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  Seasons After Fall

  A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

  Reginald Linsao

  Copyright © 2020 by Reginald Linsao

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by May Phan.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Author’s Note

  That iron man was born like me,

  ⁠And he was once an ardent boy;

  He must have felt in infancy

  ⁠The glory of a summer sky.

  Though storms untold his mind has tossed,

  He cannot utterly have lost

  Remembrance of his early home—

  So lost that not a gleam may come.

  Emily Brontë

  1

  It was a late autumn day, not unlike most autumn days in San Jose. In this city, the earthy and damp stench of the fallen leaves sometimes overwhelms the streets, but today was not one of those days.

  The air was slightly cold and crisp. It was dry, quiet, and actually quite intimate. The trees boasted beautiful shades of brown, and the setting sun playfully peeked through the miniature holes in the leaves. Lovers of nature opened their windows to catch a whiff of the fresh air and to admire the vibrant colors strewn across their lawn, though most people stayed inside to avoid the signs of winter.

  Children in poorer neighborhoods, however, had no qualms about the weather. They loitered and played outside of their apartments just like it was any other day. In one of these neighborhoods, one particular pair of children had been outside since the early morning. The first child, a young girl who sat peacefully amongst a kingdom of crushed leaves, was watching legions of fallen warriors glide delicately around her. They sometimes landed neatly atop her auburn hair, which reminded her of the soft, calm breeze that cooled the air. This royal land she relaxed in—a land free of trouble, a land caressed by hope—was shaped by the child beside her, whose kingly, paper crown grew tattered in the wind. His imagination was bright, colorful, optimistic… beautifully put together, as he was often told. He created many stories that made him feel better about everything going wrong in his life, and he who has the ability to turn the turbulent nature of life into something peaceful and serene—it is he who has a beautiful imagination.

  The boy suddenly ran away from the girl and beckoned at her to follow. He dove into a pile of leaves, engulfing himself in a scatter of scents through which the faint smell of oak made its way through his nose. The girl followed suit and dove into the pile right after him, and they laughed as they ran to the next pile, and to the next. Their neighborhood, once neatly organized into leagues of quiet, dormant knights, turned into a mess of disarrayed soldiers caught in the crossfire of two careless commanders. But it was an innocent kind of careless—the kind that would not go punished, as childhood reminded people of a time when nothing went wrong, when nothing should go wrong.

  The children continued their onslaught. The boy leapt into another pile of leaves, but this time, a sharp pain traveled up his back. He had fallen onto a large pile of rocks hidden underneath the leaves. The girl rushed to her friend—the fall having hurt her too, as she could not bear to see him in pain—and she knelt beside him. Their little game was over. No such thing as floating soldiers, no such thing as a grand kingdom, no such thing as peace. The boy cursed the rocks and the people who put them there, and as he wailed and screamed and thrashed about, the young girl was unable to get him to stop.

  “Rowan, let me in!”

  Rowan could vaguely hear the sound of knocking on the door to the empty bedroom that he was hiding in. Blaring music, which was spliced with joyful screams of overexcited teenagers, failed to drown out the girl’s voice outside.

  “Rowan!”

  The boy sat up to turn on the TV. “Go away!”

  “You know I’m not doing that,” yelled the voice.

  Rowan turned up the volume as high as he could. Luckily for him, the TV was tuned to a broadcast of the late night news, which meant that he didn’t even need to bother changing the channel. The news was the loudest thing on television these days. There was always someone raging about an emergency warning or a war or a bombing or whatever the hell was going on. Rowan wasn’t quite sure if the country was even fighting an actual war right now, because the headline on the bottom of the screen that perpetually read “Prepare for Imminent Attacks” served as no clarification.

  “Rowan, don’t make me kick down this door!”

  “This isn’t either of our houses—you can’t do that!”

  Rowan continued to raise the volume on the TV even though it couldn’t go any higher. He promptly gave up on trying to understand the shrill and distorted roar from the speakers, as the newscaster’s rants weren’t even really worth listening to anyway. If you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all. This same newscaster had once talked about a potential war with the Russians, with the North Koreans, and even amongst American citizens. Whatever it was, it was war—and there was no difference to Rowan. Oddly enough, hearing this kind of news for the past few years didn’t desensitize him at all. He was still absolutely frightened at the idea of everyone in the world being blown to bits. But, regardless, Rowan had other pressing issues to worry about right now, which is why he found himself alone in a room at a high school party instead of trying to enjoy himself.

  “Rowan, can you please just let me in already?”

  After a brief moment of silence, the boy decided to scream back. “Caitlyn, can’t you just leave me alone right now? I’ll be out in a moment.”

  To his surprise, the door unlocked and a young man stepped inside ahead of Caitlyn. “Rowan, get the fuck out of my house.”

  Caitlyn put a hand on the boy who walked ahead of her. “Relax, Marcus. Let me talk to him, all right?”

  “He’s been killing the vibe all night and he’s acting like some sort of weirdo in my mom’s room,” he said. “I want him out of here. You should’ve never invited him—no matter how he’s feeling.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Rowan. “You can’t let me chill out in a room for a few minutes?”

  “You might steal something.”

  “Why the hell would I steal anything?”

  “Can both of you stop?” asked Caitlyn. “Let’s just get back to the party.”

  “No,” said Rowan. “Fuck that. I’m not gonna let Marcus accuse me of doing something I’d never do.”

  Marcus turned off the TV. “Just get out of my house, Rowan. Nobody wants your sulking ass here. We’re trying to have fun in our last year of high school, and I don’t want to have to babysit you to make sure you’re not doing something crazy.”

  “You know what’s wrong with you Marcus? You always—”

 
; Caitlyn took Rowan’s hand. “Come on. Let’s just go, okay?”

  The boy pulled away violently. “Marcus, if you think—”

  “Don’t show up to one of my parties ever again,” he said. “I mean it.”

  Before Rowan could fire back, Caitlyn dragged him out of the room. “Rowan, we’re going to go outside.”

  “You’re gonna let him get away with this shit?”

  “Come on. Let’s talk outside, away from this noise. Okay?”

  The boy still wanted to confront Marcus, but there were too many people staring now, so he reluctantly followed Caitlyn outside into the cold, dark driveway.

  “I’m going to pop his fucking tires,” he said.

  “Relax,” said Caitlyn. “Marcus sucks, but you don’t have to do that. You’re just really angry right now.”

  Rowan looked for a sharp object nearby. “Of course I’m angry. Who the hell wouldn’t be angry?”

  “Let’s compromise, then.” Caitlyn sat on the hood of Marcus’ car—a rather dirty, black convertible—and tapped the spot next to her. “We can sit on his car. Maybe we’ll leave a dent or something.”

  “Caitlyn—”

  “Sit. I wanna talk to you. We can’t do that while you’re frantically looking around for a magically misplaced nail.”

  Rowan grumbled and sat next to her. “Fine.”

  Despite Caitlyn’s insistence on having some sort of a conversation, not a single word was exchanged between them for a while, even when they knew that there were things that needed to be said. Their mutual silence was a frequent habit that had followed them from their childhood, and it usually meant that they were distracted by the beauty of their surroundings, but today, it wasn’t distraction: it was restraint, a necessary step in alleviating the intensity that plagued Rowan’s attitude. In this moment of restraint, Caitlyn deliberately spent some time entranced by the bright moon that rested far above their heads, only snapping back into reality once she knew that Rowan was much less poisoned by a blinding anger.

  “What’s going on, Rowan?” she asked, turning to him.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “It’s not my fault that Marcus—”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “I don’t really care about what happened right now. I care about what’s been happening to you these past few months.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Caitlyn crossed her arms and shook her head. “Rowan, you literally just got accepted to Harvard, like, a week ago. That’s your dream school. And yet you’ve said almost nothing about it to me and it only seems to have made you more irritable than usual.”

  Rowan looked up at the moon, but he couldn’t see the enchantment in the sky that Caitlyn had found just moments ago. “There’s not much to say about it.”

  “Come on, Rowan. You’ve been acting so out of it lately—even before you got accepted. I thought you would be really excited and happy after you heard the news.”

  “Well, sorry for being me.”

  “But you’re not being you. I swear it. It’s like you’ve been tipped over the edge, and someone else has emerged. I’m concerned for you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Okay. I can’t do this.” Caitlyn hopped off of the car and began pacing around. “I’m not gonna put on this facade that I’ve been putting on all day and for the past few months. I think something is wrong with you, Rowan. I really do. Whenever we’re out, whether it’s just us or with anyone else, you just seem so angry and distant. You lashed out at me yesterday just because I forgot to save you a spot in the lunch line. I thought that I’d be spending my last few months of high school having a good time with my best friend, but... it really seems like it’s been one-sided. Like you’re not even here with me. I miss laughing with you, you know? I think you need help—professional help.”

  “Why would I need that?” asked Rowan. “Just because I’ve been feeling a little down lately doesn’t mean I should go talk to some doctor. It’s just—it’s just that things have been hard recently. I’ll be fine, okay? Don’t get all bent out of shape over this.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” Caitlyn sighed and sat back down. “If you’re not gonna talk to a professional, then talk to me, Rowan.”

  He avoided her tight gaze. “Talk to you about what?”

  “About whatever’s on your mind.” Caitlyn lightly placed her hand on Rowan’s forearm. “About whatever you’re bottling up so deep inside of you.”

  “It’s something dumb.”

  “It isn’t dumb. Not to me.”

  “Do you really want to know what’s going on, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, fine.” Rowan looked around to make sure nobody was listening to them. “It’s just that for a long time, I’ve felt like I’ve been on the edge of a cliff, and I was just a few steps from falling over. And ever since I got into Harvard, which is over three thousand fucking miles away from here, I suddenly feel like I’m only a single step from the edge.”

  “What makes you feel that way?”

  “Everything. San Jose is my home, and I can’t bear to leave this place. I can’t leave you and my family and everyone else that’s over here. And you know what the worst part is? I put so much work my whole damn life into getting perfect grades, and the ultimate payoff is that I’m now forced to leave my home, and all the stress that I’ve been through, all the struggles that I’ve faced—it has all led me to a point that I had never even prepared for. I’m not ready for this.”

  Rowan took a deep breath before continuing. “I always thought I’d be ready for college, but I’m really not prepared at all. I’m unarmed with no parachute at the edge of this cliff, and yet, I have to take that step forward. I have to go out there to Harvard. My family needs this. I have to succeed, no matter what. But how can I go there? How? I’m going to be so lonely out there.”

  Caitlyn grabbed his hand. “Rowan, wherever you go, there’ll always be someone who’ll want or need a friend, just like you will. That’s what it takes to adjust to a new environment—making friends who can support you in your time of need. Whoever that person is, wherever they are… they’ll be there for you. And you’ll be there for them, just like we always are.”

  “But they won’t be you.”

  “So what? Of course they won’t be me. Just like how I’m not your mom, or your sister, or anyone else.”

  “But I want it to be you. If I leave, you’re just going to forget about me.”

  “If that’s what you’re afraid of, then I promise you that no matter how far we are from each other, our friendship won’t deteriorate. You won’t lose me.”

  “Pinky swear?”

  “If that’s what it’s going to take to make you feel better, then sure.”

  Rowan finally cracked a smile. “I hope you aren’t lying, then.”

  “I’m not,” said Caitlyn, offering her finger. “I’m seriously going to help you get to where you need to be. I feel like I haven’t been here for you like I should’ve been… but this is my chance to help you get better. To use your metaphor, or whatever the hell it is, I’m going to arm you for when you take that step off that damn cliff.”

  “I don’t think you really can.” Rowan pushed Caitlyn’s pinky away. “It’s a nice gesture knowing that you’ll support me even when I leave, but that’s not the only thing that’s been bothering me. I feel like I need to change my major if I really want to help my family.”

  “Why? You love writing, don’t you? Why would you switch to anything but English?”

  “I need to major in something lucrative. How else am I going to get my family out of our small ass apartment?”

  “Don’t think about money, Rowan. Being miserable doing something you don’t want to do your whole life isn’t the way to go. Fuck that American Dream shit.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Come on. What do you really wanna d
o? Rot away in some office, or some lab, in some place you really don’t want to be? Or do you wanna enjoy what you do?”

  “I do wanna enjoy what I do. I wanna write. I wanna tell stories. Stories help people, whether or not they’re conscious about it. We learn from stories.”

  “Then do it. Write some stories.”

  “But I have my family to think about. My future. Writing stories isn’t gonna earn me shit. I can’t do what I wanna do because it just won’t be enough.” Rowan looked up at the moon again, but he still couldn’t find anything captivating in the sky. “It’s like some of us were born into a shitty life we can’t ever stray from.”

  Caitlyn frowned. “If you’re not going to write stories, then stop writing your own. You’re filling every blank with harmful and awful things because of how you are. Your life isn’t shitty.”

  “But it is. Caitlyn, I love my family, and I would do absolutely anything to help my mother finally live a life where she isn’t dirt poor, but at the same time, I’m not ready to go to college at the other end of the country, nor am I ready to start a career, nor am I even able to handle studying all day just to get there. Do you see the dilemma? I wanna help my damn family, but I’m just not cut out for this shit. I’m really not. This is an unsolvable conflict.”

  “You know,” said Caitlyn, “I’ve always looked up to you. Ever since we were kids. Our whole lives, you’ve been able to juggle so much on your plate—you’ve taken more difficult classes than I have, your grades are absolutely perfect, and not to mention the fact that with everything you do, you do it with passion and vigor and heart, even if your passion is sometimes stronger than your rationality.”