Chapter One
Autumn.
Shiloh.
I lost my Mother in the first snowfall, four months after the bomb hit.
All I could hear was the echo of gunfire and my little sister screaming.
The air was icy and thin as my Mother’s grappling fingers tightened around my cold, shaky, clammy hand as we struggled to run through the snow. Our bodies leaned forward, fighting against the harsh wind that blared through the tall skeleton trees.
Occasionally Dad would glance over his shoulder. He looked as though it was actually possible to not be frightened with TNWA gaining speed behind us.
Unlike us, they were fed.
At times they’d howl just to let us know they were still on our tail. “Roach! Roach! Roach! Roach!” Those sick bastards.
A quiet whimper left my lips as Mum’s security abandoned my hand to help my sister climb over a fallen pine.
As if rehearsed a thousand times, my sister’s pink boots sunk in the snow as a single shot was fired.
Everything around me seemed to slow down as Mum’s chest rose, her back involuntarily arching with the force and pain of hot metal sinking deeper inside her brittle, thin body. Her eyes, more green than they were hazel, never left mine. It was as if she was silently crying out for me to help her. As if her eleven year old son had a clue.
The sound of the gun going off ripped through me as the echo carried on for a good minute, as if reminding me of its destruction.
She collapsed onto her knees.
Blood seeped from her open wound and thoroughly soaked her woollen coat in seconds. I stood, frozen, as she fell forward, the sudden weight made me topple backwards with her body pinning me deeper in snow.
I could feel the coldness take me. Soon I would die too.
Blood dribbled down Mum’s chin in her last few moments. Her body was shaking above me, her eyes rolling back as she came in-and-out of consciousness. I watched, shocked, as my Mother took her last breath.
Gradually, the weight of my Mother’s lifeless body lightened but still I lay half-frozen in the snow. I was having difficulty feeding my hungry lungs as they burned for oxygen, my chest rising and falling rapidly with each harsh breath.
I was half expecting to be met with the barrel of a rifle, but relief warmed me once Dad’s firm hand pulled me to my feet.
The air was thick and cold as the sun delicately rose behind me, forever hiding behind a thick blanket of grey cloud merging into the ocean. For a moment, I wrapped my scratchy woollen blanket tighter around my bare body and kept my eyes shut as I leant against the cold, wet rock. Even though I could feel the blanket dampening, and the rugged edges of rock made patterns in my skin through the wool, I didn’t want to get up – not yet anyways – but I didn’t want to fall back to sleep, either. The nightmares creep up on me like a lion stalks its prey, and I barely ever made it to six hours.
I despised how the past always made itself known, even when I tried my best to forget about it.
It was time to get up.
I exposed my malnourished pale skin to the few seagulls that perched on the toothed rocks outside of the small, remote cave, and clambered down the slippery, ragged ledge until my feet hit hard black-sand. I was surrounded by rock that never dried and was always slimy from the constant spray. Even seaweed and shells stuck to the cave’s walls. In high-tide, one rock kept me safe from being completely doused in ice-water. It’s what made my home so ideal. It’s what made it so sound.
