Northcote Impact

The sun’s way too hot. It beats down on our backs, melting our shirts onto our flesh, trapping us in a living hell of fire and brimstone.

I hate this new skylight.

It’s a good idea, yeah. Let some fresh air into the classroom.
But not when this is practically the hottest day of the year.
The rest of the class mutters their dissent as well, nobody pleased with this new arrangement as we’re forced to sit through this torment for another half an hour. At least.
Beside me, Jack’s got his head in his arms, half asleep, his red hair messy and sticking out. The sun’s making him drowsy, but he doesn’t realise that his hand’s resting on his metal pen. Which will get very hot, very soon. Without disturbing the demon lecturing these pitiful souls, I nudge his hand with my ruler, knocking it away from the pen. He mutters a short thanks and falls silent again, most likely asleep.

The teacher doesn’t care, of course. We’re two of the few people in class who get high enough marks for us to not worry about sitting through these lectures. In fact, I could probably do whatever I wanted, as long as it doesn’t disturb the rest of the class.

I’m not going to, though. I at least have some respect for the teacher. I do, however, pull out my phone and start scrolling through social media. Nothing exciting happening, as usual.

Half an hour of hot hell later, we escape. Streaming out into the sunlight, most of the class starts heading off across the grounds towards our next class, a building half the school away. But I don’t. I hang around, because Jack’s still asleep. And is going to make us late.

Finally, inexplicably, he exits the classroom. Thank god. Only… five minutes late. Oh, crap. He gives me a cheery wave as he exits, the sun beating down on our backs now chilled by a cool breeze. “Kia Ora, Birdman. How long have you been waiting? A minute? Two?”

I scowl and fold my arms. “Five. Come on. We have Maths next. And you aren’t as great at that as you are at English, are you?”

Unlike me, Jack actually has to work some of his subjects. English, Art, Graphics Design. He’s good at those. But he struggles with some of the others. Fortunately, the New Zealand curriculum only requires you to do well at a few subjects to pass.

He rolls his eyes. “Unlike Mister Perfect over here. Top of the year at Maths, Science, and ICT. Whoop-de-freaking do. What was that prize they gave you? Biggest suckup?” He’s joking. There’s no trace of bitterness or anger in his voice, only humour. I elbow him and he laughs. “Hang on. Lemme grab a drink.”

He leans over a water fountain in the middle of a grassy patch, and that’s when I start to shiver. A shadow’s passed over us. But there are no clouds. It’s way too hot for that. I start to look up and--

Blackness.

A force slams into me, pinning me to the ground and-

The first sense that returns to me is my hearing. A high-pitched, constant beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It’s inane, piercing my skull. Driving me crazy. I struggle to open my eyes, but the shaft of light that blinds me as soon as they open a crack forces me to slam them shut. The smell hits my nose, the sharp, disgusting smell of antiseptic. Where am I? I struggle to open my eyes again, forcing my way through the light. 

It takes a few moment for my eyes to adjust, but I’m in a white room. Lying in a bed. There’s a single door, a row of instruments on the wall… and a heart monitor beside my head. There’s the beep. That also explains the smell. A hospital bed. It must be. And my original door assumption is wrong. It’s not a door, just a gap in a white curtain. Definitely a hospital.

The curtain’s pulled back, and a Doctor stand there holding a clipboard. His eyebrows quirk up. “Good. You’re awake.” He taps a button and takes a seat next to me. “Do you know what happened?” 

I try to speak, but no sound comes out, so instead I shake my head. 

“You were in an accident. We’ll see what you can remember. Your name is Gryffon Smith. Your friends call you Gryff.” I nod, and he continues. “You attend a high school in the Northcote area of Auckland. You are fifteen years of age.” I nod at the first comment, but my eyes widen at the second. He sees my look and nods. “Yes. You have been in a coma for three months. Your birthday was a week ago.” He motions to the right, to what I should have noticed before; a table stacked with presents and cards. Three months?

He continues, answering my final question. “You were struck by a chunk of rock travelling at thousands of kilometres an hour. The explosion wounded tens of teenagers. You should be dead. Yet, you are the first to wake up. You are a very, very lucky young man.” He stands up. “Your family, and a nurse, are on their way. You may pose any further questions to them.”

With that, he stands up and walks away, leaving me to my own worried thoughts.

A chunk of rock falling at hundreds of kilometers an hour? At a typical school like mine? This has to be a dream. My mind’s racing through all the possibilities of what it could be. The chunk of rock at that speed has to be either a meteorite or somebody, somehow threw a rock off of a plane. How big was it? Who was hu- Jack! Trying to raise my voice to call for the doctor, yet again nothing came out. A call button. Every hospital room has one for emergencies. Should I wait on a nurse and my family or just press the button? I’m the first one awake so it doesn’t make much of a difference. Ten minutes of inane beeping go by as I try to remember everything that happened and who was around to have been injured.