Wounded Beacon

Shades of Darkness

The dense forest acted as cover as I pushed through. It had been a few years since the environmental catastrophe shook up the world. Since then, life seemed to flourish abundantly. The chirps of frogs and crickets filled the damp air, and trees and plants seemed to take on a healthier appearance. There had been a time I believed I'd never live to see the day Earth restored itself.

Rustling in the foliage ahead brought my attention to two prisoners as they stumbled along the uneven path. Only the light of the moon weaving through the tops of the trees helped guide our way through branches and brush.

"Don't come back, Luke!" Santos warned from far behind. His voice shook with anger. "You or your new friends." I gripped the handle of my blade tighter as I glanced over my shoulder to ensure no one was following. "I might not come after you now," he continued, as if reading my mind. "Remember, I hunt. Not chase." Laughter followed. I sped up, wanting nothing more than adequate space between the camp and me.

Up ahead, my helper paused and pivoted, crunching the leaves under his shoes. The heavy, rusty blade drooped from his fingertips. "Hey, let's get out of these woods and head to the coast." His voice hushed. I pushed past him, climbing a short distance over fallen branches. "Luke," he called.

Glancing over my shoulder at the man, it finally dawned on me why he was so familiar. He was a newer member of the community, a month maybe. I often spotted him around camp, kneeling near the trees with a handful of scraps, feeding portions of his scarce rations to the wildlife. I continued, moving ahead. Stopping would defeat the purpose of my escape.

He cleared his throat. "Luke, we can try the coast―"

"Let's just keep moving," I said. We didn't have to stop to talk. And talking was doing the opposite of settling my nerves. Less talking, more doing.

I locked my eyes with his. I could make out the almond shape, but not the color. I remembered them being a sea ocean blue, unlike my ordinary brown. His short dark hair and lightly-tanned complexion resembled mine. But it wasn't his physical features that had once drawn me to him. Watching him feed hungry woodland creatures was what first fascinated me. What man, after an ecological disaster, thought about anything other than himself or his loved ones, let alone the survival of a pestering raccoon or pigeon?

"Luke?" he called. Too bad I couldn't remember his name. He scratched the stubble under his chin. "Um― well." Tossing his hand up, he said, "Where are we going?"

Was he serious? "I'm getting the hell out of here. That's all I know. You can go wherever you want."

"Wha― I can't make it out here alone. I've tried." His eyes widened into large round orbs. "You let us out just to leave us to die out here?"

I glared. "I was doing you a favor."

"Thanks," he said dryly.

"You could've stayed if you thought that was best for you," I pointed out, pushing my way past thick leafy branches and following the footsteps ahead of me. What was he expecting, a map and a detailed plan for all of them? Hell, I didn't have a plan for myself. The results of spontaneity. All I knew, if I'd stayed another night, Santos would have had a field day with me and my knife, or his favorite hunting tool, his bow and arrow. And what was the point in leaving those poor guys caged and freezing all night?

"Well, now I think we would've been better off staying," the man said.

In front of me, one of the three prisoners, the one with a raggedy soiled shirt and a distinct odor, stepped closer. "What d'ya mean, man?"

"Name's Aiden." My helper moved forward, closing the gap between us and the shabby man. "I mean, what the hell are we gonna do out here? No food, no place to rest or hide. No nothing."