Janie and The Gray: Part 10
The river. Part ten of my dystopian sci-fi serial.
Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. Again and again. The storm resisted me. Injured bird. Unable to soar. Pushed backwards. Crumpled. Heavy. Distant shouts. Ringing ears. Dull pain sharpened. Throbbing head. Vague world. Bouncing vision. Green. Brown. Smoke. Falling. Splash.
Reality hit me like a bus. Frigid water rushed into my mouth, nose, and lungs. I thrashed and scrambled to the surface in a disoriented frenzy. My head broke above the water but the air wouldn't come — my lungs clenched by unseen hands. I fought for breath while bobbing in the river’s swift current with rocks and branches scraping my arms and legs. I coughed hard and drew a hoarse and ragged breath.
"Dive!" a voice bellowed behind me.
I gulped what little air I could and plunged under the surface moments before an explosion obliterated my senses — the intense sound pressure dazing me to the point of complete disorientation. Seconds or centuries later, my faculties returned. My head was above the water and I shot backwards like a drunk torpedo.
I caught a glimpse of a bright silvery reflection through a thick patch of trees on the riverbank. They couldn't follow. Dimples surfaced and gasped for air. I — we were alive.