Harmonic: Resonance Read online

  “Are you one of them?”

  At first, I couldn’t find the source of the question, but as I moved closer, I saw the barrel of a revolver, clasped tightly in the hands of a police officer. “Stop where you are.”

  As my eyes adjusted, I saw a small group of silhouetted figures behind the officer, their features strobing into view in vivid, alternating red and blue hues. The police officer reached a hand into his pocket and then flicked the hand toward me. The object seemed to travel in slow motion through the air, a red and blue disk, flashing on and off, before landing at my feet and spinning to a stop.

  “Pick it up,” he said.

  “What? I don’t—”

  “Pick up the coin,” he repeated in a firm, uncompromising tone.

  I did as ordered and stared back at the police officer, who was now walking slowly toward me.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s the coin for?”

  “So I know you’re not one of them,” he said.

  “One of what?”

  “Them,” he said, pointing the barrel of his revolver at the smoke behind me.

  I turned and stared at the figures, barely visible in the smoke. As I strained to make them out, I realized they were not behind the smoke, but translucent, seemingly made of smoke.

  “What—” I started.

  “Ghosts.”

  Unable to believe my eyes or my ears, I turned back to the officer. His face held its seriousness as he continued. “The dead, they’re everywhere.”

  I returned my gaze to the smoke. The figures were all different shapes and sizes. Somewhere behind me, the officer’s words faded to a dull hum as I walked toward the figures. The hot air shimmered around them, distorting their features. They were people, see-through, androgynous mannequin-like bodies, but with human faces. A child-size figure with the face of a boy moved toward me, his arm extended, and he seemed to be smiling. As though watching myself in a dream, I continued closer, my hand out to meet his. Our hands met without physical sensation—our fingers passed through each other’s, and the boy’s smile dissolved. He turned to the larger figure beside him and moved his mouth as though speaking, but what I heard was a fizzing, crackling sound, followed by a loud bang; there was a flash of pain and then nothing.

  06 | Mass hysteria

  I awoke to a throbbing pain behind my eyes and through the right side of my head. My chest ached, and there was a stabbing pain in my lungs when I breathed in. I began to cough, an involuntary fit, amplifying the pain way beyond my threshold. I closed my eyes tight and held my breath until the urge to cough subsided.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe,” a voice said.

  Something touched the side of my head, and I pulled away. The pain was immense, as though each hair had been replaced by a nerve, their ends exposed and sensitive, each reporting the slightest touch with an excruciating electrical signal. I tried to raise my arm and felt a wave of nausea. I took in a large labored breath and opened my eyes again.

  The room was a chaotic blur. “What happened?” My voice came out as a hoarse slur, and the room seemed to sway.

  “You were hit by debris from an explosion; a police officer brought you in.”

  “Am I in the hospital?”

  “Saint Chrysanthus Church. You’re probably going to have a headache for a while, but you’ll be okay.”

  I turned my head, following his voice. A rubber-gloved hand came into view, holding a bloodied cotton swab. As he moved his hand away, a young man’s face steadied in front of me. I tried to speak and stopped to clear my throat. As I attempted to lift myself up on my elbow, the room began to spin, and I had to hold my breath to keep from throwing up. I let the breath out slowly and resisted any further urge to move. “I’m cold,” I said.

  “I’ll get you a blanket. Don’t try to get up; just wait for me to come back, okay?”

  I offered what I could of a smile, but my attempt to say thank you was suppressed by another wave of nausea.

  The church hall had been re-purposed as a temporary disaster relief shelter, like those I’d seen on the news after earthquakes or floods. Groups of people were huddled together on the floor, while others, some in uniform, rushed back and forth. By the time the man returned, so had most of my senses. I was still groggy but could now make out his uniform. The paramedic draped the blanket over my shoulders and offered a kind smile.

  “Thank you,” I said and pulled the ends of the blanket to overlap. “I dreamed that there were ghosts in the smoke.”

  The paramedic shook his head. “That wasn’t a dream. I don’t know what they are, but others have seen them too.”

  I stared at him, while desperately trying to process what he was saying.

  “The firefighters were trying to save them, rushing in to buildings and risking their own lives, but when they got close enough to pull them out, they were grabbing only smoke,” he said.

  I thought about the boy and the confused look on his face as his hand passed through mine. “Are they people that died in the fire?”

  “I don't know who or what they are, but I’ve been hearing stories for the past couple of days about these ghosts appearing everywhere, not just in the fire,” he said.

  “What started the fire?” I asked.

  “Most of the stories I’ve heard so far are about exploding appliances—televisions, microwaves, and breaker boxes sparking and bursting into flame right before the power went out. The fire department has been trying to keep the fires away from the gas stations, but they don’t have enough resources to control or contain it, and all the neighboring towns are dealing with the same thing, we’re on our own for now. The police have been trying to keep everyone calm, but they’re just as confused and scared as everyone else.”

  I thought about the officer holding the revolver and wondered what good bullets would be against a ghost. “Where is the police officer who brought me here?”

  “I don’t know; the police have been in and out, they’re searching for survivors. They’ve been at it for days, and they’re still finding people. They’ve been returning with a new group every hour or so.”

  I brought my hand up to the source of pain at the side of my head. I felt the short stubble of shaved hair above my right ear and the knots and sticking-out thread from the edges of a sewn-shut fold of skin.

  He mirrored my wincing expression before offering an apologetic smile. “Seventeen stitches.”

  “Stitches?”

  “You’re only the third person I’ve stitched up; it’s not usually part of my job, so the scar may be a little crooked, sorry. Your hair will cover it though, when it grows back—”

  “Powell,” a male voice shouted from across the room.

  “I’ll be back to check on you in a while, okay?” He touched my shoulder briefly, stood, and rushed to the back of the hall, where someone was being wheeled in on a stretcher through the open doors.

  I continued running my fingers along my new hairline, an asymmetric Mohawk, accented by a stitched wound three inches long. I leaned back and closed my eyes, hoping the pounding headache would subside even a little if I kept still, but it remained and worsened when I tried to think about the events of the recent past.

  ***

  Reduced to no more than a wincing spectator, I watched as Harris kicked the spade into the dirt, turned, and tipped the removed turf and dirt onto the dry grass behind him. I heard my sobbing and a rustling sound from somewhere behind me. I turned to see the heaped canvas drop sheet move from side to side and then fold in the middle. The body inside the sheet sat up and turned its head to face me.

  I opened my eyes to Powell, crouched down at my side, with his hand on my shoulder.

  “You okay? You were crying in your sleep.” He spoke softly.

  I managed a nod but couldn’t stop the tears. He put an arm around me as I sat, leaned against his chest.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you have better things to do than comfort a hysterical girl with a Mohawk,” I
sobbed.

  “You deserve as much of my time as anyone else,” he said.

  “Your name’s Powell?”

  “John Powell, but everyone calls me Powell.”

  “I’m Emily. Emily Tanner.”

  “You have a bad dream? There’s a lot of those going around.” The vibration through his chest added a soothing lower octave to his voice. I closed my eyes and felt myself drifting off to sleep again, unable to protest.

  07 | The meek

  I remained still, curled up in the fetal position under the blanket, waiting for the painkillers to metabolize as I watched Powell tend to the wounded. My eyes would open to little more than a squint, and any attempt to track movement caused a pressure behind my eyes that forced me back into a temporary daze. I kept my own movements slight and gentle to avoid agitating the hornet’s nest in my head.

  Eventually, the painkillers eroded the sharp edges of pain, allowing me to stand without added discomfort, and I made my way across the hall to Powell.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Do you know how to dress a wound?” he asked.

  I shook my head and winced at the stinging pain within. “No, sorry, but I'm a quick learner; if you have the time to show me how.”

  “That’s okay. If you want to help, you can take a walk around, make sure everyone is comfortable, hand out blankets, water, and food. What supplies we have are over behind the piano,” he said and pointed to the corner of the hall.

  “Okay.” I offered a smile. “Thank you for sewing me up.”

  Powell smiled back. “You’re welcome. It’s what I’m here for.”

  I made the rounds, answering requests for supplies with whatever was available. There were faces I recognized—the teenage boy who worked at the gas station, members of staff from the building supply place, cashiers from the supermarket, and several families my dad had worked for over the years. Following the realization I was Jack Tanner’s daughter, some asked about my father, offering their sympathies and condolences when I informed them of his passing. Mine was not the only story of loss; people had lost their homes and pets, and some had lost family members. Their stories were of exploding appliances, lines of fire climbing the bedroom walls, futile attempts to put out the fires with extinguishers or buckets of water, and of relatives lost to the flames. The town had apparently burned for a week—hundreds of small fires growing and joining arms, sweeping through stores, leaping from one building to the next, flanking firefighters, pushing them back and out. Homes on the outskirts of town had gone up in flames and burned to ash in a matter of hours.

  The power surge had somehow shut down vehicles in motion, leading to crashes, leaving people stranded and others injured or worse. During the aftermath of the power surges, the religious sought sanctuary in the church, and rescue parties had brought in the rest. The church had become the muster point for all in need, all who had been displaced or injured; it was seemingly beyond the reach of spreading fires but close enough for the transport of the town’s wounded.

  Some of the stories were not of fire, but of ghosts. One man told the horrific account of a body dangling from a tree, hanging by an invisible rope. Other stories were of angry spirits trying to grab or strike the storyteller, of ghosts seeking revenge or retribution on those who now occupied the house they had died in. There was talk of the end of the world, of the devil, and of judgment. The few who had not seen the ghosts described the sightings as symptoms of shock or fear, as mass hysteria or shared hallucinations brought on by the inhalation of toxic smoke. The two viewpoints spurred accusation and bickering, and although I had seen the ghosts, I couldn’t be certain they were not a byproduct of shock or from breathing in toxins. It seemed unlikely so many would share the same hallucination, but just as unlikely that what we had all seen could be real.

  I followed the turning heads to the back doors of the church, as several of the medical personnel rushed to receive newcomers. I made my way to Powell and was about to ask how I could help, when the doors opened again to a blackened figure, writhing on a stretcher. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman; its burned skin oozed blood and fat from every crack, while its lipless open mouth gargled a scream that filled the hall. As I gasped, the smell of burnt hair and cooked meat filled my mouth and nose. I turned away with a hand cupped over my mouth and ran out through the open doorway.

  Powell found me around half an hour later, leaned against the nearest tree, still trying to spit out the taste of burnt hair.

  He put a hand on my back. “You okay?”

  “Not really. I don’t know how you do it, how you can see people like that and ...”

  “I’m sorry you had to see that. They shouldn’t have brought him in, there was nothing we could do for him,” he said.

  I turned and looked up at Powell. “He’s dead?”

  Powell dropped his gaze to the ground and gave a nod. “We’re going to have to set up a place to treat the newcomers, everyone’s freaking out in there. They shouldn’t have brought him in.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that, but it was the smell that got to me.” I covered my mouth and nose, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “I threw up after seeing my first burn victim. It’s a hard thing to see, and it never gets any easier,” he said.

  I wiped away the tears as they formed, but it only made my eyes sting even more. “So many lives destroyed and the dead coming back; I feel like I’m going mad. Is it some kind of judgment from God, that’s what people are saying?”

  “I don’t know anything about judgment, or God, but when the fires are out and people are back on their feet, there’s going to be a lot to think about. Maybe people will treat each other better, knowing there’s an afterlife.”

  “Is it like this everywhere, the rest of the country, the world?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s no TV or radio. I’ve heard the same thing’s happening in the next town over, but beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.”

  “So no one’s coming to help?”

  “I only know what I’ve heard, but it looks like we’re on our own for now.”

  “What about the Army?” I asked.

  Powell stared back at me, unable to offer the answers I wanted, and the feeling of guilt began to replace my expectations.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I wish I could tell you more. I wish I knew what was going on.”

  “My brother’s in the Army, but he’s somewhere in the Middle East,” I said.

  “What about the rest of your family?”

  “I buried my dad before I came into town.” I felt the lump rise in my throat but quickly swallowed it down.

  “I’m sorry. What about your mom?”

  I shook my head. “She died when I was six.”

  Powell offered a sympathetic smile, little more than a line.

  “Did you lose anyone?” I asked.

  “I don’t know; my family’s all back east. I wasn’t able to reach anyone before the power went out.”

  “It’s all so surreal. I keep expecting to wake up,” I said.

  “Me too,” he replied.

  “You’d have to go to sleep first,” I said. “How long has it been since you slept?”

  “I don’t know, couple of days I think.”

  “You should try to sleep while you can, instead of talking to me, not that I don’t like the company. It’s nice having someone I can talk to, even though I hardly know you,” I said.

  “You’re probably right. You get used to functioning on fumes when you're on call, but I’m not going to be able to keep it up for too much longer before I fall asleep on someone that needs my help.”

  “I can talk to the preacher, see if there’s anywhere to set up an emergency room for you, if you’d like,” I said.

  “I appreciate all the help. Even if he’s got a few tarps—we could set up a tent outside, line up a couple bench
es. It’s not ideal but it’s something. Are you sure that you’re up to it, after all you’ve been through?”

  “I’d rather stay busy, keep my mind off it. Idle hands ...”

  “... are the devil’s workshop,” Powell interjected. “Shall we go back in?”

  My initial frown at his response, quickly transformed into a smile, as he pulled open the door. “After you.”

  08 | Scavengers

  The staging area was built over two days. It was a simple wood-frame structure built onto the side of the church and covered with several large blue tarps. The addition was a pseudo quarantine, sparing those inside the church from further emotional trauma while allowing the medical staff to work uncensored and unimpeded by grief-stricken onlookers. Those who survived their injuries were moved into the church. None of the new arrivals were as badly burned as the blackened man who had died just days earlier, but still there were some that died despite the medical staff’s efforts. There were less new arrivals each day, and those obviously beyond salvation were no longer brought in. Each time I heard the echoed report of a distant gunshot, I wondered if another blackened man had been found and if the rumors were true of the rescue parties offering mercy—a quick end to the excruciating pain and misery.

  Several parties had been organized and sent out to see what remained of the town and to scavenge for food and water. One of the party leaders was the owner of the camping supply place on the other side of town. He had introduced himself as Gary when he brought the tarps for the emergency staging area. His store had been one of the first to burn; the firefighters had managed to put out the fire before it consumed everything inside, but the smoke damage had rendered what remained unsellable. He had offered anything of use to the shelter and had made a list of the requests for candles, blankets, oil lamps, camping stoves, first-aid kits, and thick winter clothes.

  The donation plate that circulated the church hall was not for the collection of coins, but for keys. Keys were gathered and each tagged with the corresponding vehicle’s location. Those unable to donate explained how the power surge had killed their vehicle’s engine, locked up the steering and brakes—those vehicles were now in a ditch somewhere or wrapped around a street sign. A small group was sent out to find, test, and bring back any and all working vehicles to be used as transport for survivors and supplies. I had offered to help Powell retrieve medical supplies from the decommissioned ambulances and emergency vehicles on the outskirts of town.