Not Like You (The Simian Forest Saga: Vol. I)

The Truce [V]

The sun had set behind thick clouds and the rain had finally ceased, the entire forest filled with the sound of calming crickets and the aroma of crackling wood. Off in the distance, the storm could be heard as it retreated, making its way away from the Oasis. Owls gently whistled and giggled, a coyote howling from far, far off, most likely way down the side of the mountain. The apes could be heard as well, calling into the night as they did ... whatever the colony did. The cuts on Krissa's face and arm were still pulsing with heat from the encounter earlier that day. She had managed to clean them as best she could and wrap up the heavier flesh-wound, leaving the cut on her cheek with a few simple band-aids. The young woman prodded the coals of her fire with her coal-stirring stick, watching as ash flew up into the air. They glowed bright tangerine and sunny yellow, the warmth resonating from the flames something comforting; it was cold, even despite the heavy sweatshirt she wore and the jogging yoga pants beneath her dad's old baggy jeans.

Her curls tumbled from beneath her hood, her free hand tucked within the conjoining pouch on the front of her sweater. Everything the light touched glistened from the afternoon's storm. Krissa's bones were pleasantly lukewarm, even despite her dip in the river after dinner. Her meal had been light, mostly made of roasted squirrel and a protein bar, as well as some hot pine needle tea... because who didn't deserve a piping-hot tin-can of leaf-water? Nestling deeper within her burgundy hoodie, she watched the fire dance and sway to an inaudible song, her tongue gracing gently out over her soft lips. So, her book was gone. Krissa would have to search for another, that is, if she could find her way safely to the town over the mountain again. It usually took her a few days to get there, but so long as she wore her darker clothing and moved quickly and quietly, she could make it without worry.

The only thing that she could think of that could become a problem was the fact that she did not know where the ape tribe resided, and didn't want to risk stumbling upon them. They would slaughter her. Krissa took a deep breath through her nose and allowed her head to lean back against the log behind her back, peering up at the canopy and the sky above. She needed to remain optimistic... that was the only way she could survive further. For now, her main concern was packing up and figuring where she would head. Pate careening, Krissa glanced off toward where her map lay upon one of the rocks, an old compass resting atop the old worn out paper pointing the way. Maybe the book wasn't something she necessarily needed, but it kept her focused and sharp, as well as reminded her of what life had been before the virus hit. Each time she remembered the virus, she felt a nervous pang within her stomach. Being alive now, even after the final spell of mutation in the disease's genetics, she was immune. There were probably only a handful left on this planet who were like herself, and if it were anything like what had happened where Krissa was, they were also under threat of the apes. Even despite the fact that there were places in these woods that she herself had not explored, there was no possible way that anybody could be within this woods other than herself... she surely would have made contact.

Shifting her weight, she rolled over onto her side and used her arm to cushion the side of her head. Her eyes shut softly and she took a deep breath of the chilly air around her. A frog croaked off by the river, its usual babbling adding to the evening's song. Krissa missed her father's old guitar. She missed how he would play so quietly and yet be able to fill the entire campsite with such wonderful music. He would play Bob Dylan, or Johnny Cash... even some America. It was something she ached to hear again. As Krissa laid there, her hazel chartreuse gaze hidden behind smooth bronze lids, she felt something stir within her throat. She began to hum a soft tune, the words bouncing around within her head. How many roads must a man walk down/ Before you call him a man? Yes, and how many seas must a white dove sail/ Before she sleeps in the sand? Her throat began to lock up and she stopped herself abruptly, waves of emotion suddenly washing over her.