Chapter Three, waking

The man woke up hours later; he couldn't feel anything, smell anything, hear anything, but his eyes were getting used to seeing. When the bright light wasn't so bright, and the ringing in his ears wasn't so loud, and when he wasn't so cold he felt numb, he tried to sit up. He was unsuccessful, at first, but after what seemed like ten minutes, he didn't have a very accurate sense of time after just waking, he could sit up.

The ground was there, the air was there, the clouds were there, so what was missing? Well, there was something, obviously, but what it was…

A few minutes of looking and feeling around told him that he was lying on a set of train tracks, but they were cold and silent. So silent, it was disturbing. The tracks were missing the hum of a railroad, the usual distant clanging nonexistent.

The quiet was droning in his ears, ringing, buzzing, whirring like the gears of a clock, it was deafening. His ears were throbbing, his head felt like it was going to burst, the silence was so loud- so loud he didn't hear the screaming, couldn't tell it was coming from his own throat.

The boy was on his knees, head in his hands. The screams lasted on and on seeming to never end, to never stop, never cease. His cries ran until his voice went hoarse, until he couldn't yell anymore- until he fell asleep.

He woke again some hours later, his usually perfect blond hair matted and tangled around twigs and small stones. He felt off- something wasn't right- and he thought he knew what it was, but he ignored the feeling in favour of trying to move.

Getting up this time was easier, standing was just as hard as the last. Looking around confirmed his fears. He'd been here before. Fear struck like a bolt of lightning, his mind and eyes clouded over, a stark contrast to the clear sky overhead, which seemed to be mocking him.

It had been seven years since the last time he had been here. Seven years since this beautiful day became the end of the world. Seven years since the man was a boy, fourteen and innocent, fourteen years old and unknowing of the horror his future would hold- seven years since the first gate opened.

If this was what he thought it was, then he would make the most of it. The fewer people died this time, the better.