I don’t know where you are, but where I am … It’s dangerous.
The scent of death looms in the air like a heavy incense; all the while the clicking of my gun keeps in time with my feet, which are slowly padding across the ground. The ruins of my culture hang from the ceilings as my sanity seers through its last threads – the intangible object that pulls me towards the knowing of right and wrong, decomposing.
I look around, and I appear to be in some kind of shop. The windows are completely shattered, the door just intact, but almost off its hinges, the counter as black as charcoal from an earlier explosion; ice slathered across anything that there is. The light flickers between on and off above the numerous isles – the empty isles– and the shredded and torn layers of paint off the walls illuminate themselves to me as the light once again flicks on. Some shelves have fallen over and are leaning against others, while the remainder stand bruised and beat but sturdy on the ground. I begin to search for any essential items I have run low of, climbing over a piece of the ceiling and thoroughly searching through the rubble contaminated shelves.
God knows how I got out the afternoon that it all started –I was greeting luck with my most tempting face. The fact that I don’t know where I am plagues my mind, and the thought of exposing myself ... loneliness is already driving me up the walls– all I want is to see another human; someone who is not infected, but someone who is also fighting for their life. I have to admit, I had never been taught survival skills, but they seemed to come naturally after a little while. If I didn’t latch on to the idea of them I would be dead in not even a heartbeat.The wilderness is unforgiving, but not much like what you see in the movies. It's different. Weird, almost, knowing you have to rely on yourself non-stop. Only being 16 myself I haven't had the time to outgrow that naive, childish sense in which you know someone will always be there and that you'll always be looked after - cared for. Having little exposure to self dependency had manipulated my choices in the beginning, but not now. Not when there is no other choice. The adjustment was hard and grueling - get up, hunt, find a reliable water source, walk a few miles, rest, keep on walking. Everyday, for who knows how long.
I rush through the isles, debating whether to leave this place or not. It was the only shelter in miles – but it was sure to attract attention if any thing came. I have another days journey at least to the edge of the forest. I continue to run along the icy ground towards a large ray of light coming from the wall, careful not to slip. I’ve arrived at a large window, still intact, but even then barely. I peer through the foggy glass and scan my surroundings. Empty; always a good sign. I turn around and begin scavenging on the only shelf where there seems to be food. There’s canned vegetables, canned fruit, spam … mouldy stuff …But that’s about it. I sigh inaudibly and swing my bag off my back so I can fill it with goods. I stuff whatever isn’t mouldy in to my bag as swiftly as possible, eager to get this place far behind my back. I must keep moving.
Stepping around the thick concrete slabs, I make my way back to the north face of the building. Something rustles the leaves to my left, but shortly after a small animal emerges, confirming my suspicions. I step as quietly as I can across the snow. It’s been a cold winter – colder than usual. It reminds me of home.
My family were well off, but not enough to get the tickets. See, if you had the money, there was this … this place you could go for safety. An asylum, you might say. The government had built this asylum – PA/72 - in order to protect those who were most valuable to the country. In the end, though, they just sold tickets for the remaining spaces. I had heard my parents arguing about it. They couldn’t afford it, yet they wanted to keep me safe. What was there to do? They sent me to here – somewhere to the North. Somewhere cold and brutal. A place that was so polar opposite to the environment I was used to living in that I didn’t know what to do apart from find a place that could shield me from the harsh weather. That’s how I ended up here, I guess. They gave me a letter before they sent me, so they didn’t have to say goodbye. They left, knowing they were going to die, or become infected. I could see the pain in my mother's face when she spoke to me the night before.
...
"Sweetie, promise your Dad and I you'll stay safe," my mother said, frowning as her tears added a sparkling effect to her eyes. My body had already gone numb. My father grabbed my hand and slipped a letter in to my palm, his eyes expressing whatever words he had left, silently. We look in to each others eyes for a few moments. We both knew how this was going to end. I nod curtly towards my mothers limp figure.
"Go to bed now honey," whispered my mother finally. She sat on the leather couch, legs crossed and back rigid, eye contact too painful to make. My father stared at me intently, body motionless. I hesitated before slowly spinning around.
My feet padding across the floor was the only sound made in that room. Later that night I could hear my mothers screams as my father tore her away from the house, careful to leave no trace behind. I listened as she wailed to her child in hope of a bright future. Maybe, maybe she'll just have a chance at creating a future. Anything but what she was about to suffer.
I was too frightened to move.
...
It’s a struggle, yes. Well, I’ve managed so far.
A footstep. The sound rings through my thought filled head, breaking me from my concentration. I know that sound - it's definitely not an animal. The heavy crunch of the leaves rattles around my brain. I listen as another footstep echoes through the trees towards me. My breathing becomes heavy and I drop my backpack, ready to run. Supplies aren't in comparison to my life. I can always hunt and streams are never too far from anyone in the woods. My hands subconciously hovers over my gun, which weighs heavily on my side. My heart pounds and I feel the heat seeping from my body in to my clothes.
I spin around, swinging my small hand held gun towards the sound, quick but not quick enough. I can already hear the safety clicking off of the gun. The shot is only obliged to follow. I knewI should never have come here.
...
"Is she ready?" Questions one of the gun-men, curious as to what this small girl could possibly do. The girls body lays motionless on the blanket of snow, her small gun stripped from her. The bullet drills a small hole in her calf, blood leeching out of the small wound. One of the men from a pack of five runs over and retrieves the small backpack that was thrown in to the trees only seconds before. All look at the girl. The wound is healing already, but none notice. A fresh catch supplies enough satisfaction for the cockey bunch. A largely built man nods his head and looks up above the trees and in to the sky, signaling a humble but menacing aircraft hanging just above the tips of the tallest pine to send down a ladder. His mouth opens and his gruff voice shouts, barely audible over the roaring of the aircrafts engine.
"Take her home, boys!"
*************************
OK, so this is purely a Writer 1 work. It is a paranormal/science fiction story, potentially a romance, but just wanted to tell you guys that this is the first chapter and I desperately need some reviews on it. If you could comment what you think that'd be great, and I'll make sure I'll fan anyone who does. This is an idea, but if you want me to continue it I will - no comments, no more chapters.
YOU ARE READING
A/04 - The Beginning
Teen Fiction- Is there really any control, if even our thoughts are being monitored? Jane, among others, is stolen and tested by a team of scientists to study human behaviour for those who aren't of the race themselves. A story of those who survived the apocaly...
