The Escape Route

In a time where conversation is expressed through the control of electronic devices, and the need for more knowledge is extensive, a daughter, granddaughter and sister searches for the truth. She finds herself with the greatest desire to discover the changes taken by her relatives, so that she could grow up in a country where an individual’s safety is an underrated expectancy compared to that of her grandfather’s heritage.

She can’t help but wonder about the hardships her ‘Pop’ would have had to endure in order for this world-altering change to occur. Her mind flutters to an image of a younger version of Pop, running from one dilapidated room to the next, all in the while, grabbing seemingly sentimental objects from rotting shelves and dirt floors. She envisions that this derelict place must have been his house. With arms full, she watches on as Pop runs from the house, into a dirt street, littered with rubble that was previously the homes of his neighbours and friends. Here, he pauses before the ruins of his brothers’ house. With a single air-strike, Pop was now the last remaining person in his previously expansive family. He was but 21, freshly moved out from his mother and father’s-her great grandparents’-house, and was just starting his adult life. She feels her heart catch in her throat as she envisions the tears threatening to spill over Pop’s eyes. But he cannot stay. With a final glance back to the remains of his former life, Pop runs.

The earth-shattering sound of a nearby aircraft fills the tense air around him, and it drives him to push his legs faster. She can see his devastating exhaustion at having to run so hard, after weeks of sleepless, terror-filled nights and soul-crushing, hungry days. But still, he runs. The thunder of blades, as they cut through the humid air, echoes around the deserted streets and becomes increasingly louder. She is filled with the most paralysing fear. Pop reflects her fear, as she imagines him ducking into the nearest building, immediately rolling to the ground, where he crawls under a collapsing table. Pop waits.

A catastrophic blast to the house directly opposite to Pop’s refuge causes a wave of rubble, heat and sound to crash into his already devastated figure.

For a moment, everything is tranquil. Not a sound is heard. Nothing. Only the image of Pop, unmoving underneath a small pile of rubble, disrupts the calm. She finds herself trying to forget her current stream of consciousness, to stop her morbid thoughts, but to no avail. Almost peacefully, she sees Pop’s eyes flutter open. Suddenly, and with a great urgency, everything becomes chaotic once more. The sounds of low range aircraft fills the air again, as Pop is once more, filled with fear. She tenses as his body does, in his effort to remove himself from the rubble. As Pop stands from the ruins, she gets a glimpse at the small gashes that cut through his body. She can’t help but sigh with relief as she realises that these cuts seem to be the extent of his physical injuries from the blast. The choking smell of fire wakes both of them from their thoughts, and so he debates with himself on his next move. Pop seems to come to a decision as he starts to scatter from the half-standing building, but halts after spotting one of the objects he had previously taken from his house, half submerged underneath a pile of bricks. She sees as Pop gathers up the locket in the palm of his hand, and takes off again, outside, into the eerily silent streets.

The fire licks at his heels, threatening to seize him as he makes a run from the retreating aircraft. Fear grips at Pop, as for the life of him, he cannot think of a place to go. He has no way of leaving his current hell.

No more than a second passes after his thoughts when a clear whistle cuts through his depressed mind. The unmistakable sound rouses Pop from his melancholy, as he looks in the direction from where the sound came from. He sees nothing. Determined to extract the person from their hiding place, Pop walks towards the sound, as another whistle clarifies its whereabouts. He spies a large container, swaying slightly as from coming into contact with someone. Pop walks up to it as surprisingly strong hands grab him from behind, dragging him by his tattered shirt around the container. He struggles to free himself, kicking and throwing punches at anything that moved, when a feminine cry of pain ceased his movements. Now free from her grasp, Pop turns to find an incredibly slight woman in front of him, cradling a swollen arm. His doing. A wave of guilt crashes into Pop, as he reaches for her, in order to examine the wound and hopefully stop it from swelling further; but she shies away from him.

Pop whimpers an apology to the woman, and her dark eyes meet his. Shrugging her shoulders, she dismisses his attempts at helping her and a small smile creeps onto her face.

“Come” she waves her hand for him to follow her, and Pop his helpless to do otherwise, as the guilt of having hit a woman is still fresh in his mind.

The woman leads him to a house, whose walls were almost completely gone, littered elsewhere from an airstrike, but was still managing to stand. A small amount of fear, that it would collapse upon them as they entered, tugged at his mind, but Pop ignored it. He was too entranced by the woman in front of him.

She stops suddenly, almost causing Pop to fall in to her, and reaches down to a small nook in the ground directly in front of her before turning back to him and putting a finger to her mouth- silencing him from his questions. Pop noticed that she was holding on to a handle. Pulling with all the strength she could muster from her uninjured arm, she manages to move the plank of wood a fraction over, so that Pop could now see the stairs leading down to a dark and uninviting basement. He reaches over now, to take the handle from the woman’s’ hands, and with one swift movement, the door is pulled open. She smiles gratefully at him, and continues down the rungs of the ladder. Pop follows suit.

Pulling out his lighter, and starting a flame, a small gasp escapes Pop’s mouth. It was a tunnel, filled to the brim with the essentials- food supplies, bottles of water- and as they progressed further, the walls opened up to form a room containing a rather large boat. The woman turns to face Pop, a smile still planted on her face.

“Welcome to your escape route”