Flight

Day Eight hundred and sixty-seven.

Moving around a collapsed newsstand, the figure followed the clearest path through the debris. Wind blew away bits of twisted leaves, their scraping against the concrete making a maddening sound. Nearby, along the broken sidewalk, skeletal trees swayed. Stepping over puddles of brackish water, he noticed a scattering of coins.

Humans and their money, look where it's taken them.

Walking a curved line forward, the figure took note of the area's few structures. Not many of the houses could stand the weight of their snow-covered rooftops and had collapsed in on themselves. Smaller sheds and outbuildings still stood, as their roof structure allowed for melted runoff. The figure passed each and every house without more than a cursory glance.

Hours of walking later and he came upon his destination. Seven stories of steel, concrete, and glass, the Grand Lion Hotel once brought people from all around. Now, with most of its front gone, it looked just as beaten and broken as the rest of New Haven. The figure walked closer, in spite of the growing trepidation. Glass crunched under the weight of the thick-soled boots and solid frame. Faux-metal, which had been the framework of many a window and door, bent or flattened.

Ash and dirt swirled around him as he walked toward the front double-doors. Looking for any signs of anyone else, he slowed, but did not stop. A distinct lack of footprints in the accumulated dust told him no one had been around here in a long, long time.

Caution. Diligence.

He caught his reflection in the glass of the doors and smiled.

Still very, very handsome.

Durable and strong, the leather pants and jacket made for excellent travel-wear. While it retained heat during the day, it often grew stiff with cold during the night. The mix of temperatures, paired with the movement of his body, and lack of proper cleaning had caused minute cracks in his clothes. It also retained his body's natural odor and amplified it in a strong wind.

The right portion of the door came open with a scream. Debris and the ever-present ash littered the foyer. Concrete, brick, and glass lay everywhere, as well. Walking through a square arch, the figure stopped to scan everything. Light, filtered through grimy windows and broken walls, fed him few details. Faded blue carpet. Overturned chairs, gray from age and weather. Bits of colored glass from the overhead dome, now a fractured mess.

On top of the welcome counter, where guests of the Grand Lion would have checked in, a delicate vase braved the worst of things. The flower it once held fell, wilted, over its edge.

No life, whatsoever.

"Let's find what's important," the figure said aloud. The sound exploded into the open area. "Where was the souvenir trap in this place?"

As expected, cases containing the finer pieces now lay empty. Dozens of cheap glass and paste pieces still glittered as the activated flashlight passed over them. Atop the glass cases, now gray with dust, several stands still offered their tacky bracelets, heart-shaped lockets, and other costume crap. Passing all of this up, the figure moved to the back of the display counter and began looking at the area underneath them all.

"There you are." The figure took a knee. "No one thought to check here, did they?"

Putting the flashlight on the floor, the figure removed a set of lock-picks from the jacket's inside pocket. In less than thirty minutes, the metal cabinet door swung open with a screech.

Silver band, excellent quality. Blue gem. Sapphire. Quality cut.

"No one's going to miss it."

Titanium. Pure.

"No one's going to miss this one, either."

Back out in the lobby, it was simple to find the stairwell and begin the ascent. Coming out into the hallway of the fifth floor, the figure scanned the length of the dust-covered hallway. No birds roosted in the broken window frames, no bugs crawled on the floors. The same eerie silence permeated the entire area. Two steps forward and the door banged closed, the sound like cannon fire.

"I was here, wasn't I." The statement hung in the stale air as the figure strode down the hallway. "Hollow Well, the porter called me, not Halliwell."

In front of room five twelve, he stopped.

"Sorry about this, I forgot my keycard."

A booted foot, driven by incredible force slammed into the door. It came away from its frame in an explosion of rotted plywood and imitation metal. Its handle hit the carpet with a dry thud while smaller pieces pinged off the walls. The odor of age and mildew filled the immediate area.

"Maintenance to room five twelve," the figure said, stepping inside.

Covered in grime, the window remained intact. The mattress lay on the broken remains of its frame. Both plywood nightstands lay in pieces on the floor.

Removing the sleek, black helmet, the figure viewed the room with bright, changed eyes. "We stayed here, didn't we? We fucked like crazed maniacs on that bed."

Don't say, 'fuck.'

After taking off the worn gloves and depositing them into the helmet, the figure passed into the bathroom. A few shards of broken mirror clung to the wall over the sink. No water came from the taps when they were turned.

"Damn it."

Taking the back off the toilet revealed half a tank of unpolluted water.

"Jackson, you've managed to stir up some luck, after all."

After drinking his fill, the man splashed some of the water onto his face.

"Not enough for a bath, though."

Collecting his helmet and gloves, he took one last look at the room. Nostalgia filled in the color of the wallpaper, the carpet, the draperies. It also filled in the scent of vanilla candles, chocolate, and the best wine he had ever drank. Before nostalgia could lay full claim to his senses, he left the room.

Back in the hallway, he walked to the other end and into the stairwell.

Steel rods and metal beams jutted out of broken concrete. The eighth floor of the building had been shorn off, leaving just its foundational material and a smattering of hotel debris.

"Night's coming," he said.

Get that fire built, Captain Halliwell.

Gathering everything he would need did not take long. Light overhead started to fade just as manmade firelight grew brighter. The makeshift campfire broke the surrounding darkness into long, thin shards of yellow and orange on the concrete. Rotted, mildewed fabric, wood, and foam burned, permeating the air with their noxious scent.

Overhead, a few points of distant light managed to break through the ash-laden clouds. Sitting down on the hard concrete, he began to unbraid the long, matted strands of hair. A fiercer wind blew it back from his face as he looked up. Black clouds rolled on against a blacker sky.

"Even the might daystar has difficulty penetrating that dark."

As night fell, the temperature did, too.

Feeding the fire kept the cold where it needed to be. In the light of the fire, he turned his hands over and examined the tanned skin for cuts or larger injury. Seeing none, he felt his face and found the same. Even the tiny hairline scar above his left eye was gone.

Aside from the snapping and hissing of the fire, silence stretched out in all directions. Almost three years prior, this area would have been bustling with cars, busses, even one of the new gravity trains whistled by, from time to time.

"All gone in a flash," he said to the night. "What kind of flash, though. That's the mystery."

No music. No cars. No laughing, singing, nothing. No night birds, struggling to be heard. Nothing sounded in the night but the eerie silence of yet another dead world.

"I think I'll do it from the north end. That looks promising. I don't want to end up in that broken pile of trucks and cars if this thing goes…south." He smiled at his own joke.

After tossing another pile of junk onto the fire, it began devouring its new meal. Flames rose up, forcing him to move back a bit. For several minutes, he sat in front of the fire, gazing into its center. All sorts of thoughts went through his mind, all of them about the past.

Lying down on the gathered cushions, he peered up into the sky again. Fourteen faint lights peered back down at him.

"One of those is Earth."

The dimmest one. To the right.

"One thing humans are good at," he muttered. "Fucking things up."

Don't say 'fuck.'

He tucked an arm under his head. "We don't get very many chances to make up for the mistakes we've made in our lives. Tomorrow, I'm going to make up for mine."

He closed his eyes against the heat on his face and cold on his back.

Half an hour before the sun's light broke through the black, the last of the hotel debris burned away and the fire died. Waking from the chill, Jackson Halliwell pushed himself into a seated position. His back ached from having slept in a semicircle. In spite of this and the new ache in his arm, he stood up. The chill of the night lingered but he began working the fastenings of his leather jacket loose, just the same. He walked toward the southern edge of the building.

The leather jacket fell, making a heavy sound.

Holding his arms out, he let the air carry his scent where it would. The wind felt good on his lean, muscular chest and its covering of dark curls. Facing the south, he closed his eyes as the wind picked up. It blew through the matted strands of his hair, through his beard, even though the thick nests of hair under his arms.

"One last bath," he muttered. "That would have been nice."

He loosened the heavy survival belt and let it fall. Two knives skittered along the concrete and another slipped over the edge to fall seven stories. His right hand settled onto the metal of his gun, the four rings he wore making little clinking sounds. He looked down at his two new rings, bringing the total up to twelve. All silver. All reminders of where he had been before coming back here.

It's now or never, Captain Halliwell.

Touching the tiny implant just behind his ear, he activated the communication system. "I hear you, Mason! I'm coming!"

Breaking into a run, he aimed his body for the edge of the northern portion of the hotel.

Now, Captain! Do it now!

Very near the edge, he leapt out, into the nothing. As he fell, he spread his arms and tilted his head upward. One word triggered his transformation. FLY! Two enormous white wings appeared, connected to his back. They unfurled, catching the air and lifting him up into it. One powerful push of his wings and Jackson flew up and up. Another two and he turned his body into the thick, ashy clouds. Three more pumps of his wings and he broke through.

Far, far over the ruins of the Grand Lion, former Air Force captain, Jack Halliwell burst into the brilliant blue skies above the dark clouds of Titan. Turning without effort, onto the wind, he aimed his body toward the silver-spired floating city, where Mason and the others awaited him.

For the first time in eight hundred, sixty eight days, he felt true, real hope for himself and the rest of humanity he managed to save.

Welcome to the Aerie, Captain Halliwell, Mason thought to him. Welcome home.

- END -