Bella - Fortitude Born Out of Adversity: Bella, #1

Prologue

The world had always been big in Bella’s eyes. With its vast horizons and mysteries yet to be discovered, it held promises of adventures and dreams yet to be realised. But now, it was a vast wasteland. In the blink of an eye, everything had changed, turned upside down by forces beyond anyone’s comprehension.

She remembered the days before the chaos, back when her most significant concerns were the bullies at school, who always seemed to have something to say about her academic achievements or her skills in archery, swimming, and fencing, even tipped to compete at the Olympics one day. Bella was an anomaly, a beacon of excellence in a world of mediocrity. And because of that, she became a target. Yet, these tribulations at school had forged a resilience in her that would serve her well in the days to come.

It was during one of their after-school research sessions that Bella and Matt stumbled upon the warning signs. Matt, after hearing about the forthcoming solar light show and with his insatiable curiosity, had led Bella down a rabbit hole of data and forecasts. Their discoveries were terrifying. A solar flare of unprecedented magnitude was on its way, threatening to disrupt the very fabric of their existence. They spent countless hours studying the event, preparing for its arrival. But nature, ever unpredictable, had more in store than just a solar flare. Another cataclysmic event, dwarfing the flare in its potential devastation, loomed on the horizon, a CME.

The weight of this knowledge was crushing. It was one thing to anticipate and prepare for a single disaster. It was another to face the unimaginable truth that their world was on the brink of collapsing not once, but twice, in rapid succession.

Driven by a newfound sense of urgency and purpose, Bella and Matt started their planning. They began making preparations for the worst-case scenarios, gathering supplies, charting escape routes, and, most importantly, recruiting allies for the inevitable journey ahead.

Among these allies, was Daz, and like themselves, he was a teenager, who would play a pivotal role in the coming days. There was Alex, the enigmatic mechanic, whose skills would prove invaluable. Two friends, both who thought the other dead, and Matt’s father, who bankrolled their plans with a large dose of scepticism. Together, they would face unimaginable challenges, forge unlikely friendships, and confront the darkest aspects of humanity.

In the harrowing days that followed, Bella's world was turned on its head. She had faced death not once, not twice, but thrice in a single day. These near-death experiences shattered her former perceptions and rebuilt them anew. The girl who had once been preoccupied with school bullies now grappled with life-altering decisions that would shape the fate of those around her. Choices that she would have found unimaginable mere weeks earlier became her new reality.

The journey to find a safe haven was fraught with danger. Every step they took was shadowed by threats, both from the shattered environment and from those who sought to exploit the new world order for their gain. But amid the challenges, there were glimmers of hope—moments of pure human connection that reminded them of the inherent goodness that still existed.

As the group navigated this post-apocalyptic landscape, they faced heartbreaking losses. Friends, allies, and loved ones were taken from them, leaving voids that could never truly be filled. But with each loss came new bonds, forged in the crucible of shared adversity.

Their realisation, it wasn’t just about survival. It was about the transformation, of individuals and of society. The events that had transpired changed them, shaping their outlooks, beliefs, and aspirations. The world they had known was gone, but in its place was the promise of a new beginning, a chance to rebuild, to learn from the past, and to forge a better future.

Chapter one.

The Fencing Lesson.

Glistening with determination , perspiration traced a path down Bella’s forehead, testament to her intense, hour-long fencing training. Weary yet alert, she cautiously stepped into the changing room, her eyes darting around to confirm the welcoming solitude of the space. Bella, though only fourteen, bore a history marred by a relentless year of bullying from two peers, driven, perhaps, by a toxic blend of jealousy and misunderstanding.

Elevated a year above due to her extraordinary academic prowess—most of her grades boasted a stellar A-plus—and her outstanding athletic capabilities, Bella had earned accolades such as the northeast champion in archery and a runner-up in the regional fencing competition. Despite these impressive achievements, or perhaps because of them, she found herself navigating the treacherous waters of teenage jealousy and rivalry, with her exceptionalities casting her in a harsh, isolating spotlight among her classmates.

Bella often sought solace in her own company, but also found an unwavering ally in Mathew - or Matt, as he staunchly preferred. He was a genuine geek, a term he wore as a badge of honour, boasting a photographic memory and an intellect that seemed to know no bounds. At a year her senior, Matt shared not just a grade with Bella, but a profound friendship, devoid of romantic entanglements, yet rich with shared interests and mutual respect.

Their hours outside of school were often whiled away in the virtual worlds of Fortnite, where they navigated adventures and battles together. Additionally, their shared artistic bent provided another platform for their camaraderie. With pencils and paper, they’d breathe life into their favourite game characters, their creations revealing their individual inclinations—Bella, lost in the delicate and ethereal strokes of Japanese art, and Matt, immersed in the intricate, mechanised world of robot soldiers.

Their friendship offered a sanctuary, a place where they could be unapologetically themselves, safeguarded from the external judgments and torments of their peers. And in that creative, digital space, they found not only an escape but a realm where their true selves could shine unabated.

Bella tread softly toward the farthest cubicle, her steps barely whispering against the cool, tiled floor, and delicately twisted the shower knob. The water, notorious for its initial chilly embrace, began its slow journey toward warmth. The delay offered her a precious window to divest herself of the sweat-soaked fencing gear, laying out her clothes meticulously for a swift escape post-shower. Her eyes darted once more across the expanse of the changing room - it remained a secluded haven.

As she shed her attire, she momentarily consulted her phone, hopeful for a message from her father. He and her brother Bobby were visiting her grandparents, and though her father knew she'd be immersed in the fencing world until late, the lack of messages carved a tiny, anxious space in her chest. Nevertheless, she trusted he would call later when the night had fully drawn its curtain.

A towel, clutched from her neatly organised belongings, was left perched on the bench adjacent to her chosen shower cubicle. Bella willingly submitted to the cool cascade, an invigorating contrast to the heated flush still lingering from her rigorous training with Mr Crabs.

Mr Crabs, the esteemed fencing teacher, made the journey to the school biweekly to foster Bella's burgeoning talent. His eyes saw potential within her that promised not only success but a fierce competitor for the Commonwealth Games in the upcoming year. Bella had hurdles yet to clear: two crucial competitions, both local and national, lingered on the horizon. Even a secondary placement in the nationals harboured the potential to secure her a reserve spot, but Bella, in her heart, yearned for victory.

As the water gradually kissed warmth onto her skin, she allowed her thoughts to meander through the maze of future competitions, tactical decisions, and dreams gently marinated in adolescent hope. Bella allowed herself to be momentarily cocooned in the solace of the shower, momentarily insulated from the exterior world of judgment and expectation, preparing herself, unbeknownst, for whatever lay beyond the changing room's doors.

Bella, encapsulated in a world where water droplets became temporary companions, languished momentarily in the soothing warmth of the now-temperate stream. The liquid tranquillity enveloped her, presenting a brief refuge from the world outside the cascading curtain. She allowed the soap to glide across her skin, the water tenderly caressing away the suds. Although she yearned to linger, prudence whispered, urging a timely exit. As she began to rinse, an abrupt, searing pain launched an uninvited assault upon her back.

Heart lurching, Bella pivoted to confront Jill and Mandy, her persistent persecutors. Before defence became an option, a subsequent, painful blow collided with her stomach. The weapon of choice, a towel with a bar of soap cruelly entwined, was wielded mercilessly by Jill. Bella's attempt to duck resulted in a slip, plummeting her onto the harsh shower floor. Mandy, now employing a soaked towel as a makeshift whip, aimed stinging lashes at Bella’s defensively folded arms.

In a pivotal moment of chaos, as Jill stooped to retrieve the slipped soap, Bella summoned strength from unseen depths and heaved herself upright. Jill, in malicious preparation for another strike, re-wrapped the soap within its towel shroud. Bracing herself, Bella extended her arms, preparing to intercept the imminent attack. Suddenly, an eruption of sparks as fluorescent tubes detonated, followed by a successive explosion of others, engendered a cascade of flickering destruction around them.

Bella’s mind danced urgently to an anime film she and Matt had recently shared. Embodying a superheroine, whose power mysteriously ignited chaotic explosions, she boldly declared the uttered incantation from the film, then demanded, Out, or you are next!

Fear congealed in the eyes of Jill and Mandy as the hand dryer violently combusted into flames. Bella, with a display of twisted fingers, invoked the illusion of control as tubular heaters forcefully detached from the walls. The bullies, now hostages to their astonishment and burgeoning terror, needed no further prompting. Fleeing, their shrieks pierced the dimming chaos, proclaiming Bella a demonic witch.

Alone amidst the smoky remnants of bewildering havoc, Bella was tethered to a troubling reality. She had no dominion over the mechanical malfunctions, prompting an unsettling question of what, or who, had invoked the chaos. Darkness, with the windows shrouded in spray paint – a protective measure following peeping incidents that were oddly commended by the headmaster – consumed the changing room.

Groping through the shadows, Bella navigated to her locker, gratefully avoiding glass shards underfoot. Gathering her carefully arranged clothes and additional belongings, she retreated to the rear toilets, ensuring refuge against a potential return of her tormentors. Once dry and clad in attire selected for potential evasion, including her sturdy boots in lieu of school shoes, she loaded her fencing gear into her rucksack. The fencing foil, however, was returned to the secure shelter of her locker, safeguarded by a lock, before she cautiously emerged into the unknown beyond the changing room.

Bella’s forehead became a canvas for beads of sweat, painted not by exertion but with burgeoning dread. A nagging question etched itself into her mind: were Jill and Mandy, embodiments of her torment, lurking outside the door, concealed within the folds of the seemingly desolate school? A throbbing reminder from her kidneys echoed the pain from their previous encounter, and Bella, no stranger to resolve, grappled with the tendrils of fear winding within her. The prospect of additional pain intertwined with a budding nausea within her stomach: to wait or to act?

An alternative path whispered potential safety - the sports hall, despite its typically locked exit, held a small, wired glass window that promised a clandestine peek into the adjacent hallway. It was an option that weighed favourably against a potential ambush within the treacherous terrain of the changing rooms.

Carefully navigating through the glass-strewn floor, a cacophony of crunches underfoot, Bella approached the sports hall door, her movements calculated and cautious. The tentative creak of the door unveiled – emptiness. Relief briefly brushed against her anxiety as she meticulously felt her way down the unnervingly elongated, shadow-draped corridor. Her fingers, eager explorers in the consuming dark, eventually found the hall door at the end. Opening it, her eyes were met with an abrupt, dazzling brilliance as sunlight liberally poured through the sports hall windows.

After a moment allowing her eyes to negotiate with the stark contrast of light, Bella, her Doc Martens incongruently paired with bare legs protruding from her school skirt, ventured onto the wooden parquet floor. The echoes of her boots conversed with the silent vastness of the space. A sudden realisation unnerved her already heightened senses - shards of glass were scattered like threatening confetti across the floor, smoke gently curled in ominous tendrils, and above, flames quietly danced upon the ceiling. The expected urgent wail of the fire alarm was eerily absent, leaving the unfolding danger undiscovered by any potential saviours.

The door at the opposite end of the hall beckoned as a potential exit, yet the slowly descending debris, now gently kissed by flames, presented a perilous obstacle. Bella’s thoughts teetered between risking passage through the quietly ferocious fire or retracing her steps back to the potential for a malicious ambush at the hands of Jill and Mandy. Her resolve, tested by the seemingly dire alternatives, began to forge a path within her, sculpted by both the physical and metaphorical fires surrounding her.

Bella’s teeth clenched in resolute determination as she propelled herself towards the double doors, intending to violently herald her exit and defy any potential rebuke from the school’s authorities. After all, with flames insidiously licking the ceiling of the sports hall, her unconventional exit would surely be the least of their concerns. But her forceful momentum was abruptly rebuffed by the unyielding doors, and she was sent sprawling backwards, colliding with the harsh reality and the hard floor simultaneously. Locked.

The escalating, sinister dance of the flames at the other end of the hall began to threaten her original entry point, narrowing her viable options to a perilous few. With a haste driven by mounting desperation, Bella surged to her feet, disregarding the burgeoning pain blossoming across her backside, and sprinted back through the door into the abyss of the dark corridor. In her frantic rush, her ribs became intimately acquainted with a cupboard door handle, eliciting a pained gasp that momentarily stole her breath. But this new, aching contusion had no time to be pondered, the burgeoning accumulation of bruises merely bystanders in her perilous predicament.

As Bella’s hand hovered over the changing room door handle, a searing heat pressed against her palm, causing a hesitation that might have saved her life.

Stop, think, she quietly coached herself amidst the encroaching chaos, it’s hot. Could there be fire lurking behind it? Acknowledging the potential inferno behind the door, she hesitated, realising that recklessly granting access might invite a ferocious wall of flames to engulf her. Once more, her hand cautiously approached the door, recoiling with an involuntary exclamation, ouch, that's fracking hot.

In this heated moment of oppressive entrapment, a heavy realisation settled over Bella: she was cornered, imprisoned by the flames, due only to her prior inability to confront Jill and Mandy. A frustrated scream, potent and futile, escaped her, dissolving into the encroaching smoke. A convoluted soliloquy of desperation whispered from her lips, I-I-I need to reach the other door before it's too late, then get to the double doors and somehow signal for help.

With the plan barely formulated, she burst back into the sports hall, now a grandiose spectacle of cascading flames and descending fiery debris. Dodging the plunging fragments of the burning ceiling, she managed to reach the far side of the hall and peered through the small window, her eyes scanning for any semblance of salvation. Only emptiness greeted her, its silence punctuated only by the voracious crackling of the ceiling above.

The insidious creep of smoke began its suffocating descent, triggering coughs that wracked her frame, and Bella's thoughts fractured into fleeting musings of regret and fragments of memories never to be realised. Why had she chosen to step into the school today with what she knew? The alternative – escape to her grandparents with her baby brother - now seemed an impossible dream, as distant as the silent world beyond the engulfing inferno.

Chapter Two.

Mathew.

Matthew, comfortably nestled in the cosy basement of his house—a sanctuary where his imaginative playfulness unfolded — found himself engrossed in a DVD game, his fingers dancing rhythmically across the controller. His mind momentarily dislodged from the digital world when he noticed the ticking hands of the clock nearing six. A pang of realisation hit him: Bella, his ever-so-talented fencing friend with dreams reaching the heights of the Commonwealth Games, perhaps even the Olympic pinnacles, would be over by half-past six. Her plan to do ‘some stuff at home,’ as she casually phrased it, lingered in his thoughts.

He paused, saving his game with meticulous care before unplugging the console, suddenly conscious of time slipping through his fingers. Bella would have wrapped up her rigorous after-school fencing session and would soon be enroute. Reminding himself of a previous, slightly embarrassing incident at Bella's place, he made a quick pit-stop at the bathroom, determined to ensure that any lingering odours would have ample time to dissipate before her arrival.

Matthew harboured genuine admiration for Bella, an affection veiled by his pubescent awkwardness and the bitter realisation of his own imperfections: his blemish-speckled face, the goofy teeth he sought to hide behind tight-lipped smiles, and the large ears that he felt were perpetually on display. His heart harboured an innocent wish, albeit cloaked in the melancholy of unspoken words and the belief that a girl as radiant and determined as Bella would never gaze upon a skinny teenager like him with romantic eyes. Bella, in his eyes, embodied perfection. Her athletic silhouette, the gentle kindness that inhabited her features, and her ability to draw smiles from even the most stoic faces rendered her seemingly unattainable.

A gentle sigh escaped Matthew as he decided to meet her at her place, just in case she needed an extra pair of hands. The brief journey next door would only take a moment, but first, a few preparations were in order. With a mental checklist for their upcoming trip and the arrival of his father ticking down in his mind, Matthew whispered a question to himself, exploring the depths of his memory for the weekend plans.

Now, what was it that I’m doing this weekend? He pondered, furrowing his brow. Then, as if illuminated by a subtle eureka moment, he vocalised, Ah, I know! The thoughts of spending joyous hours with Bella, engaged in friendly battles on Fortnite, flickered through his mind. How he wished things were simpler, where his affections could be laid bare without the veils of unspoken truths and vulnerability.

In a conscientious effort to sidestep any potential disputes with his father later on, Matthew headed downstairs to the kitchen, where a modest stack of dishes awaited him. He rolled up his sleeves, in a view to dive into the suds and get this final chore out of the way.

Chors now done, Matthew retreated back to his bedroom, a familiar space where he could escape and seek solitude. He fetched the cream for his spots, taking a moment to liberally apply it to each rebellious eruption on his skin. Casting a glance at his 'comic'—as his dad teasingly dubbed it—he allowed himself a brief interlude with the magazine. PC Gamer was no comic; he’d vehemently assert in those light-hearted father-son banters. Yet, his dad's playful retorts about ‘Super Mario’ being comic-like always lingered, bouncing back with a teasing smirk that signalled an endless, amiable debate. Eventually, Matthew surrendered to the unwinnable argument, storing his magazines meticulously and then veering towards the bathroom to address his teeth.

Suddenly, an eerie crackling sound pervaded the otherwise tranquil environment, followed by a sinuous hissing akin to a serpent, and sporadic pops. His heart drummed against his ribs as he traced the sound, eyes darting until they settled upon a harrowing sight through the landing window: sparks, like fiery serpents, dancing violently amongst the power lines. Adrenaline coursed through Matthew’s veins as he descended the stairs with hurried footfalls, drawn towards another crackling echo emanating from the kitchen. Shadows flirted with the dim light, forming an ambiguous silhouette. Was that a torch? A faint light, perhaps?

Hesitation anchored him momentarily. Confronting an intruder was not within his realm of experience. The inaccessible phone, rendered useless by the still-dormant service, intensified his predicament. His eyes darted around, finally settling on a small green fire extinguisher—originally intended for the car—now conscripted as an impromptu weapon. Its weight reassured him somewhat.

Moving stealthily through the dining room, Matthew navigated past the table, pressing himself against the wall adjacent to the door, heart hammering wildly against his ribcage. His hands, trembling ambassadors of his fear, clutched the extinguisher. His entire being vibrated with a mix of adrenaline and burgeoning fear. The relief of an empty bladder offered a minor consolation, eliminating one potential embarrassment amidst the escalating tension. Suddenly, a crash shattered the apprehensive silence.

An instinctual urge propelled him forward, extinguisher raised high, a primal scream tearing from his lungs. Yet, at the precipice of confrontation, hesitation clawed him back. Terror intertwined with a poignant self-doubt, whispering inadequacy into his trembling form. I can do this, I can do this, I can, I can, he muttered to himself, a mantra seeking to steady his resolve amidst the engulfing uncertainty.

The crackling sound intensified, each snap echoing louder and more urgently than before, reminiscent of twigs snapping beneath a heavy boot. Matthew, driven by a fusion of fear and adrenaline, surged forward, his scream piercing the atmosphere with fierce determination. As he crossed the threshold, the haze of smoke and the glowing embrace of flames met his gaze. To his shock and relief, his earlier assumptions had been amiss. There was no intruder. Instead, his father’s beloved kitchen was being consumed by a ravenous fire.

He gripped the fire extinguisher tighter, grateful for the serendipity of his chosen 'weapon.' His fingers fumbled over the pin, pulling it free. Heart pounding, he aimed the nozzle at the base of the flames, squeezing the handle in an attempt to suppress the inferno. The contrast of the cool chemical mist battling the fiery beast painted a vivid scene of chaos and urgency. Matthew's focused expression, intensified by the dancing light of the flames, reflected the weight of the task before him: saving his home from the ravaging fire.

Chapter Three.

Alex.

Alex, engrossed in his demanding task, diligently worked overtime in the repair shop of the council depot, his hands navigating through the inner mechanisms of a snow plough marred by a malfunctioning part. The work was gruelling, having occupied him for countless hours already, yet the horizon still held numerous more before he would conclude. Relocating from Scotland, where he’d lodged with his uncle following the tragic demise of his parents in a sorrowful accident a year prior, Alex sought not only employment but a semblance of autonomy; he had no intention of indefinitely accepting his uncle’s generosity.

His uncle, Max, was a solitary yet resilient figure, residing in an almost off-grid sanctuary on an island on Loch Loman. This homestead, a quaint croft, also hosted an ancient, meticulously restored lighthouse, a testament to many years of diligent work and perseverance. Max, bereft of children and having lost his young wife early, never found it within himself to envision life with another. A seasoned fabricator welder in the shipyards on the River Tyne, he found a sort of peace in his labour until the inevitable closure of the yard. Max was prudent with his substantial redundancy package, strategically investing it in various ventures that burgeoned prosperously, enabling him to purchase his croft and maintain a comfortable livelihood, devoid of any necessitation for further employment.

Alex, wincing slightly and uttering a muted curse, felt the familiar sting as the spanner once again betrayed him, causing his knuckles to rattle against the formidable truck. Opting to work in the antiquated inspection pit, Alex always prioritised safety, especially over utilising the unreliable, creaky four-post lift hovering ominously over the old pit. That contraption, even with its new electronic safety locks, had an unnerving tendency to gradually descend during operation – a precarious quirk Alex wisely chose to avoid, especially when solitary. The pit, despite warnings of potentially hazardous fume accumulation, was deemed the safer alternative given the vehicle was not petrol-fuelled and would remain inert during the repair. Alex's calculation of risk placed him firmly on the side of the pit's relative safety. The only snag was the need to utilise the lift to negotiate his getting in and out from beneath the hefty snow plough.

Time for a respite, Alex murmured to himself, acknowledging a well-deserved break for tea and a brief sojourn to the toilet. As he meticulously washed his hands – an action necessitated before and after his relief due to his aversion to rubber gloves – his reflection in the mirror presented a familiar sight: dark, oil-soaked red hair, streaks of black smeared across what his uncle often touted as his ‘striking good looks,’ and bright, blue eyes, now bloodshot and weary from persistent irritation. He pondered his facial hair, questioning whether to allow his beard to return or to maintain a clean shave, although he conceded either choice would inevitably become equally coated in oil.

Alex relished the comforting embrace of a warm cup of tea and the satisfying simplicity of his sandwiches, a humble reprieve in the midst of a sea of aging, stubborn metal. His muscles slightly uncoiled as the nourishment began to weave through him, fuelling him for the upcoming bout against the time-worn plough. He couldn't quite untangle the reason behind his agreement to labour on a Friday afternoon, followed by the weekend, for a poultry amount of overtime in the scheme of things, and yet here he was, consigned to the toil, his hands destined to further blacken against the decayed innards of not just one, but two antique machines, when others took advantage of the new four and a half day week. The road sweeper loomed in his near future, a dusty spectre whose anticipated filth had Alex mentally betting against the likelihood of it having ever met a pressure washer.

A sigh sailed from his lips, yet within it lingered a note of relief. For he reasoned, it was worth the toil, what else would he do with the time, and the additional hours stitched into his week, whispered additional funds, a promise of being able to cradle that desired case for his compound crossbow soon. And those hunting bolts—those could now transition from mere thoughts into tangible tools. An idea, bright and promising, flickered in Alex’s mind, nudging the sullen clouds of his tedious task slightly aside. He could use the upcoming hour to fashion some points on the lathe, constructing them with the same meticulous care he’d learned during the precious moments alongside his uncle. Creating the stems and flight from dowels and feathers of crows or chickens would be an endeavour for another day, a practice steeped in memory and skill, a nod to times less permeated by cumbersome machinery.

The workshop, once populated with the clatter of tools and muffled conversations, now exhaled silence, its occupants having abandoned it to the cradle of the extended weekend. Alex had become its solitary inhabitant.