Exiled

SIX

The trek wasn't easy. Although this bike has been made practical stripped of any luxurious features long ago, a skeleton now of what it probably once was, it is still a bike and bikes aren't meant for joy rides through the woods.

It has been dark for several hours now and I am surprisingly unsure of which way to go at the point. I drove northeast, towards the next town and scouted for any signs of them. I followed a trail of recently disturbed vehicles and debris; confident I was on their trail. Dusk had settled in at that point and I did not feel confident navigating this territory any further at night.

I estimate I'm about 30 miles from the last place I saw the Relegates at this point. The next town should be between 10 and 15 miles from here. A little east, mostly north. I've set up about 10 yards from the road in case there are wanderers.

Survivors.

Savages.

Unwanted memories flicker in rapid succession, but I shake my head immediately, pushing them back into the forbidden corner of my subconscious from which they arose.

I sip cautiously from my canteen, careful not to drink too much but consciously aware of the dangerous level of dehydration I am tiptoeing on. The few bites of bread and nuts I've just consumed are not settling well on my stomach. I groan and shift uncomfortably, begging sleep to come take me.

I pull the hood of my jacket up, the cool crisp air of a September night blanketing me with only the faintest of chill. I sigh heavily, give in to my mind, and let the memories consume for a moment in hopes sleep will soon follow.

A screech, unhuman—off key, broken. It rips through the air around us. We sit huddled together, backs pressed firmly against a brick wall as if we wished it would absorb us—hide us, protect us from what was coming. Eleven dirty, wild-eyed eighteen-year-olds trembling and overcome with the real possibly that we could all die right here, right now. It has been months since we were cast out—I think.

Another screech startles us, this time closer, followed by a senseless pattern and clicking and growls. The sound of claws—heavy claws clicking slowly on the pavement as it approaches us. I look to my left and right, realizing I am surrounded by a group of nothing more than terrified children huddled in the dark from the big bad monster our parents warned us about. I examine my hands, curling them into fists and relaxing them as I turn them over and back—small, weak, useless. I scan the area around us for anything, anything at all I could use to defend myself.

How selfish, I think to myself, that I am only concerned with defending myself and no one else. How unusual for me.

My eyes lock on a short steel pipe not more than five feet from me. I could grab it, but I fear the creature stalking us will see me or hear me—that it will kill me. My heart is pounding so hard, so fast, I am confident it will burst from my chest at any moment. I can hear it pounding in my ears, and the sound drowns out the whimpers from the small frame shaking next to me. Eyes the color of honey peer up at me through locks of messy brown hair, tears streaking perfectly freckled cheeks. She whimpers and it is the softest, most painfully heartbreaking sound I have ever heard. I draw my brows together tightly, confused by the sight.

Dallas.

Another unhuman screech rips through the night, so close I can feel the breeze change as it carries the sound across my cheeks and right into my brain.

She should not be here. This isn't right. This isn't real.

A set of long black claws clicks slowly around the corner of the brick wall. Claws that belong to a creature so unfathomable it cannot rationally be real.

My eyes fly open, hand flies up and clamps over my mouth to suppress the scream before it has time to develop beyond a throaty painful wail. I am gasping for air, the memory crushing my chest and preventing me from really intaking any air.

The memory tainted by an unwelcome party.

Dallas is fine. I remind myself. She was not there. I rub my face hard, searching for any way to rid myself of this horrid shift from reality. I am used to my Relegation haunting my memories, but I am not used to those memories mingling with dreams.

It's daylight now, I realize, as I attempt to shift my focus and ground myself back to this world. I blink a few times, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, and glance briefly at my watch— noon.

I force myself to my feet, my brain still reeling from the memory/dream. I am letting my emotions get the best of me. This is not like me.

I heave the bike onto the roadway and assess my location. A broken and faded sign with an arrow and the remnants of words sits to my right.

↑ WH E OAK 10 MI E

I nod, confident in where I am once again and fire up the bike, speeding off in hopes of catching the Relegates before the get much further.