Chronicle/Chapter 1

Annberlin doesn’t have a plan. Maybe she should.

That’s a big maybe. Find somewhere to sleep, find something to eat, find something to drink. That’s her routine, but beyond that?

Well… she doesn’t know. Maybe she should save up and settle down somewhere. Little towns all around NorCal are always accepting newcomers. She’ll stay somewhere for a while, leave, go somewhere else. She prefers it that way, but she couldn’t tell you why.

She makes money however she can, smart enough to spend it wisely. She’s currently staying at Vivian’s Inn, right on the outskirts of Blackhurst. It’s a relatively new settlement, founded about three years ago by a traveling family who seem to have decent intentions.

A man named Mr. Garrett approached her at the inn last night. She’d never met him before, but his predicament became known to the rest of the patrons soon enough. He was injured on his way into town and lost his bag in an old building a few miles east. Full of personal valuables, he said. With his leg busted, he couldn’t risk going back to get it.

Six others jumped at the offer, but Annberlin put forth the lowest price. He seemed skeptical, considering the others were much bigger, stronger, and a lot more male. But it seems Mr. Garrett is a cheapskate at heart.

So here she is. Looking for this random middle aged man’s bag. He warned her about zombies, like she doesn’t know what the expect out here. She’s against calling them zack -- it’s a name too human for something so disgusting. And no, she doesn’t consider them human like some weird people do. They may have been at one point, but not anymore.

The building is only two stories high. Old, mostly wooden, crumbling. She doesn’t know what it could’ve been used for. Anything at all, really. It’s so non-descript. She popped a KIZ (potassium iodide + zeolite) pill earlier, just in case -- if there are zombies lurking about, chances are radiation levels are a bit high, and she needs all the protection she can get.

There’s a wooden door around back, latched with metal locks and chains. She shoves her crowbar between the door and the jamb, presses her body weight against it. It takes a few repetitions, but some of the locks come loose and the door cracks open.

It smells exactly how you’d expect an old, rotting building to smell. From what she can tell, it used to be a store. It’s mostly empty, except for a counter, cash register, and empty shelves toppled about.

A loud, deep groan. She sighs, pulls her gloves from her pack, and slips them on. A zombie stands up from behind the counter. God, it’s so ugly. A brownish color, bald, with peeling skin, an empty eye socket, and remnants of clothing clinging to its body. They usually move quickly, but this one is briefly disoriented from just getting up.

She moves over to it quickly, before it can catch its bearings. She grabs it by the back of its neck and slams its face against the countertop, over and over and over. It slumps the floor, and Ann flicks her hand to get rid of some of the dead skin and meat sticking to her glove.

She checks the cash register, just in case, but it’s empty. Wishful thinking.

This first floor is empty. No sign of Mr. Garrett's vague bag. She searches quietly, carefully, so as not to startle whatever is lurking around upstairs. She can hear the footsteps.

She inches her way up the steps, crowbar at the ready. She listens. Waits.

A zombie stumbles past the head of the staircase. It doesn’t have time to notice her. She smashes the end of the crowbar against the crown of its head. She prefers stealth to outright fighting these things -- it’s a lot safer. Her combat skills aren’t honed enough to take them on without putting herself in critical danger.

This second floor is one long hall, with several doors lining the walls. She tiptoes her way to the end and whacks the two zombies lingering there, sniffing each other. She turns around, just as a zombie lumbers out of one of the room. She makes eye contact with it, and a long silent second passes.

It roars and runs at her. She sets her feet, raises her crowbar, and swings. She turns her head away slightly when the bar makes contact with its jaw. Half of its face falls off, but it's still standing -- albeit, a bit stunned. She kicks it away and delivers a killing blow.

Well, that was loud. Depending on how many are up here, she should probably find this bag and hurry the hell up.

Mr. Garrett doesn’t know where he left it. He only realized he lost it once he was out the building. Too busy trying not to die, she presumes.

She checks the room closest to her. Storage. A bunch of old boxes, mostly filled with papers. Nothing of worth to her.

She hears scratching, rustling, outside the room. She’s scared to see what’s out there… When she takes a peek into the hall, she sees three new zombies on alert. Immediately, she darts her head back inside. How should she go about this…?

She knocks once. Their grunting stops, and they start to sniff. Ugh. She knocks once more. The shuffling footsteps get closer… She grabs the doorknob, waits, waits, waits. Bam. She forces the door open, smashing at least one of the zombies in the face. They’re dumb, so they keep clawing at the door. So she keeps bashing them. They fall and get back up, walking right into another hit with the door. It’s just too easy.

Once she’s done with those three, she steps over them and searches one of the other rooms. An old bedroom, lacking in furniture. Nothing in here, either.

She stands outside the last door, but hesitates before going in. Nasty crunching and slurping sounds coming from inside. She peeks through the crack and sees a zombie sitting on the floor, chewing on the insides of a dead rat. A rat that’s about the size of a basketball. Must’ve been too caught up in its meal to care about -- or notice -- the commotion right outside.

She slowly opens the door. Another storage room. The zombie freezes. Looks up. She wonders how there can be so much anger in a pair of dead eyes. Before it can lunge at her, she kicks it in the chin. It scatters to its feet. She swings once, twice. It’s still not down -- so she kicks it. Hard, right in the midsection.

It collides with the window behind it, sending a crack through the glass. She kicks again, and there it goes… Through the window and tumbling down.

She sighs. So that’s over with. She finally realizes that she’s out of breath and takes a moment to inhale and exhale in a steady rhythm.

She looks around, spotting something rectangular and brown poking out from under the giant rat carcass. She nudges the carcass away with her foot -- and there it is. Mr. Garrett’s precious bag. She lifts it, holding it an arm’s length away from her body. Rat blood and guts drip from the brown leather. The least she can do is clean it. She grabs some papers from one of the many boxes lying around and wipes the bag down.

Then, naturally, she looks inside.

Books. Baseball cards. Money. A gun. A knife. A family photograph with, presumably, his son and wife that Ann doesn’t want to look at for too long.

So this is what she risked her life for. Ann doesn’t know how to feel about that. But at least she’s getting paid.

---

Back at the inn, Ann knocks on Mr. Garrett’s door.

She can hear him grunt. It sounds like one step drags longer than the other. Finally, he opens the door, offering a drowsy smile when he sees it’s her. He’s a slightly overweight white guy with graying hair. “You’ve found it, thank God,” he says. “It’s all I have, thank you.”

“Sure,” she says. She waits patiently as he looks through it, making sure everything’s there.

“As promised.” Seventy-five dollars. Well, it’s money.

She’s heads to her room right after. Thankfully, the inn has showers, but they only run for five minutes at a time, twice a day. If you want anything more than that, you have to pay extra. Ann considers it a fair deal. After a day like today, she makes sure to use every moment of those fives minutes.

The inn’s entrance is a large area, situated with tables and chairs and even a few couches. A robotic busboy moves to and fro, gathering dishes and trash, and a man plays his out-of-tune banjo off in the corner. There’s a bar, too. Manned by the inn’s owner, Vivian, where she serves drinks, food, snacks. She’s a nice woman, mid-30s if Ann had to guess. All she wants is to make a living honestly, and that’s fine by Ann.

Ann sits at one of the bar stools, waiting as Vivian serves another patron. That’s when she spots him again.

He was one of the men who volunteered to help Mr. Garrett. She learned last week that his name is Caleb. No idea on a last name yet. Right now, he’s sitting at one of the tables, chatting with two burly, bearded men chugging down their brews. Ann’s never seen them before, so she’s sure Caleb doesn’t know them, either. But he seems to be one of those lucky beings who can connect with and charm any and all he comes across.

She’s noticed him here with frequency for the last month or so. He’s Japanese, like her. Tall, lean, and very handsome. Outgoing and personable. Funny, considering how he’s made the entire inn howl with laughter on more than one occasion. He’s never talked to her, though. She doubts that he’s ever looked her way. She doesn’t blame him. Her willingness to help Mr. Garrett is probably the first time he’s noticed her.

She’s kept a close eye on him, out of sheer curiosity. To be fair, he’s hard not to notice, as good-looking as he is. He flirts with a lot of the men who come into town, taking some of them back to his room. This disappointed her, without her even realizing it. She scolded herself for it. She doesn’t know him, she shouldn’t feel that way.

Ann nearly flinches when Vivian knocks her out of her trance with a simple hello. “Hi. Cola -- please,” Ann says.

“I know, girl. It’s what you always get.”

“Thanks.”

Ann shifts her eyes around the room. Business was never booming at Vivian’s, and Ann likes it that way. It’s always pretty calm. Still, she usually just takes her drink back to her room. The last few days, though, she’s spent more time out here. Not to talk to anyone. She spends an unhealthy amount of time being alone, so just being in the presence of people should be helpful, even if she isn’t in the mood to interact too much.

Looks like she doesn’t have a choice. Caleb suddenly occupies the stool next to her, a charming smile spread across his face.

“Hi,” he says.

It takes her a moment, but she responds, “Hi.”

“Can I buy you something?”

“Viv’s… getting me something.”

“What’d you order?”

She taps her fingertips on the countertop, wishing she couldn’t feel him staring. “Cola.”

“Cola? That’s no fun.”

“I like it.”

“Here you go, honey,” Vivian says, setting the mug on the counter. Ann drops a few quarters into her palm. “What can I get you, Cal?”

“Hm…” Caleb taps his fingers against his lips. “What do you suggest... uh…?”

Ann swallows down some more of her cola. “Ann.”

There’s a short, almost imperceptible pause, but she catches it. “What do you suggest, Ann?”

“Um… are you thirsty or hungry…?”

“Starving.”

“The… the cinnamon rolls are really good.”

“One cinnamon roll, Viv.”

“Two dollars, twenty cents,” Vivian tells him, and reaches into one of the glass pastry display stands on either end of the counter. They trade, bun for bills, and Caleb thanks her with a nod. Ann absentmindedly notices the crude robot -- Parker -- gliding past the counter. It makes a clunking sound as it moves, riding on its one wheel, its metal bits shifting about. It carries some dirty dishes and glasses in a plastic tub. She’s seen machines like Parker before. She even heard the folks up in Portland and Seattle have way more advanced technology -- automatons you can barely differentiate from humans. Cool. Freaky. Cool.

Caleb takes a bite out of his cinnamon roll and nods in approval. “You weren’t wrong, Ann.”

She silently sips on her drink. It’s quiet for a little while, and she’s convinced that he’s already gotten bored of her.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“I… why?”

“Curiosity.”

“How old are you?”

“28.”

“Really?”

“Asian genes. And you could be 16 or 35, who knows?”

“It doesn’t really matter…” she says.

“I’m just making conversation.”

He’s… nice, but she’s inexplicably uncomfortable. She’s had a long day, and ending it with small talk is the last thing she wants to do, even if he does look like a soap opera star. “I’m just gonna… go to my room. Sorry -- “ She shuffles away with her drink.

“Night!” he calls out to her.

“Make sure you bring that mug back!” Vivian tells her.

---

Ann has read this manga a million and one times. And she’s reading it again. She lies on her bed, two pillows propping her head up, the book open in front of her.

She rolls onto her side, assuming a more comfortable position, and begins silently mouthing the words.

Shouting. She tries to ignore it, reading faster. She focuses on the art, tries to notice things she never has before… Miyuki’s blouse has four stripes on page 52 but only three on page 51…

Ann hears something crash and shatter. She can’t ignore that. She sits up, slowly closing her book. She inches closer to her door.

“Don’t bring trouble into my place of business,” Vivian says. “Who do you think you are?”

“....fucking… shithole, lady.” Ann doesn’t know who that is, and she can’t hear his voice very well. “... with... you hear me?”

Crash.

Ann clenches her fists so tight it hurts. Vivian’s doesn’t usually attract much trouble. It’s just busy enough that assholes turn away. Angry patrons can be a surprising force to be reckoned with, especially when so many carry weapons of all sorts.

She really hopes this boils over, but it won’t. She knows it won’t. Let someone else deal with it.

She sits back on her bed, shaking slightly.

She has a responsibility when things like this happen, doesn’t she? No. It’s not her problem, don’t intervene.

But… it is her problem. If this place is robbed, damaged, whatever -- Vivian is practically forced to up the rent. More money out of Ann’s pockets. This mindset is a lot more encouraging.

Ann grabs her crowbar from her bag and leaves her room. Two men and a woman seem to be causing trouble, wearing similar leather jackets and blue bandanas. One of them lifts a bar stool and smashes it against the counter.

“How about now?” he shouts.

The lights go out. Then they’re back on again. The inn goes quiet, and all eyes turn to Ann. She feels like she should say something. Command them to stop. But her words catch in her throat.

The man grins at her and steps forward. “Are you gonna do something with that -- “ He pauses. Blinks. “What the hell is wrong with you…?”

Her eyes are pitch black. Rather than run, the man and his friends fumble for their weapons.

This now has the potential to end very, very badly. Thankfully, Caleb tackles one of them, distracting the other two. Ann throws her crowbar and it smacks the man right between the eyes. The blow is hard enough to send him to the ground.

She can’t stop it -- a foggy blackness surrounds her hands as every single light and radio and television goes crazy. The man starts to rise, but Ann acts quickly. She aims her hand toward one of the bar stools. The blackness envelops it, and the stool hurtles toward the man’s head. He’s really out now.

Since Caleb has taken care of the other man, only the woman remains. She stares. Terrified. The rest of the inn stands in silence, patrons glancing at one another, unsure how to react.

The man in the corner is still playing his banjo.

The rest of the inn finally reacts. They don’t bother with Ann, but instead rally to apprehend the three assailants. Ann takes that moment to flee, stuffing her bag with his few belongings. She slings it over her shoulder and rushes out the front door.

She... she didn't want that to happen. Not with all those people watching. She'll come back, but not for a little while. People see all kinds of crazy things in this wasteland. She honestly doubts this is the craziest. But for now...

“Ann!” someone shouts. “Ann! Hold on, wait -- “

Caleb. She ignores him. Walking fast. Resisting the urge to break into a run. Go away, go away, go away please.

He catches up with her, but she keeps her head forward. Keeps walking.

“Ann, please.” He grabs her by the shoulders and forces her to stop.

“What?”

“It was you.”

“Please leave me alone -- “

“Mercury Heights -- it was you.”

Her heart crawls into her throat. She glares at him, but her eyes don’t morph to darkness this time. Mercury Heights. She hasn’t heard those words in… in a very long time. She knew something was off about him. As far as she can tell, he’s not a mutant like her. But as soon as she saw him, she felt something. That vague something. She’s convinced that’s one of the effects of her powers. Not only controlling energy, but sensing it and all its variances and discrepancies.

“Don’t hurt me,” he says. “Please. I -- I can explain, I swear.” He backs away from her, hands up, palms forward. He looks at her for a long time, tears in his eyes -- but he’s not afraid. Slowly, he lowers his arms and asks one thing.

“Can we talk?”