Fiction | Flash Fiction | Dystopian | Rising Tension | Mystery
The Test
When push comes to shove, is it every man for himself?
Tom didn’t pay much heed to his children’s complaints when the numbers first appeared on their phones. He figured it was a prank and it would be resolved soon enough.
The next day all smart devices still remained inaccessible. Only the countdown displayed. People on their street speculated it might be a viral campaign for a new movie or TV show, or perhaps some kids had hacked the internet and planted a virus. Tom listened to his trusty AM/FM radio for more information. No one had claimed ownership of the stunt, but apparently it was a worldwide breach that had the experts baffled.
The following day, the government made an announcement. They could find no source for the attack. The radio news reported various countries’ leaderships accusing others. Suspicion was rife.
The atmosphere in his usually amicable hometown shifted. Schools closed. Shops shuttered.
The countdown continued, unrelenting.
The shade of the numbers gradually changed. Originally green, they slipped seamlessly over the passage of seventy-two hours into an insipid yellow.
“We’re running out of food,” his wife told him as the morning of day five dawned. “There’s a little pasta and rice, and we have some cans in, but everything else is low.”
Tom watched the countdown displayed on their TV a few seconds longer, his body bunched in front of the screen. “I’ll get us food,” he promised.
He had some money in his wallet. None of the card readers were working, but cash was always good. As an afterthought, he checked he had his gun locked in his glovebox. You could never be too careful.
When he got there the store was fully locked up. There were a couple of men there trying to jimmy the shutters open and he left them to it. They broke in eventually, grabbing armfuls of cans and darting for cover. Tom took advantage of the breach. Ill prepared, he found a roll of refuse sacks and filled a couple with canned food and bottled water, throwing in some sweets to perk up the kids. He tucked some cash in an alcove behind the cashier’s desk to assuage his conscience, then threw the bags into his passenger seat and put it in drive.
A man ran at him and banged on his window. “Hey! That’s my stuff!”
Tom recognised the store owner. He tried to explain about the cash, but the guy swung a baseball bat and busted out his window. He hit the gas and bowled the guy over.
He didn’t stop.
Racing home, he bolted into the house and through to the backyard calling for his family to follow. That was how they ended up in the storm bunker he’d built a decade ago.
And so ended day five.
Day six saw the numbers turn bright orange. The radio broadcasts grew gloomier and less frequent. Speculation had flipped to a prospective alien invasion, or nuclear Armageddon. No one was talking about hoaxes anymore.
The bunker was deep underground, but that didn’t stop them catching the occasional yell or scream as nerves frayed and passions flared. The children were quiet, barely eating and only drinking when forced to.
Tom did a couple of covert dashes to the house for more supplies. They had enough food to get beyond this countdown, but only a few days. Who knew what came after that? Maybe it didn’t matter. He would figure out what to do when whatever was coming finally arrived.
His daughter cried.
All night.
By the next day, the numbers were a deep vermillion. Tom woke with the countdown on his wife’s phone reading twelve hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty-eight seconds. She begged him to get their daughter’s bunny toy. They’d forgotten it in their hurry to hide. He nodded and headed out.
Tom heard a ruckus inside before he even stepped foot over the backdoor threshold. Unarmed, he grabbed a kitchen knife from the block and crept in. Maybe he could make it to his daughter’s bedroom and out without being spotted by whoever had broken in.
He’d just grabbed the bunny when he was knocked face down onto the bed. Almost suffocating in the sheets, he managed to lash out behind him with the knife, feeling the moment it punctured flesh. The weight on his back lifted and he was out of there.
He discarded the knife before rejoining his family, but his bloodied clothes didn’t escape his wife’s notice. She closed her eyes and planted a kiss on their daughter’s head as Tom passed her the toy.
Ten minutes later thuds started at the bunker hatch, along with pleas for help to stop the bleeding. Tom made no attempt to explain, only held his gun a little tighter, knuckles blanched, gazed fixed on the entrance.
No one was getting in. Not on his watch
The final hours ticked by painfully slowly. Apparently drawn by the sounds of the injured man at the hatch, others now banged on the metal and demanded access.
His daughter covered her ears. His son rocked, hugging his knees. Their provisions for the day went untouched.
As the final minutes ebbed away, the chaos outside mounted. The above-grounders attacked the hatch with everything including cutting tools, if the sounds were anything to go by.
Tom stretched his free arm around his son’s shoulders and hugged him tight.
He watched the screen as the countdown flicked through three, two, one…
Nothing happened.
Except…a cursor appeared on the phone screen, and a message typed out letter by letter.
This was a test. In the face of disaster, humanity will need to work together to survive. How did you fare?
Tom stared at the screen in disbelief, then at his blood-stained hand still clutching his Glock.
A test?
Outside, people cried with relief and exhaustion.
Tom glanced over at his wife, who gazed back at him with tears in her eyes. He gave a faint smile.
Though they felt safe for now, he had to wonder what was the price for failing?
This is my response to the prompt for the second week of the Creative writing Workshop by JF Danskin which can be found here. I adopted a few of the suggested techniques for increasing tension — withholding information, a (literal) countdown, with just a hint of foreshadowing in the cliff-hanger at the end. Thanks for the inspiration, JF.
