The Race to Freedom

Uzimati 3

A shout. That's what he heard first during the fast sprint down the hill, the hunt for... He knew this place better than any other. It was his home.

The visible patches of grass and shrubbery were different, the trees were in odd places to what he had remembered and seem to have taken over the expanse of brushed away area that had been irrigated and set up for their huts by the Originals. But the shape of the valley, the feel of the wind on his cheeks and the sensation of being drawn to his birth place had sent his mind into a frenzy. He looked from side to side, the trees enveloping him, but he knew where to go, purely from instinct. That was when the raucous shout lit up like a beacon of bludgeons upon him. 

But he didn't care, or even notice it. He was whistling a high-pitched tune that mimicked a blue tit bird song, hoping for the casual and similar response of delight. There was nothing, however. Nothing but the familiar bland breeze and emptiness. He slowed down, aware of the human dangers out there. He was far too concerned to see the shape of something grey poking out from between the leaves. Rustling through the bushes, he emerged to see a gigantic grey and white structure. 

It would have startled him more had he not already become accustomed to new and ridiculous things. But this thing, whatever it was, stood 20 metres high and 50 metres wide. It was directly upon the land he had grown upon, and this overwhelming domination of something so ugly and bland twisted his insides into what was close to rage. 

He heard the snap of a bush and turned. He saw two adolescent men staring at him, one black and the colour of the night. The other was a super skinny pale-skin with strikingly dark blue eyes.

The skinny man spoke to him in a language that he did not understand. They looked scared, confused, more than anything. But Uzimati sensed something seriously odd about them.

And then it overwhelmed him.