S4, E10 | The Wound That Calls Below Home

Season Four Finale

> Sunday, 4th December 2039 <

With nothing in the backdrop to hear other than the tapping of the radiator that sits beneath the window closest to his bed, Andrew stares at the ceiling with hands coupled atop his chest and feet crossed over each other beneath the heavy covers that his wife lays soundly asleep beneath. Closing his eyes every few seconds only to blink, the man finds himself no closer to falling asleep than he had when he’d first gone to bed five hours ago.

Gently turning his head toward the side, he follows the long curls of his wife’s dark hair as they run down the length of her back, sitting atop the top of the comforter that the rest of her body seeks warmth beneath. Sound asleep, Elaine rests on her left side with her non-dominant arm fully situated underneath her pillow, its cushion providing an embrace for her head whilst her right arm stretches down the length of her side, coming to an end with her fingertips resting upon the top of her thigh.

Though unable to see her face, Andrew pictures it as if he were laying on the opposite side of the bed, following the gentle shape of her smooth face across her features whilst considering how warm it would be to the touch, perfectly representing the soul of the woman contained behind it. Smiling, the awake and alert father returns to his back and stares at the partially-lit ceiling, assuming it to be cold to the touch in comparison as it sits beneath the illumination of the moonlight that reflects off the ground outside.

Unable to convince himself to close his eyes and keep them there until he either drifts into slumber or hears the pins and needles screech of his watch’s alarm going off, Andrew traipses through the hallway and descends into the living room, where his eyes immediately take toward the kitchen. Running through his normal routine of filling the coffee maker with two spoonfuls of grounds, the man presses his hip against the counter whilst reaching for a shelf above the stovetop.

In nothing more than a white t-shirt and a pair of plaid, blue and white chequered pyjama pants, Andrew watches the machine run through the process of heating the water that will inevitably become the one thing determining whether or not he stays awake through the day. Taken by surprise, the man’s eyes take toward the ceiling as he listens to a pair of footsteps venture down the hallway above and take down each step, doing so without a word as the family’s patriarch waits to see who the figure belongs to.

“I figured it would be you” Derby remarks, rounding the bannister before advancing toward the kitchen, her appearance surprising the man. “And I figured you were Liv” Andrew responds, amusing the girl as he admits having assumed incorrectly. Reaching for a second mug, the man watches the girl approach and take the island seat that he’d sat upon earlier the prior day.

“She couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. I promised her that I’d stay awake so she could get a little bit of sleep” the teenager responds, resting an arm against the countertop as she shrugs with a pouty lip, “she went out like a light within five minutes.” Smiling, Andrew looks toward the beverage maker as hot droplets of a warm brew begin to collect within the transparent pot, splashing into a puddle that grows into a lake of caffeine.

“How long ago was this?” the man queries, continuing to watch the beverage brew steadily as the girl keeps to her own side of the kitchen, fingertips tapping along the stone surface with a dull and unnoticeable rhythm. “About two hours ago” Derby replies, shrugging as she offers her best guess toward the timing.

“And it didn’t dawn upon you that you could’ve snuck a little nap in there somewhere?” Andrew questions, able to see the girl’s reflection within the curved bowl that gradually fills, but paying it little mind. “I told her I’d stay awake and keep watch. I’m not a liar” Derby responds, prompting the man to turn back and glance at her, the lips she presses together as she shrugs once more making her stance on the matter apparent.

Without uttering a word, Andrew nods before turning back to watch the drink’s level continue rising, hearing the tapping of it upon the bowl’s base evolve into the splashing of little drops into a wider puddle, only to finally begin collecting well enough to not leave much of a sound at all. “How do you take your coffee?” he inquires, pulling his head back as he watches the dark, brown joe collect to the level he knows it to conclude at, hearing the machine groan as it spits out the last of its hot water supply and begin shutting down its motor.

“Surprise me” Derby responds, her posture remaining unchanged as the man collects the pot by the handle, pouring the same amount of coffee into either ceramic mug before carrying one over to his daughter’s closest friend. “I’ll tell you what...” Andrew responds, placing the girl’s coffee in front of her before retreating toward the proper kitchen counter, collecting a glass bowl of white grains from beside the toaster and a bottle of cream from the fridge.

“...this is the sugar and this is the cream” he concludes, placing them both a few inches ahead of the girl to the reaction of an amused grin. Letting her choose how to prepare her coffee, the man presses his palms against the counter and waits for her to decide, watching as she picks up the jar of sugar and gently pulls off the lid.

“How do you think that I take it?” she asks along the way, amused by the attention that he purposefully gives her more of than necessary, his intrigue in her choice mostly feigned for the purpose of humour. “Like every other young person that drinks coffee...” Andrew replies, pausing his comment with the explicit intent of leaving it unfinished for the moment, allowing the girl to run through the process of preparing her cup before finishing his thought.

Noticing this, Derby does as she’s expected to do, gently pouring in the amount of sugar she desires before turning out the lid of the cardboard carton of cream, only to squint before thinking otherwise. Closing it once more before returning toward the fridge, the girl exchanges the cream in favour of the carton of whole milk that she carries back, unscrewing the cap before tilting it toward the mug until satisfied, a confident smirk directed toward the man she aims to defy the expectations of.

Reaching toward the centre of the island, Andrew picks out a small, wooden stick from a bottle of others specifically intended for moments such as these, handing it over to the girl that graciously accepts it and begins stirring the contents. “Go ahead and finish that thought” Derby replies, arrogantly holding a smug grin just as the man opposite her does, believing herself to have bested his expectation, “Like every other young that person that drinks coffee...”

Gently tapping the wooden skewer’s tip on the mug’s rim, Derby lowers it onto a folded paper towel just off to the side before taking a sip, watched on by the man that continues to spectate. His grin only widening, Andrew reclaims his mug without treating it to anything on the table, letting the steam hit his face as he refuses to break eye contact with the still-smiling teenager before parting his lips, “...not black.”

Lifting the hot beverage to his lips, Andrew sips loudly from the mug as the girl’s pleased expression fades away entirely, replaced with the drifting of her eyes toward the ceiling as her head tilts back with the rest of her body, having truly believed she’d bested the man’s assumptions. “One of the greatest tricks someone can master is how to drink coffee black, young lady” the man declares, holding back his laughter as he lowers himself into the seat opposite the girl.

“You’re one to talk” Derby counters, returning her enthusiasm to the surface as she rebukes the man’s assessment, “don’t you realise what your generation did to coffee?” Amused, Andrew nods in agreement as his head tilts to the side, the base of his mug returning to the island’s stone surface. “I was born on the first year that Generation Z came into existence and I’ve been making amends for it ever since” he confesses, shaking his head as he looks to the side.

“We took the most popular hot beverage in America and decided that our preferred way of drinking it was with ice in it” Andrew continues, watching as the home’s visitor leans forward with a chuckle, her shoulders bouncing out of the voiced irony, “ah well, every generation has their moments where they can’t help but make things difficult on everyone... including themselves.”

“What about mine?” Derby questions back, intrigued to hear the man’s insight toward the category her birth had forced her to share with near-billions of others globally, “what did Generation Alpha do to make things difficult?” Lifting his mug toward his face once more, the man speaks as he goes for another sip, doing so close enough to the beverage for his voice to reflect off its steaming surface with a subdued echo.

“The older half of you did yourselves no favours by practically never going outside” Andrew replies, another loud sip taken from the drink he can’t help but slowly take down with how piping hot it is. “Schooling was done online, shopping was done online, picking up fast food was done online, everything you’d go out to do was done online” the man comments, swaying his head to the side with each new listing uttered, “most of your friendships were relegated to being held in little apps on your laptops or your watches.”

“Weren’t you just as guilty of that as us?” Derby inquires, lifting an eyebrow as she challenges the quality of his declaration, earning a pointed finger toward her direction. “We took part in it because it was new, convenient and we were lazy as hell. And we only did the schooling thing because the world shut down” Andrew retorts, lowering his hand as it returns to wrapping around the ceramic drinkware, “we still knew how to get in the car and drive somewhere. We just chose not to.”

“Those sound like excuses to me” Derby responds, bobbing her head from left to right as she mocks the man’s declaration, amusing him enough to earn a placid grin. “Well, the younger half of you made up for that and started new problems” Andrew responds, eyes drifting toward the side of the room as he reflects upon less pleasant matters, “you looked at everything pessimistically. If a shirt was on sale, it was because it had some sort of issue or because no one else wanted to buy it.”

“That’s because no one did” Derby responds, watching the man’s eyebrows lift toward her as she proves his point. “Back in my day, the stores would-” Andrew begins to reply before suddenly stopping, going wide-eyed as his face falls toward the countertop, soon being covered by the hands that he frees from his mug and presses into his skin.

“Oh my god, I just said ‘back in my day’” he whimpers behind the obstruction that plasters his visage, shaking his head as the girl opposite him laughs before he quickly attempts to regain his prior statement. “Anyway, they’d put stuff on sale to draw people in for the lower price. Then they’d keep putting it on sale so you’d get in the habit of swinging by to see what the new thing you could get was” Andrew concedes, accepting the fate of ageing that he’s openly walked into, “not everything had some malicious intent behind it.”

“Stores can’t get away with charging stupid prices for things that aren’t worth it anymore. They put things on sale so they can get rid of the stuff no one would take them up on” Derby corrects, leading the man down a new line of thought she hadn’t expected him to assume in the first place, “I don’t blame you for being out of touch, though. It happens to everyone when they get older.”

“The point is that not everything has malicious intent behind it, Izzy” Andrew responds, looking toward the girl with an exhausted face before shrugging, “they certainly do sometimes, but not every sale is about getting rid of the thing no one wanted. Though, I wouldn’t put it past shops to not sell things out of fear that it’d be considered exactly that.”

Remaining silent, Derby looks toward the man with lips pressed together, her face not appearing to be carrying an expression along the lines of the conversation that they’d shared. Seeing this, Andrew takes a faint squint toward the girl before jutting his chin toward the side, “what?” he asks, lost for a reason behind her reserved demeanour.

Pressing her lips together, Derby leans closer toward her end of the island as she reclaims the mug’s handle, not appearing uncomfortable, but seeming to be curious toward the conversation without much reason. “Why did you call me Izzy?” the girl inquires, watching the man’s eyelids part back to their normal, resting state without warning, the aversion of the eyes beneath them making it clear that he’s retracing his speech to the source of her inquiry, which he very visibly soon recalls.

Lowering his shoulders, Andrew’s posture takes on a suddenly glum and sorrowful ease as he taps the shape of his ceramic chalice, pausing before lifting it toward his lips. “I just misspoke, don’t worry about it” he answers, sipping from the drink once more as Derby looks down and nods, accepting the man’s reluctance and hesitancy whilst refusing to question him about it any further, simply choosing to let the curious blip in the discourse’s dictation pass without concern.

= Generation Alpha is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onwards =

> Monday, 5th December 2039 <

Her left foot crossed over the right at her ankles, Sophie spends her day just as she spends each day- laying in her bed with her eyes scanning the pages of a book. One line after another, the inmate progresses through her novel with a slightly less weighted-chest, not feeling the momentary need to glance over the soft cover and toward the door in search of any face looking to do her harm.

Taking her time, the inmate feels no rush to carry out her readthrough, making an effort to read each line with the emotion meant to reside behind each word. In unison, a group of people march through the passageway ahead of her cell in the same drab, beige uniform, earning no mind from the woman who simply wishes to be left alone with the comfort of her book and the cosy socks that shield her feet from the harsh cold beyond the prison walls.

Trying her best to lose herself in the scene set forth throughout her book, Sophie puts forth her damndest effort drowning out the momentary disruptions just beyond the entry to her cell, wanting to do what she can to finish the read. Not sure of what’s unfolding and not having the slightest care to begin with, the woman forgoes paying any mind to the unintelligible shouts that emanate from beyond the concrete sarcophagus she’s been entombed within, wishing only for peace that she keeps being refused.

Focusing more on the words that litter the page like lines sprinting between two lanes of a road, she refuses the distraction any power of value as she begins to picture the characters as they’re described in the story. Letting her imagination run wild with setting the scene laid out before her eyes, Sophie finally achieves her mental isolation and continues to bypass the confrontation that appears to be brewing far away from her concrete box.

Depicted caringly by the man who’d written the story, his cast of figures speak like real people and act as if any other would with the cards they’d been dealt, adding to the immersion that such realism brings Sophie a comfort through. Arguing, the two central characters of the story engage within discourse that goes back as often as it rounds forth, sparking an escalation of anger that simmers and boils between the pair in ways that leave the inmate wondering which one will snap first.

Too enthralled by the wonder that surrounds her scenery, Sophie inspects each paragraph whilst she reads it, taking every adjective like playful putty in her delicate hands ready to be moulded however she sees fit, and taking every verb as an invitation to let her brain soar in ways that her taxed body simply cannot bear the will to follow.

“Sophie!” a woman proclaims as she sprints through the door, bouncing off the hefty obstruction meant to ensure the cell remains off limits throughout the night as she hurries for the bottom bunk. Frustratedly slamming the open pages of her book against her chest as she lets out a loud sigh, rolling her eyes as they take from the ceiling to the hurried woman one level beneath her.

“Get your shit! Let’s go!” the sprinting woman proclaims, hurrying to her bed before reaching beneath the mattress, pulling free a toothbrush sharpened at the end to a point. “Cora, what the hell are you doing?” Sophie asks without a care in the world, the only reflection in her voice being brought forward through sheer confusion.

“They’re breaking out! Let’s go!” Cora reiterates, saying nothing further before turning back and sprinting through the cell’s exit, prompting the woman at the head of her mattress to sit upright and follow her figure with her eyes as it vanishes around the corner. Puzzled, Sophie overhears the continued confrontation take shape in the farther distances of the prison no differently than any other skirmish that has been carried out within the tomb-like lockup.

Lifting her book upward once more, Sophie watches a few more prisoners rush past her cell whilst quietly paying the distant argument her ear, intrigued by the prospect of returning her focus to the novel that presents itself to her like temptation to a weak mind. One by one, a second wave of inmates storm down the hall and pay her quarters no mind, pretending as if she didn’t exist or that there wasn’t anything of value within the silent mausoleum whatsoever.

Gently resting the back of her head against the wall, Sophie stares at the doorway and waits for the footsteps to continue running past her like soldiers entering war or for the sounds of relatively normal conflict to advance beyond what would just be considered another normal Monday.

Instead, it seems to sound like the scuffle has run its natural course and the screaming match has begun to find cooler heads prevailing, earning a bewildered stifle upon the girl’s judgemental visage. One by one, the prisoners cease their wandering yelps and unruly demeanours beyond the sights of the bookworm they purposefully leave behind, appearing to calm with the storm of composure that had strangely come over the rabid pack.

Only further confusing her, Sophie looks toward the ground strangely, seeing the shifted position in which her cellmate had left the bed, truly only rushing in for the purpose of finding a weapon worth wielding. Looking toward whatever distance her eyes can find within their course, the inmate begrudgingly sets her novel aside and tucks her makeshift bookmark inside, climbing down from the top bunk and letting her feet hit the floor.

Casually strolling to the entrance of her cell, the lone prisoner standing leaps back at the sound of a thunderous boom that rocks the building, shaking the solid floor beneath her feet and startling her enough to knock her off of them.

Slamming into the ground with the palms of each hand slapping the cement floor as she does, Sophie quickly bounces up to a seat as she stares at the door that remains open, hearing alarms fire off throughout the entire building in the wake of the chaos that continues to be met with absolute silence ahead.

Quickly regaining her bearings, Sophie throws herself off the ground and quickly climbs back onto the top of her cellmate’s shared bunk, reaching for the loose stone in her wall and pulling it free. Held to the very bottom of the shapely boulder by a decent adhesive, a plastic comb sharpened at the edge to a sturdy point presents itself for her hand to reclaim, allowing her the chance to walk through the open doorway and follow the direction of the chaos that had suddenly died down.

|

“Yes, I was calling to give you an update on your shipment. I know you’re a small nursery and this is your first purchase, so I want to try and be as up to date with you as I can be” Andrew comments, walking from one side of his kitchen to the other with a plate in hand. Amused by the response he receives from the other line, the man clears the kitchen’s island of the remnants of his family’s breakfast, running the excessively-dirty plates beneath the sink’s powerful, running faucet before placing them in a newly-installed dishwasher.

“You made an excellent choice in choosing to do business with us and I’d like to keep it that way” Andrew cheerfully comments, placing a plain, white ceramic dish into the machine beneath his counter before rolling up the sleeve of his green sweater as it begins to slide down his forearm. “The delivery appears to have been delayed after last night’s snow storm, so I’m sorry to have to call you with negative news” the man follows through, “but it should only be a day late, so it’s not that bad of news.”

Retreating to the island once more, Andrew picks up a pair of glasses before dropping those into the machine as well, closing the door to it whilst turning the knob just a few degrees clockwise. “Yeah, well it happens all the time. We live in a state with terrible winters and we just have to learn to adapt” the business owner continues, letting free a big sigh as he presses his hands against the counter’s edge, “at least you’re ahead of me! I was planning to sell the shop a few months ago, so I’m pretty far behind on seed orders for next year already.”

Smiling despite the news, the man writes off the customer’s good faith attempt at cheering him up before paying him an unimportant, respectful end to the conversation. Having little else to say, Andrew ends the call with the swipe of his wrist and stares at the layers of snow that cover his backyard, seeing the various, circle-like prints that dot its surface toward the side of his home with a grin.

“I refuse to feed the deer purposefully so they’ll leave me alone” the man mutters, shaking his head with dissatisfaction as he ventures toward the patio door, stepping onto the terrace that he’d already shovelled hours ago. Displeased, Andrew approaches the staircase with eyes following the journey of the tracks, wearing a disgruntled frown as he watches them lead toward the side of his balcony and suddenly disappear before rounding the side of the home.

Puzzled, the man journeys toward the end of his porch and looks over the railing, finding the tracks coming to an end just beneath his feet, replaced by a divot in the snow that leads beneath the terrace. Suddenly less amused or disappointed, the father puts on curious eyes and looks back toward the forest, the colour in his face immediately fading as it goes flush a pale and sickly white, watching the holes too big to be from the hooves of an animal either trail into the woods or traipse out from it.

Sprinting through the patio door and beyond the living room, Andrew passes a glance toward the chesterfield as it sits unnaturally farther back than it normally would, the floor it usually sits above appearing completely level and unassuming. Skipping two steps for each one that his feet carry himself upward with the assistance of, the man reaches the second level and immediately charges after his daughter’s room, throwing his shoulder into the entrance with so much force that it rips straight off the hinges.

“AHOH!” a pale young man exclaims as he leaps back, turning away from the girl that cowers in the corner of her room as he drops a hunting knife onto the shag carpet, holding up both palms at the sight of the unexpected drop in. Paying no mind to his display of surrender, Andrew whacks the teenaged boy across the face and floors him, nearly knocking him unconscious completely.

Woozy like he’d just drunk a pint of absinthe and had been spun around five times before being asked to march in a straight line, the boy looks wildly at the floor that he’d just plummeted to before suddenly coming back into the present mind as he’s lifted from the floor. “Stop! Stop! I’m sorry! I didn’t do anything to her!” the young man exclaims, pleading for his safety behind a bloodied and immediately puffy lip, trying to speak coherently despite not being given the chance.

Holding the man by the collar of his shirt, Andrew’s strength becomes the only thing allowing the teenager to remain standing upright, his legs as unsteady and loose as wet spaghetti is. “Who the fuck are you!?” the father asks aloud, demanding answers to the chaos that had been inflicted upon his offspring by the figure that he lifts like a limp and light puppet, only speaking when allowed to do so by the hands that control him.

“Ryan! Ryan! My name is Ryan! Please, I’m...” the teenager hurriedly shouts, breaking down into tears as he makes the best effort that he can to shield his face from any further assault. Giving himself the faintest opportunity to inspect the person for what he sees physically, all Andrew finds is the blubbering mess of a sad, weak, and terrified teenager no older than his youngest daughter, and likely a year or two younger than her at that.

Snapping up the blade that had fallen from the perpetrator’s hand, Liv crawls away from the figure that her father holds up, freeing the man an opportunity to release the shirt from within his grasp and watch the criminal plummet to the ground with a continued sob. “Do you know this guy?” Andrew inquires, stepping up to his daughter’s side with a finger aimed at the frightened young man that covers his face with his arms and crawls into a ball, earning no reply.

Looking toward his daughter, the man finds her to be continuing to stare at the man who’d entered her room to do her harm without replying. “Liv, do you know who this guy is?” Andrew asks again, waiting for an answer before looking deeper into her visage, its surface covered not by a look of terror, dread, sorrow or anger, but taking shape in the manifestation of pure nothingness, not a thought running through her head as she looks toward the cretin laying on her bedroom floor.

“Liv?” Andrew calmly repeats, lowering his chin just slightly as he looks at the side of the girl’s face, her emotions not changing as she remains motionless, standing upright and looking down at the defenceless intruder ripe for her vengeance. Remaining silent, the father looks at his child before slowly looking back toward the man in the centre of the room, taking a few seconds of inspecting his continued sobbing before relocating his sight toward the weapon in his child’s hand.

Squinting, the father follows the arm that wields the blade beyond the torso of his daughter before finding her face just as frozen in a blankness as it had been when he’d last seen it. Continuing to carry the narrowing of his eyelids as he stares at the side of her face, Andrew moves his lips without uttering a word, motioning them to mime the words “you can fight it” beyond reach of the girl’s ear.

Continuing to cradle his face with his trembling arms, the home intruder weeps within the view of the father and daughter as the air goes quiet, his fear too great for him to wish for an answer over the hush stillness that surrounds him. Breathing normally, Andrew continues to look at his daughter as she stands like a ghost, hovering over the potential prey that lingers one tip of the blade away from her like a bad omen for the boy’s future.

Her trance refusing to fall, Liv continues to occupy the room like a human statue whilst her father watches on, waiting for what he knows is to come, but badly wishes he won’t have to see. Suddenly taking one step forward, the bedroom’s typical occupant lifts the knife into the air whilst the third party spectates, pressing his lips together and closing his eyes as his head joins the rest of his chin in hanging, disappointment hitting him as if he were standing in traffic and playing chicken with an eighteen wheeler.

Unable to bear what unfolds, the father hangs his head in shame as the boy begins screaming, kicking at the floor as he attempts to bury himself within it as if it were dirt, looking for any protection he can from the mercy of the woman who’d he held such vile thoughts toward. Keeping them closed, Andrew’s eyes see nothing more than the darkness that comes over them as the blood-curdling shrieks of horror continue to surround the room, his attention only returning to the scene at the call of his title.

“Dad?” Liv softly whimpers, prompting her father’s eyes to widen and return toward the girl just as the rest of his face does, seeing her continue to stand where she had in the moment that his eyelids had rejoined. Surprised, Andrew finds the girl continuing to hold the knife before looking toward the boy he’d assumed she’s already begun the slaughter of, his face filling with dread as it holds upon the girl that retains control of his fate, the rest of his body pressing against the wall to create as much separation as he can.

Screaming not out of pain but out of utter panic, Ryan pushes himself against the side of the room without a cut on his body, continuing to dread what he worries is about to happen as Liv’s face begins filling with sorrow, her breaths becoming unstable as her father steps in. Wrapping his arms around his youngest daughter, Andrew softly runs his hand down the length of her arm and wraps his fingers around the knife’s blade, accepting the slices to his palm as a small price to pay for reclaiming the knife from his child’s willing hand.

“Honey, get up here now!” the father exclaims the second that he overhears the front door opening, able to feel the shift of its weight take shape in the floor before it even truly leaves the hinges. “Call the police” Andrew grunts, turning his head toward the door that his wife inevitably approaches, issuing his command as he presses his lips to the top of his daughter’s head, Elaine’s feet immediately carrying her into the doorway as she does as told.

Hyperventilating, Ryan lowers the rest of his body toward the ground and curls up into a ball, waiting for the arrest that he’s in store for whilst the rest of the present family watches on. As tears flood her eyes, Liv rests in her father’s arms as he kisses her head and rubs her side with his bloody hand, trying his best to comfort her in any way he can. Refusing to take his eyes away from the perpetrator, Andrew gathers his composure and clenches his teeth, taking a brief moment to think of fortune and appreciate that it turned toward his favour today, solidifying his belief that the plague he’s never let slip from his conscience once is as capable of being conquered as he’d held out the hope that it would be.

== Generation Alpha ==