They're halfway to a news-stand by the time I reach them.
Boris glances to the side to see me.
"What?"
He smirks. "What about Karen?"
"She's a big girl. What she doesn't know won't hurt her."
He rolls his eyes again, but I spy a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He's pleased.
"Anyway, what's this whole news thing about?"
Jacob, Boris's best friend, answers. "What, you haven't heard!?"
"Jesus, Wilson. I know your family aren't huge on politics, but Jesus!"
I snort at Boris's added comment. "Shut up, Pole."
"Whatever, American," he sneers back affectionately.
"Read all about it!" the kid selling the paper says. "National headlines, be the first to know!"
"What?" I ask him.
He looks me square in the eye, and hands me a copy wordlessly.
I scan the bold print, and my eyes widen.
My breath catches in my throat. "Holy... shit."
***

"Maria."
I ignore him.
"Maria, listen to me. Please?"
I don't.
"Maria!"
I take a deep breath through my nose, trying my hardest to refrain from kicking him in the shin.
"I'm so sorry, Maria. Really, I am. God... It’s just so unbelievable," he says, almost as if he's not talking to me but rather to thin air; to himself, even.
I stay stock still, my back to the alley wall, my eyes staring at the ground stubbornly. "You promised, Sir. You promised me," I murmur quietly.
I hear him sigh. "I know."
"You broke your promise."
"The sea broke my promise for me, Maria. I had nothing to do with the building of the ship, but damn it, I wish I did. Irish buggers."
I snort. "Sir, with all due respect, the 'Irish buggers' created a fine ship. I wouldn't have settled for less for my sisters."
He notices the past tense, and leans his weight back onto the opposite alley wall behind him. I hear a shaky intake of breath. "I'm just as upset as you ar-"
“No!" I snap, my eyes snapping up to meet his shocked gaze. "No, you certainly aren't! It was to be the finest ship in the goddamn world! And it sank! It sank, it sank, it fucking sank!"
He's not surprised when I curse. Instead, he just leans forward, and takes my trembling hands in his larger, warm ones; my petite hands are completely enveloped in his comforting grasp.
"It sank," he nods, looking me in the eyes. His blue eyes are gentle, and miserable.
My tears overflow; I'm fighting hard to keep the sobs to a minimum. "Just children. They were just children..." I whisper as he pulls me into his chest, his left arm hugging my body to his warmth.
He says nothing but I feel his chest shudder under my cheek.

***

"Harriet, sweetheart! Harriet!"
"Yes, Mother?"
"Run along, tell one of the kitchen boys to fetch me the Boston Times, will you?"
"Of course, Mother, I'll be right back. Shall I use the change from father's coat?"
"Yes, yes. It should be fine."
***

"Mother," Kacey breathes.
"I know, Kacey. I know."
"But... I thought it was impossible! Are you quite sure, Mother? Are you completely sure!?"
"I'm rather certain, darling."
"But, the picture. The ship's so big. How could it have sunked?"
"Sank, sweetheart. Sank."

***

"Boris..."
He says nothing; no-one does.
"Boris, look at these figures!"
I'm still staring at the pictures.
"Bori-!"
"Shut up, Jacob, shut up!"

***

"Read all about it, folks! Read all about it! The Titanic sinks, 1500 die! The great ship Carpathia picks up 675 souls out of 2200 on board, races for New York, survivors of the Titanic mostly women and children! Read all about it!"
It's unbelievable.
"The Titanic, the ship of dreams, sinks - read all about it!"

old: Survivor

He's watched friends come and go. He's seen unbelievable things, lived through unimaginable horrors. He is the survivor. But as the mysterious Harvest looms, his beliefs will be shaken to their very core. The question is, will he survive?

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                   Day thirty-four.
I can’t seem to get over the fact that I can see Bertie’s guts swaying in the breeze.
I mean, I know that in times like these, you’ve gotta get used to these things. But I knew Bertie. He was a good friend, despite the age difference, and just knowing that his insides are dangling a little way below me is freaking me the hell out.
Can you even blame me?
It was a snake that got him. I remember yesterday when he was saying his hurried goodbyes, a hole already evident on his body. I can still hear the squelching sounds as the snake burrowed deeper into him. And then came his screams at night as the pain got worse and his hold was ripped away, one tiny bit at a time.
I remember the thud as he fell.
God, what if that snake’s still around here somewhere?

                   Day forty-seven,
It was Agnes today.
I suppose it was better her than someone else. She had been talking to me earlier about feeling a bit bruised, and that’s never a good sign. It was only a matter of time, anyway.
She hadn’t been taken by the snake that got Bertie; no, it was something else, something that none of us had ever really seen until today.
It had come from below; a pale pink contraption with dark grimy smudges of dirt splattered across the five fleshy sticks pointing out in random directions. It didn’t look large enough to take on one of us, not if we’d all fought, but it was faster than anything I’d ever seen.
It just appeared, hovering above us as we shook with fear, and suddenly it snatched her away from her stalk in the blink of an eye. She didn’t even have time to scream.
I guess she’d been luckier than Bertie though. Her death was quick, at least.
It didn’t end there, though. As my eyes craned down to keep my gaze locked on her body, I saw that the fleshy five-pronged weapon was actually attached to a thick trunk made of the same material. This thing was attached to an even larger mammoth of a body.
Whatever the freak was, it raised Agnes’s body as if she weighed nothing to inspect her. Seeming displeased, it tossed her aside carelessly.
Our home barely shuddered from the impact as she exploded against the bark.
I searched for the killer again, but it had disappeared just as fast as it had appeared. All I could see were a few remnants of what had been Agnes.

                    Day sixty,
There are whispers going around the older ones about something called Harvest.
The youngest aren’t paying an ounce of attention; they’re too busy comparing the hues of their skin, a common seedling form of entertainment. I remember doing that when I was brand new as well, just a week or two old. Once or twice I’d win and be awarded the title of the Red Coat, but those times were seldom and far in between.
I can see all this going on down below, considering I’m one of the tallest in our home. Only old Edward and the baby Janine are higher up than me. Edward keeps going on about Harvest, so that’s how I heard about it up here, and all Janine really does is stare at the sun longingly.
She’s a dreamer, that one.
Poor girl, she was born slightly deformed; a snake got to her in her first week, but we managed to fight it off. The wound’s still healing.
I’m two months today, so obviously, I don’t play around anymore. It’s not like I’m the oldest or anything, but it’s definitely a lot longer that some others have survived.
Supposedly, ‘Harvest’ is some sort of haven for our kind; almost like a reward for surviving the harsh conditions up here. Everyone who’s left goes, to give space for the new’uns, I think. I can’t be sure, though. The old ones’ memories aren’t the best; most of their bodies are all bruised up and some are even starting to look yellow.
No doubt a sign that they’ll be falling any day now.
Poor souls.

                    Day sixty-six,
Harvest is tomorrow. I can feel it.
And I swear I’ve never felt better. I’m as red as I’ve ever been, my stalk’s feeling strong and flexible and, best of all, harvest is coming.
It’s a whisper going around, but I’m sure it’s true.
It’s gotta be.

                    Day sixty-seven,
It’s bucketing again. Some of the weaker ones, like the seedlings or the really old folk, have already fallen to the sodden ground below.
I’m holding on with all I have, even though the feeling of the liquid running all over me is horrifying. I can feel it trickling around before dripping off slowly, ever so slowly. And on my head, there’s just a constant bombardment of water.
Still, I’m holding on. I’ve gotta hold on for Harvest.

                    Day sixty-eight,
There was a crow hit-and-run today. Seven fell, two were taken.
Janine included.
There’s a riot going on somewhere far below me in the lower levels, saying that we should just let go on purpose, that it’s our best chance. Havoc everywhere.
People want to know about the Harvest. It should be here by now.
It was supposed to be a rescue.
Where is it!?

                    Day sixty-nine,
Nothing to report.

                    Day seventy-two,
I give up.
There’s no such thing as Harvest. Edward’s an idiot. All of the old ones are idiots. All of us are idiots. We’re just a bunch of dead idiots.
All hope is lost.

                    Day seventy-five,
It happened today. After all my waiting, it finally happened. It was a day like any other, when all of a sudden we could hear the screams and shouts of little versions of what took Agnes approaching our tree.
Following them were the deep rumbles of the full-grown ones.
They were coming for us.
Once that realisation set it, a ripple of fear spread through us. I saw just how wrong I was – Harvest isn’t a rescue, it’s a goddamn massacre.
Preparations were made, obviously, to strengthen the stalks and such, but something inside me was telling me that this was the end. We were just as helpless as Agnes, perhaps more so when faced with the sheer numbers of this group of killers.
They had come with a few corpses of other homes; all cut, trimmed, skinned alive, and ordered in a formation with shorter ones stuck to two long ones.
Whatever they were, the killers put them up against our tree and started crunching each little twig under their feet as they ascended our home, advancing on us.
There’s silence.
And then, the screams begin.