By the time Simon reached it, the mech was all but unrecognizable amid the debris. Orange-yellow fields still burned with ferocity. Smoke billowed from the crops around him. Stray flames danced in the wind, birthing more flames as they landed.
The boy fought through it. When he got close, he saw just another crippled doll. Its head was ripped from the body, resting by its mangled legs. Its torso was battered and metal was torn. Wires jutted out of the casing, their ends frayed and sparks crackling from the exposed strands. Simon approached the cockpit’s ejection port and his eyes widened.
It too was battered, as he expected. The rusty, seamless exterior now bore the scars of the fall. Dents covered the surface of the almost-rectangular case. But… if that was the case… Then how was he planning on getting the pilot outside? The access door had fused, and he was unable to force it open.
Wait….
Simon dug into his pockets a second time to retrieve another tool, this one from gardening. It was overlaid with silver and similar to a Swiss army knife, although the tip was sawed off. When pressure was applied, a flame burst to life.
When lit, it would explode within five seconds.
He threw it at the cockpit and ducked for cover.
A ping vibrated in his ears and the front of the cockpit exploded into the burning fields. Simon ran towards the now-open cockpit. Inside, sirens blared and the front was smeared with blood.
The pilot, unconscious.
“Cynthia…” Simon murmured when he tried to crawl inside the cramped space, but—
“Freeze!” a voice yelled behind him.
Simon froze and put his hands up high. What else could he do? A shadow appeared in the corner of his vision, clearly a soldier. Simon gritted his teeth. If he called for reinforcements…
“Hold on for just a little longer, why don’t you?” he whispered to the newcomer. The soldier said something into his radio, and Simon slowly reached down for whatever he could get his hands on.
As it turned out, it was a rock. Lucky.
The man turned, and the boy was gone. The next second, he appeared behind the man, smashing the rock onto his head.
The soldier swerved toward him, weapon raised high, and then he collapsed, unconscious.
Simon was running back to the cockpit before the dust even settled.
Don’t worry, he would tell her. Don’t worry.
Chapter V
Run
Cynthia awoke to a deafening noise. Her surroundings blurred, a mosaic of colors swirled around her. Sparks of electricity, flashes of white-hot fire erupting. Only then did her vision clear to reveal a shadow looming. What was this shadow? An ally, or an enemy? Whatever the case, she had to get out. She tried to reach out to the shadow, but to no avail. Her legs wouldn’t move; they were pinned under the console.
Please, she struggled under the weight. “Help….” Her voice sounded hoarse, uneven in her ears. If someone didn’t find her now….
She grimaced when the panel broke free. Blood seeped from her, pooling around the seat. Her strength was waning. She glanced back at the shadow, but it was gone. She rested her head and drifted into a fitful, nightmarish sleep.
A scorching heat awoke her. For a moment she lay there, sweeping her gaze around the ruined cockpit, and it hit her. The putrid smell of burning flesh. Instinctively, she jumped, hitting her head on the seat in the process. In the burning smoke, she could make out the shadow once more. A hand reached out to her through the haze and someone said, “Don’t worry, I’m here now. Don’t worry.”
Cynthia didn’t believe it for an instant. Not after what had happened. But what choice did she have?
She shook her head and looked at her injuries. The panel was exposed to the flames now, bluish-white electricity jumping through the electronics. She grabbed the outstretched hand.
Freed from the cockpit, the wind bit at her, its frigidness overwhelming. The earth was barren, pummeled from waves of bombardments. Beyond, the once flourishing fields were charred. Behind, the destroyed machine was smoldering, electricity arcing through the air. Liquid streamed down the frame, coalescing at the bottom to form a small pool.
She looked up, but saw only clouds. Surprisingly, there were no battle sounds. No enemy mechs, and no troops. Everything was quiet.
Except for the person before her. She could see him, crouched down, saying, “You’re alive… you’re alive. Thank you… thank you.”
She crawled to him, her face white, the wound spiking pain into her body with each raspy breath. “Simon.” He seemed bewildered. “Simon,” she repeated his name.
“Simon, come on.” She was desperate now. “Snap out of it!” she yelled at him, throwing a stray rock. It hit dead center, and he flinched and cried out. His eyes focused, and he spoke.
“Sorry…” He rubbed at the back of his head sheepishly.
“It’s fine,” Cynthia told him. “It’s fine.” She hugged him. For a moment, they lay there, the machine burning behind them, illuminating the night sky. The tears fell then, dampening her face.
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Simon murmured, pulling away. He stood and offered his hand. “See, you can stand!” He smiled.
Cynthia nodded. Then her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the ground once again. She cried out, writhing in pain.
Simon tried to carry her, but lost his grip, accidently dropping her back to the ground.
He was shaking, and looking to the north. She followed his gaze. Patches of clouds had dissipated, revealing specks of light approaching.
“Come on,” he tugged at her sleeve out of habit, “we have to–”
It hit. An immense explosion that blasted them high into the air. Shrapnel dug into their skin. They landed hard, the force of the impact shattering bones. The robot gave way, collapsing to the pummeled hill. Shockwaves rippled, rupturing the ground.
But by then, they were already unconscious.
Black. The absence of color. It swirled around the corners, sneaking into the center. The darkness had arrived to fetch them. It had them in its grasp. Hands reached out, trapping them. They tried to scream, but their voices never came.
Laughter. It filled the void. At first, a child’s. It was insane, shrill. It stuck in their minds, locked into place. Eternally.
Time. It stood still in this plane, this reality. Not a single piece came undone. Only the laughter shook it. Then the screaming. It faded, and sprang back up.
It all disappeared in a blink of the eye.
The sound of rushing liquid. Constant dripping from above. A myriad of hues colliding to form an image. Cries pierced the air.
She awoke in a rush of adrenaline. At first, there was nothing, just the gray sky. Then the feeling reached her—fear. Where was he? Cynthia rolled on her side, wincing at her injuries. Beyond the burning grass, sprawled out amid debris, was Simon. She beamed.
She set out to crawl toward the rubble. It was an ordeal, but finally, she was there.
“Simon.” She shook him. He was face-down in the dirt. Dust covered his body head-to-toe. Bluish-purple bruises stippled his lower back. “Simon.” She shook him again, rolling him over. He looked frail. His usually cheerful expression had vanished; what replaced it was gaunt, ghoulish. Cynthia checked his pulse—nothing. She checked it again, and a third time. Nothing. She sat back.
Please, no…
She started crying.
Not…not him too. Anything but—
She heard something—the nearly imperceptible sound of incoming spacecraft.
She looked up. The specks had grown to the size of a cargo plane. They were camouflaged when they touched down, the land warping around them. The landing ramps hissed open, and people poured from them.
When she saw the troops, her mind blanked. It stopped grieving, or planning an escape. All she saw was them, closing in on their position. Even if they didn’t spot them right away, she knew what would happen. They would find them, and capture them, and… who knew what el
se.
The arrivals spread out, circling the crash site. She could hear someone shouting orders. A few split off and began patrolling the perimeter.
They’ll find us. Cynthia looked at Simon. She placed her hands behind his head, and leaned close. “I’m sorry.” She started shaking. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m–”
A squeeze. Another. She sat up to see the dead had revived. Shocked, she scrambled away from him. His eyes flicked open, and he sat up. He scanned the area, and asked, “What… happened?”
The question brought her out of her shock, and she rubbed at her eyes.
“Huh?” He tried to move to her, but his body protested, stopping him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied. The rims of her eyes were pink. “It’s nothing.”
He stared at her, waiting. She waved it away; there was nothing to be worried about. Cynthia glanced back—the invaders were gone. They were camouflaged, indiscernible from the background. Then she heard them.
Footsteps. The trampling of grass, small crunch of pebbles. She worked out their distance; they’d be on them within minutes. She crawled over to Simon, and whispered, “Can you stand?”
“What’s this all about—”
“Can you stand?” she repeated, pushing him up. She wouldn’t let him protest now, not when they were this close to leaving.
Simon nodded, and stood, although unsteadily. He took a couple of steps, and then another, and another. When he reached her, he stopped. Then he heard it too. More rustling, the sound of boots. They were nearly on top of them.
“Ready?” he asked, crouching down to her.
“Yes.”
“All right then.” He turned and gestured to his back. “Get on.”
“Piggyback?” she questioned, but wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
“Good?” he asked, grabbing hold of her legs.
“Yeah.”
Simon leaned forward and started to walk. His legs wobbled under the weight, but held steady. When they moved off, the rustling stopped. The only sound was the crackling of flames. For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing else. Until they heard the shout.
“Run!” Cynthia yelled.
Bullets streaked past as Simon tripped on loose stones and sinkholes. Cynthia held on, her head bobbing when he stumbled. She heard the men closing in on them, cornering them. Occasionally, she would point out a path. An untouched patch of field, or an irrigation ditch. When they reached a clearing, the pursuit stopped. She looked up at the steely skies, and, to her astonishment, saw no specks.
She leaned over to Simon. “Hey, I think we’ve lost them–-”
Gunfire erupted, raining down around them. Clouds of dust blew upwards. A torrent of plasma surrounded them. There was no escape, they tried to dodge, which was nigh impossible. A scattering of bolts hit their targets, frying their upper bodies. All Cynthia could do was hang on for dear life.
Please, Simon. Cynthia clung to him, as he tried to evade the onslaught. Run.
Cobble. On this he was more prone to trip, and nearly took Cynthia down with him. The lines between the gray and salt-pepper cobbles melded as they evaded rogue shots from the hidden aircraft hovering over them. Every once in a while, the barrage stopped, only to begin when they found another path. It was a game of cat and mouse. Perhaps they were reloading. There was any number of possibilities. Maybe she was wrong.
Cynthia continued to watch the cobbles blurring beneath them.
The path ended. It took Simon off guard and he tripped, throwing Cynthia up and over his head. She crashed violently to the ground, the pain of her injuries erupting into nauseating agony. Her vision blurred, and everything dissolved into a jumble of light.
“Cynthia.” A disconnected voice, like that of one underwater. “Cynthia!”
Her eyes opened. She gasped for air. She could feel her hands, sticky with blood, and she looked down toward her legs. They were somewhat flattened, and blood trickled from them. How much had she lost since the crash? Her skin was a sickly pale, the liquid blinding in comparison.
“Cynthia…” The voice was hoarse. Cynthia shifted her gaze to the side. He was next to her, cross-legged on the stones. Minor scratches blemished his face.
She looked up warily. The steel melted into copper, shafts of moonlight peeking through the barrier. The milky light wavered when it illuminated the cobbles, washing them in its glow. There was no fire to be seen.
Cynthia propped herself up on her shoulder, which immediately protested. The newer scratches had almost scabbed over, but some were still seeping when they came in contact with the rough surface.
“You’re awake,” Simon helped her sit up. A simple enough sentence, but…
How long had she been out?
“Where–-”
“I don’t know. It must have decided we’re not targets anymore.” He smiled.
“Maybe so,” Cynthia replied. Maybe so. But why would they leave us so suddenly? Why…?
She looked past Simon, and her heart dropped. Eight spacecraft were descending, their blue thrusters glowing. The newcomers touched down on the remains of a storehouse. The engines shrieked as they spun down.
Within moments, one of the craft exploded, setting off a chain reaction with the other ships, detonating them one by one. One avoided the accident, only to crash head-on into the remains of a barn. It collapsed, leaving the ship coated in detritus.
Flying shrapnel from the first ships rained down on it, hitting it from all directions. In short order, it ignited as well. One, protected by its remaining shield, wore off the flames, while another melted from the fire. The last craft helplessly fluttered from its partner, landing in the field behind the destroyed barn.
Meanwhile, Simon helped Cynthia stand, their arms intertwined for support. They took a few tentative steps, which were successful. She quickened her pace, pushing him to keep up.
“The sooner we reach that ship,” she said, limping along, “the sooner we’re off of Arcadia.”
“I can agree with that,” Simon replied, helping her. “But what will we do then?”
She didn’t reply.
As they neared the ship that had managed to land, her pace quickened even more.
“Wait,” Simon warned her. “You can’t—”
She collapsed, gasping for air. Simon followed her down. They fell to the scorched soil, writhing in pain. Blood mixed with dust in macabre streaks on their bodies. She looked at Simon. His body was checkered with bruises. The pain in her legs flared. A blinding light wrapped around her. Her screams sounded far away, like an echo.
Her vision failed her, veiling the world in darkness.
The soft touch of air whistling by. A blanket stretched out on the grass. High up in the clouds, twinkling stars peeked through the trees. A cold breeze rustled the branches, shaking off a handful of leaves. They scattered down on the blanket.
A dream.
“We’ll make it. We’ll make it.” Clothes soaked with crimson. The barely discernable scent of earth. The shakiness in his voice.
It all floated aimlessly in her mind. A murky memory. Another dream. One far, far away.
The sky cracked, shattering into smithereens.
Running. The clumsy, uneven footsteps of a child trailing a butterfly. A slow, methodic walk behind it. Walking along the clear crystal stream filled with pebbles. The scent of pine wafting.
She turned back, waving.
“Wait for us, Alex!” a voice cried. Her mother. Long, red hair tied back with a bow.
Her father lagged behind them both; he was the one carrying the supplies. A picnic, they called it.
Cynthia turned forward, looking for loose rocks stuck near the banks. She snatched one up and chucked it into the water. Then another, and another. Soon, the river was full of craggy, muddied stones.
When they arrived at the source of the stream, her parents spread a quilt on the grass. Her father placed the basket in the center, and the trio sat
down.
“Cheers!” her mother cried, opening the basket, spilling its contents. Tomato sandwiches, a myriad of fruits, and countless other foods poured over the quilt, splotching it with juice and sauce. Cynthia laughed as her parents searched for and bit into their food. Her mother plucked a sandwich from the pile and passed it over. “Here,” she said. “Have a bite.”
Cynthia sank her teeth into the damp sandwich. It was delicious. She grinned when her parents spilled their drinks from laughter. Indeed, the quilt would be ruined today.
The birds sang. Their songs rang throughout the forest like a concert. The trees added to the melody with their own harmonies. After a while, when the birds created another song. And another. Soon, the birdsong was unrecognizable and discordant.
Sunlight reflected off the stream, illuminating the stones. The collection swam like fish. Pebbles gleamed in the sun. Clods of earth dissolved, clouding the water.
Cynthia.
“What’s that?” she asked, tugging at her mother’s sleeve. The sky was graying ahead of a storm. She looked at it for only a moment. When she turned to them, they had disappeared. “Mom?” Cynthia called.
The sky darkened further, shadowing the forest in an eerie darkness. The birdsong had ceased. The stream babbled. She turned again. “Dad?”
Cynthia.
The sky blurred and smeared—a second reality emerged.
Boxes. Dozens of them, stacked around her. Dim light. Her hands were sticky with dried blood. It glowed in the near-darkness. Nearby she saw him, hovering in a gap in the steel, holding vigil.
She struggled to lean against the containers, her eyelids drooping. The cargo hold she found herself in was frigid, her breath fogging the air. Her skin was pasty and sallow. Maybe she would die here, only to be found as a frozen corpse.
No, she thought, following Simon’s trail. It wouldn’t end that way. Not now. Not…
She vainly reached out for him. “Wait….” Her voice was hollow; was she really going to die here? She reached for him again. “Wait….”
By the time her pleas wound themselves through the room, he was there. She saw him round one of the larger stacks, running to her. His footsteps reverberated through the bay.
Hope in Paradise Page 4
