Chapter 2: Countdown
1027 Words
Vivian Chambers’ heels clicked against the pavement as she hurried toward Fortune’s Corner Store. She spotted the elderly man behind the counter and called out, “Albert! Why is my son Elian Thorne always bothering you for chess games?”
Her tone was casual, marking their familiarity.
Albert didn’t look up from wiping the counter. “Your boy, and you’re asking me? He’s not getting the court-ordered support, so he hustles chess games to eat.”
Vivian froze, the ribbon on her cake box fluttering. “But I wire his father the court-ordered payments for Elian every single month.”
Albert’s rag stilled. “Didn’t know that.” He eyed Vivian’s designer coat. She clearly wasn’t scraping pennies together—so why did Elian live like he was? The kid pinched every dime, never touched soda, and his worn sneakers told stories Albert understood too well.
“Shouldn’t he be at that after-school program right now?” Vivian pressed, glancing at her watch.
Albert finally remembered. “Said he was waiting for someone. Looked… intense.”
“I’m going to check his apartment,” Vivian declared, turning sharply.
The man beside her caught her elbow. “Vivian. It’s Noah’s birthday. Our reservation’s in twenty minutes, and the movie starts right after.” His voice tightened. “Elian’s seventeen. He’s got his father.”
“And if he’s skipping school?”
“Handle it Sunday.” He softened his grip. “Noah’s been counting down to this all week.”
Vivian’s knuckles whitened on the cake box handle. Five seconds passed before her shoulders slumped. “...Fine. Noah first.”
Shadows pooled thick beneath the camphor trees of Oakwood Terrace as Elian Thorne wove through the decaying complex. The air tasted of wet brick and mildew—a signature scent of the 1970s-era wooden walk-ups. No elevators groaned here; no gas lines hummed. Just the occasional glug-glug of drains choking on neglect.
Elian’s key scratched in the first-floor lock. The door groaned open, releasing a stale sigh of dust and solitude.
Inside, the gloom was absolute. His 800-square-foot cage—two closets pretending to be bedrooms, a living room starved of sunlight—felt colder tonight.
He thumbed his phone. Scrolled past “Mom,” hesitated, then hit “Dad.”
Ring… Ring…
“What?” The voice was gravel wrapped in cigarette smoke. Cards snapped sharply in the background. Slap. “Money? Talk to your mother—”
“No money.” Elian’s own voice sounded alien. “Haven’t asked in six months.”
“Then why—?”
“Just wanted to—”
“Parent-teacher bullshit? Ask your damn—”
Click. Silence slammed down.
Elian leaned hard against the door. His fingers trembled as he pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
There it blazed.
5:58:13
The numbers glowed bone-white, fused into his skin like bioluminescent circuitry. Rubbing only made his flesh sting. Peering closer, he saw them for what they were: minuscule interlocking gears, pistons thinner than hairs, shifting with silent, mechanical precision.
5:58:12
5:58:11
Five hours. Fifty-eight minutes. Eleven heartbeats.
No sound, yet the phantom tick vibrated in his molars, pulsed behind his eyes.
Endgame?
Extinction?
Or a door kicked open?
Time measured civilizations. Crumbled empires. Ended lives. A countdown wasn’t a clock—it was a blade against your throat.
He scanned the empty room. The dead phone.
No cavalry was coming.
Only himself.
Prepare.
Elian yanked a grey hoodie over his head, shadows swallowing his face. He slipped out into the October dusk. Lakeshore City’s streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shapes on the pavement.
From open windows overhead came the culinary symphony of survival: the SHIIZLE of stir-fry hitting searing woks, the fatty tang of pork belly, the sweet burn of caramelizing onions. Elian’s mind cataloged each scent—protein, carb, fat—a mental ledger for the unknown.
Farmer’s Market loomed ahead, its neon sign buzzing like an angry wasp.
First stop: Hardware Store.
The bell jangled. Rust and machine oil hung heavy.
“Pliers,” Elian said, voice flat. “Shovel. Your heaviest.”
The grizzled owner eyed him but handed over cold-forged steel.
Next: Grocery Store.
Fluorescent lights hummed above aisles of dried goods. Elian grabbed economy sacks of rice and flour. Salt—the cheap iodized kind. Survival calories.
Then: Pharmacy.
The antiseptic glare made him squint. He slapped boxes of broad-spectrum antibiotics onto the counter. The cashier’s gaze lingered on his hood-shadowed face. Elian didn’t blink.
Finally: Supermarket.
Batteries. A heavy-duty flashlight with a strobe function. Vacuum-sealed bricks of survival biscuits—4000 calories per pack. Taste didn’t matter.
His wallet screamed as he paid. Empty.
Back in the apartment’s oppressive silence, he moved with military efficiency.
Kitchen.
The chef’s knife gleamed under his touch. Cold. Sharp. Final line of defense. He slid it beneath his thin pillow. Its weight pressed into his skull like a promise.
The boning knife, needle-pointed and vicious, went onto the nightstand. Ready.
2:43:11
Tick.
He checked windows. Locked. Bolted. Again.
He sat on the bed’s edge. The springs groaned.
Call someone?
Who?
His mother, wrapped in her shiny new life? His father, drowning in cards and cheap whiskey?
When the numbers first burned onto his skin that morning, panic had screamed: TELL THEM!
Stupid.
He’d snapped a photo. The screen showed bare, unmarked skin. The terror went deeper then.
Beyond help.
Beyond understanding.
A memory sparked. His grandmother’s whisper years ago: "When all else is lost, the saints listen..."
He tore through the junk drawer in the living room. Loose screws, dead batteries, takeout menus—then there. Cool metal met his fingers.
The St. Christopher medal. Patron saint of travelers. Of desperate journeys.
He placed it on the worn linoleum floor.
Centered himself.
And kowtowed. Nine times. Forehead pressed to the cold floor with each one. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Submission. Plea. Last resort.
The final countdown blazed on his arm:
00:04:59
Elian Thorne closed his eyes and breathed.
Ready or not.
- Writer
