Iâve never really been a runner. Not like this, anyway.
Back in school, I was active in gym class. Iâd jog around the gym to warm up. I loved the rhythm of my feet hitting the wooden floor, the heat spreading through my body.
And the speed. I was faster than most of the other girls. Beth could always keep pace with me; we were the quickest in our grade.
But running outside is a whole new experience. My first breath feels like itâs being torn from my lungs, scorching my throat. The air is sharp, cold, and it brings tears to my eyes.
The worst part is knowing with each breath that the air isnât toxic or contaminated. Each breath is a reminder of the corruption I was living in, the corruption of Albion, what I once called home.
The Masters have been lying to us. For how long, I donât know. Why? It seems so clear now. I was always afraid of the outside world when the real horrors were right under my nose.
The ground isnât smooth and flat like in the gym, itâs hard, uneven, and covered with ash that swirls up into my eyes. Each step starts to burn my legs.
It isnât the warm feeling of speed that spreads through me, itâs a throbbing, searing pain that burns and bruises. It feels like nature is against me, forcing me to turn back, to collapse, to give up.
The wind fights against me. It sweeps loudly over the ash-covered landscape and howls its way toward me. It pushes me back and knocks me down.
I fall a lot. I scrape my hands and knees, and after I pick myself up, I leave behind my sweat and blood. Pieces of me.
Behind me, I can still hear the burning. When I look back, I can see the mansion, like a huge red beacon in the distance. But the farther I get, the harder it is to see the flames.
Eventually, all I see is the smoke. A thick column of black smoke fills the sky. I see planes arriving. Gray ones. Albion planes. They circle above the house, but the damage is already done. The Masters were too confident.
No matter how far I run, I can always smell the smoke. My ears still echo with the screams and the screeching of the house as it crumbled.
Images of the blade at my throat, the gun pointed at my head, and the blood splattered across the soldiersâ faces flash in my mind, throwing me off balance.
I find comfort in the straps tied around my waist, in my bag hugging my back. It reminds me of Beth, of holding her, and my hand tightens around my revolver.
When it starts to rain, I stop running for the first time. When I look back, I can barely make out the column of smoke. The sky above me is gray with heavy rain clouds.
I watch as the first drops of rain soak into the earth at my feet. Soon the rain starts to fall more heavily, and the ashes covering the ground become thick and cold.
I donât get wet though. The rain hammers down against my hood and jacket, but they deflect the water and my warm sweater underneath stays dry. I can only hope that the water is helping to put out the flames.
I keep walking. I keep the burning house behind me and head toward the setting sun. I can just make out the gold of the sun through the rain.
Itâs slow going. The wind and rain push me back, and the ashes stick to my shoes and make my feet drag. I trip over a rock and fall on my knees again. There is a sharp pain, and I grit my teeth against it.
When I lift my head I see it. I know what it is, even though Iâve never seen anything like it before. Itâs taller than me, burned black, and its arms twist and curve their way up to the sky.
I wonder how long itâs been there. Burned and dead, but still standing. A ghost from a lost time.
I wonder what itâs seen. If it could remember, could it tell me about the time before the war? Did people come to it, sit under it? Did it shade them from bright sunlight?
I find myself moving toward the dead tree. The closer I get, the more fragile it seems. Itâs been battered by wind, rain, and fire for years.
I settle down at its base. The wood is hard and black. The rain courses down the trunk and follows a small stream down the hill.
I flip my bag around and rifle through it quickly. My hood and jacket are keeping me from getting wet, but they wonât keep out the cold for long.
I drink water first. My throat, burned by the smoke, seems to absorb it, and I have to force myself to stop. I leave the bottle out so the rain can fill it up again.
I know better than to start a fire. In this bleak gray landscape, any light can be seen from a distance, and I donât want anyoneâForeigner or Perfectâto find me.
I donât have any friends anymore. Everyone has become my enemy.
I donât feel hungry, which surprises me. My heart is still racing from my run, and my body is warm. I watch the sun set slowly and the last rays of light disappear.
It would be easy to close my eyes, to let myself go. Iâm alone for the first time in my life. Iâve never been alone, left to myself.
Before Eric was looking after me, there were the teachers. A whole life of being prodded and inspected, taken care of, looked after, counted. And now thereâs no one here.
I stare at the revolver in my hand. I stare at Bethâs name written in blood. Beth. Thatâs all she is. Just Beth. Like I donât have to be Alexandra 958,687,487.64.4.2.1 anymore. I can just be Alex.
***
âMy mom used to overthink everything. Whether she was at school, at work, or taking care of Beth, her mind was always spinning with ideas. She stopped thinking that night under the dead tree.
âHave you ever stopped thinking?â
The journalist looked up at him in surprise. âMe?â she squeaked out in a small voice. He gave her a small smile. âI donât think so.â
âIt happened to me once. On our fishing boat. My dad fell and hurt his head. I had to bring the boat back into port, but there was a storm.
âI remember my body moving mechanically. I was exhausted and cold, but I needed to get home. I brought the ship home. I had one purpose. I held onto that, and it gave me the adrenaline to continue.
âIâm not really thinking, just going through the motions. Itâs the same thing my mom went through. She was fueled by a single goal. To bring Beth back. She had to bring Beth back.
âWithout that goal, she probably wouldnât have made it through her first day in the wilderness. She spent her first night under a tree. The next morning, she was jolted awake by the sound of planes overhead.
âThey were Albion planes, gray with a phoenix on the tail. For the first time in her life, my mom was scared of them. They streaked across the sky and, to her horror, dropped small bombs.
âShe watched as the bombs ignited into flames and Albion was set ablaze. Seeing the plane set the earth on fire, she realized that Albion was covered in ashes because the Masters wanted it that way.
âOf course, she thought. It all clicked for her then. How else could they keep their people so controlled if no one could go outside?
âThe ash-covered earth had always been proof that Albion was a dead land, but things had started to grow back. Of course they did. Itâs just that the Masters burned them before they had a chance.
âShe sat there for a while, watching the planes until they were out of sight. Eventually, she ate some of her food and got up. She was stiff and sore from escaping the burning house and the long run.
âThe world around her was gray and ashy. She didnât know where she was going or even if she was headed anywhere.
âShe walked for two days before she found a road. Well, it used to be a road a long time ago. It hadnât been used since the war started.
âAt first, my mom hesitated. She hid behind a mound and watched the road and the skies for a few hours. Eventually, she started to follow the road. She was heading toward her old school. At least, she hoped she was.
âShe had always traveled in iron vehicles with no windows, so she had no idea where her school was. All she knew was that it must be somewhere along some road.
âHer first few steps on the hard, tar road after having traveled over mounds of dirt, the flatness of the road hurt her feet and knees. She must have followed the road for at least another day before she reached the small town.
âIt was empty, of course, and destroyed. My mom was exhausted, but she still found the energy to explore the town. The buildings had been bombed and were left in huge piles of debris covered in thick layers of ash.
âMy mom navigated through the fragmented buildings and climbed over burned cars. As she went, she discovered traces of the people who used to live there: a piece of white lace, a pile of empty food cans, broken knives.
âAnd bodies. She didnât expect to find them. No one ever bothered to come back, to clean up the mess. Over one hundred years after their death, there were only skeletons, slightly preserved under the ashes.
âBut the skeletons werenât intact. The bodies had been torn apart, bent and broken before the people had died.
âShe recognized the bodies of adults and children. She found the skeleton of a baby, still attached to its motherâs chest.
âMy mom didnât stay in town for long. Taking a gravel path away from the town, she found a crumbling old mansion. It reminded her of the one sheâd lived in with the Masters, but this one was much more destroyed.
âThe roofs had burned off, and the stone walls had crumbled to the ground. My mom made her way inside the old mansion, standing on blue and white tiled floor, looking at a grand staircase that led up to the sky.
âIt was getting dark, so she tucked herself into a corner under the staircase. The wood was burned black, but it was still solid. And for the first time in days, she had a roof over her head.
âFour nights later, she finished the food sheâd brought from the Mastersâ mansion. She was confused about what to do next. Nothing was growing. Nothing could live under ashes, nothing could possibly rise from the ashes.
âBut that didnât stop her. She still had water and had been collecting it when it rained. She kept going because she had to.â