Stage 2 - Anger

Posted on Sun Jan 12th, 2025 @ 2:21pm by Niyah Monroe

1,015 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Towers of the Void (Series Premiere)
Location: Niyah's Home
Timeline: Late afternoon, Thursday, July 25th, 2024

The walk-in closet had seemed like the only safe spot after the chaos unfolded. It wasn’t reinforced, but it was in the center of the house, with no windows facing it directly. Niyah had curled up in the corner, clutching her knees, hoping the machines wouldn’t find her. She hadn’t dared to check whether they’d been affected by the nuclear blasts, nor had she turned on the small radio in the survival kit.

Silence felt safer.

Olivia had laughed at the idea of stocking KI pills. “The nearest plant’s fifty miles away, Niyah,” she’d said. “We’ll be fine.” Now, Niyah wasn’t so sure. She read the dosage instructions again, her hands trembling. She couldn’t afford to guess—not with fallout likely drifting from Baltimore, Fort Meade, and God only knew where else. And with the instructions it was clear she'd have to find shelter away from fallout in the next seven to ten days.

It had taken a bit longer for her to dare move out of the closet. The house was quiet now. Too quiet. Slowly, Niyah crept to the bedroom window, her bare feet crunching on shattered glass. She peered outside, her breath catching in her throat. The street was still. No drones. No machines. Only the lifeless body of Frank, sprawled on the asphalt among scattered shell casings.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Backing away from the window, she clenched her fists. Whoever caused this—whoever unleashed this hell—would pay. They had to. The USA had the biggest military in the world, and it wasn't even close. The aggressors had surely bitten off way more than they could even hope to chew.

She returned to the closet, yanking the duffle bag from the safe and tossing it onto the bed. Practical clothes first: shirts, jeans, sweaters. She moved mechanically, shoving items into the bag until her hand brushed against the soft fabric of the long flowing dress she had worn to her wedding. She froze.

Something snapped.

She shoved the dress aside and grabbed another handful of clothes for Olivia, stuffing them into the bag with sharp, jerky movements. The dull ache in her chest was swallowed by something hotter, sharper. Anger.

She changed into cargo pants and a slate-gray turtleneck, lacing up her Doc Martens with purpose. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she stepped downstairs. The front door was gone—blown clean off its hinges. From the doorway, she scanned the street. Still empty.

It was a short sprint to Frank’s house, but the direct path took her far too close to his body. The late afternoon sun cast his silhouette in dark relief, his empty eyes staring skyward. The gun still clutched in his hands seemed almost mocking. He’d always gone on about his rights, about standing his ground.

“Fat lot of good it did you,” she muttered, stepping past him towards his house.

She hadn’t liked Frank—his veiled threats, his smug superiority. But as much as she despised him, the sight of his body twisted her stomach. No one deserved what had happened here.

The front door hung ajar. Inside, the house was in disarray. Furniture lay overturned, glass littered the floor, and a thick layer of dust clung to everything.

“Where the hell do you keep your car keys?” she muttered, scanning the room.

A metal box near the television caught her eye. She picked it up, feeling the contents shift inside. Locked. Of course. She slammed it onto the hardwood floor. The lid buckled slightly. Gritting her teeth, she stomped on it with the heel of her boot. Again. And again.

With one final kick, the box cracked open. Inside, gleaming like some dark joke, was a Desert Eagle pistol, a few boxes of ammunition, a set of keys bearing the blue-and-white Ford logo, and some more necessities like KI pills and cash.

She snatched the gun, tucking it into her belt. She didn’t know how to use it, but in this new world she was about to face, it felt reckless not to carry one.

“Thanks for the car, Frank,” she said bitterly, pocketing the keys as well as the pills and the money.

The kitchen yielded little—frozen pizzas, microwave meals—but she didn’t linger. She had what she came for. Outside, the F150 sat in the driveway, its sturdy frame unscathed. Its seventies mechanics unaffected, or so she hoped.

Niyah slid into the driver’s seat, tossing the duffle bag onto the passenger side. For a moment, she stared at the keys in her hand. Her fingers trembled as she turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, steady and loud. Relief washed over her—but only for a second.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. Her chest heaved as the relieve made room for the weight of everything as it came crashing down.

“Shit,” she whispered. Knuckles turning white. Then louder: “Fuck. Goddammit! FUCK!”

She slammed her fists against the wheel, her scream choking into a sob. Tears blurred her vision as she rested her forehead against the wheel. Sobs turning into a desperate plea.

“How… could… we… let this happen?” Each word came with a sharp tap of her head against the wheel.

Her breath hitched, and she leaned back in the seat, wiping her face with her sleeve. “Get it together, Niyah,” she muttered, her voice hoarse. “You don’t have time for this.”

The truck rolled forward, its tires crunching over shattered glass. Niyah didn’t look back at the cul-de-sac as she turned onto the main road.

The road ahead was littered with abandoned cars and signs of destruction, but she forced herself to focus. Every mile brought her closer to D.C. Closer to Olivia.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world in shadows. Niyah gripped the wheel tighter, her jaw set. She didn’t know what she’d find when she got there, but she wasn’t giving up on Olivia. Not now. Not ever.

 

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