Hope in Paradise

by Elizabeth Kirby

  Soon, he heard footsteps. Quick, urgent. When they reached the ditch, he tensed. By the time they left, he was already on his feet, once again running down the hill.

  That’s when it happened.

  Another shot, this time hitting him in the arm. He fell, crashing to the soil. He rolled over and over. Detritus barely slowed his descent and scratched any exposed skin. Over the passing seconds, he felt himself spinning, on the verge of passing out. When he glanced down, he saw something.

  Flat land was approaching fast. He prepared himself for the impact, raising his arms to protect his head. It didn’t help in the slightest. He hit the ground running, tripping and falling on his descent. He scrambled forward, only to stop as he saw an apparition:

  A shadow.

  It wavered as it approached, like a phantom. He saw the tree line behind it, and he wondered, I won’t make it this time, will I?

  He smiled, and then listened. The crackling of flames erupting behind him, the sound of machinery whirling, a whining noise, like overheating. He smiled until he could see the person before him. He could almost hear the words she was saying. It was as though under water. Muffled, but clear.

  “Traitor,” she seethed. He could already see her pulling her weapon from her holster. He wondered if this would be the end for him, lying in the dirt, waiting.

  She raised the gun and fired.

  The bullet tore through his skin, burying itself in his abdomen. He cried out in pain, gasping for breath. The fierce pain overtook his body. For a few moments, he thought he would pass out. Red clouded his eyes. It was replaced by an unending dark.

  When he awoke, he felt as if he was on fire. His stomach burned, and so did his shoulder. All he could see was the darkened sky. When he tilted his head, pain shot through his brain.

  The valley was charred to a crisp. Mechs on either side were sprawled out along the ground, most missing limb parts, jumbled cords ripped right out of their sockets. He saw several cockpits mangled or twisted beyond recognition, fluid seeping out of them. Others lay buried under massive amounts of rubble, crushed under immense weight.

  Someone… someone must have survived this… right? he thought to himself, taking in the scene. He’d managed to roll onto his stomach, sending waves of nauseating pain everywhere. He gritted his teeth, pushing himself through the gravel.

  When he reached the shredded machines, he stopped and surveyed the area. Was she really here, among all of these Rangers? Or had she stayed behind? He couldn’t see beyond the veil of fire circling him. If so, where was she? Where…?

  He saw it, beyond the veil. A scrap of metal, joints leaking and shredded from their body.

  Genesis.

  At first, he smiled at this discovery. Then he grimaced, preparing himself. He still had a long way to go through the smoke.

  His destination was farther away than he’d thought. Before the veil of smoke, Simon thought he had a chance. After all, it wasn’t that far. Now that he was in the midst of it, his chances diminished significantly. Inside, it was murky, impregnable, devoid of light. His lungs filled with it, breathing in toxins that he couldn’t cough out.

  I must… get out… of here. He crawled faster.

  Once out of the smoke, the mech was clearly visible. It was kneeling, in a sense, even though most of its limbs were useless, hanging on by wires. The torso had collapsed on its legs. The mech looked folded in on itself. Simon vaguely noticed that the color was different.

  It was daunting, to say the least. How would he get inside now? There wasn’t any way to climb Genesis; no cable, no handholds, nothing. How…?

  Simon squinted; there was something blinking on the side. Was it his imagination? No… there was… something.

  A flash of light blinded him. He shielded his eyes. When he looked again, he was astounded.

  A hole.

  That’s what it was at first. Then it morphed, at least in his eyes. The hole in the ground lifted, a black landing pad rising. It hung in the air, weightless. It must have once been part of the machine itself. He hadn’t designed this, in fact, he hadn’t even been prepared for this. He had to commend the engineers who worked on it, even after what they had done to obtain it.

  He stood, however shakily. Then landed back down onto the earth, warily. His wounds throbbed. Hesitantly, he looked down. His abdomen had become distorted, a purplish mass. His shoulder wasn’t any better.

  More pain flared up; his past injuries had come back to haunt him.

  This wouldn’t be easy.

  He crawled determinedly toward the floating platform. He could dimly hear screeching above. Did it signal the planes’ return? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. The ground beneath him had somehow loosened from the charring; he sank as he went along, like quicksand. His body had worked itself below the soil. Frantically, he struggled to keep himself afloat. It only made his journey harder.

  By the time he had reached the platform, he was buried waist-deep in the burned soil. He grabbed the edge to haul himself up. As soon as he touched it, it started upwards. Startled, Simon gripped tighter. His body was being forcefully lifted, and soon, he was free of the grip of the land.

  He swung himself up and over, gasping for breath when he landed, hitting the edge. Crimson stained the ashen material. Simon tilted his head, watching the ever-shrinking mechs. He could see over the ridge and the whole of the valley. The floor was filled with the same travesties as those he had seen: robots thrown around like ragdolls, some dug into the rock, others damaged beyond repair. There were twinkling lights in the distance.

  Simon looked up and saw that the cockpit was close. The visor was discolored from its original aquamarine. Perhaps it was repainted as well? Who knew. Though, thankfully, it was still intact. Hopefully, she was inside. Alive. Otherwise….

  Perhaps he shouldn’t dwell too much on that possibility.

  He felt a jolt, the platform screeching to a halt. He was thrown over the slab, his hand painfully clutching the edge. His fingers felt tired, overused. One after the other slipped from the corner. At this height….

  Desperately, he groped for the edge of the platform with his right hand. It slipped once. Twice. His last finger was slipping. Three times. Nothing.

  He fell.

  Time moved slowly. The air brushed his face, making his eyes water. He looked up; the corner was receding. His hair blew upwards. For the last time in his life, he was frightened.

  Then came another surprise.

  He lived. His right hand stretched out toward the corner, his fingers brushing the edge. He caught it, his entire body swaying with the effort. Once his hand had a grip on the platform, he pushed himself up, his elbows hitting the floor.

  Simon crawled onto it, and the last of his strength drained. His vision blurred when another movement caught his eye. A blinking green dot. He smiled wearily.

  The cockpit.

  Initially, as the world swirled, so did his depth perception. When he grasped around in front of him, he only felt steel. He frowned. This should’ve been the visor. Following the wall, his worry deepened. Where was the outline?

  He rounded a corner, leaning against the lower part for support. He passed a second corner and felt along the next wall. His hands finally felt an indentation. When he reached the center, the steel shifted to the side, revealing a scanning mechanism. Simon placed his hand on the scanner. He heard the whirling of the interior gears turning, and a successful chime when it finished. He removed his hand when the visor opened, and the cockpit’s entrance slid back.

  Red light flooded the interior. A slumped shadow occupied the seat. Simon pulled himself up and over the lip of the cockpit, landing ungracefully next to the seat.

  Red hair frayed to the side. Dark puncture marks on her arms. The steering had released and retracted already, thankfully. How long had she been piloting before this?

  He wiped away some stray hairs, and his hand came back a shade darker. He shivered. Why was he cold? He slumped, a blurry r
eflection staring back at him.

  Red eyes.

  As he fell into the dark, he heard something faint. Sirens.

  The bombs were away.

  Chapter XVII

  Infirmary

  In one moment, it was over.

  The next, she was left crippled.

  Her legs were torn apart, arms ripped from their sockets. Head wrung and spat out. Her cockpit held, miraculously. Warnings blared in her ears, her head flung toward the dashboard. It hit with a crack, and blood ran from her forehead.

  She was out like a light.

  The rolling of wheels, a numbness. Deliriousness. Her head, a heavy weight now, lolled to the side. There was a breathing mask on her face, her breath fogging the top. Dimly, she could hear shouting.

  “—get her in there!”

  “We can’t! There’s—”

  A sharp bump of the wheels. The breathing mask slid to the side, and her eyes spotted her body. They momentarily focused, and widened.

  She screamed.

  A ghoulish portrait. Crimson splattered over her suit. Gashes along the length of her body through the tattered clothing. Excruciating pain seared her. There were blemishes scattered over her stomach. Blackened marks ran down her legs.

  Her legs. She couldn’t feel them.

  Cynthia thrashed towards the doctors leaning over her. Shocked, they screeched to a stop, and so did the stretcher. She rolled off of it, her blood staining the floor. She was breathing hard from exertion.

  They gazed down at her, speechless.

  She crawled from the stretcher, beginning to falter from weakness and agony. Only when the blood crept closer to them did the doctors snap out of their confusion. One righted the stretcher while another lifted her and carelessly dropped her back onto it. She coughed blood.

  More gases filled her lungs, forcing her back into a restless slumber.

  Apples. They dropped to the foot of the tree during the harvest season, picked up only by a few fortunate animals before the humans arrived. She watched them closely, listening. Birds sang from the branches, and furred scoundrels peeked at her, deciding whether to steal one of the scrumptious fruits. The squirrel scurried by the juicy apple, darted past the crouched girl, and snatched the juicy apple from the grass.

  She smiled at the creature.

  Gazing back at the swaying fields beyond the orchard, she jumped to her feet…

  …and felt herself falling. Falling in darkness, a pitch-black hole. A heart.

  Her hand caught something. She tentatively looked up and saw a branch.

  A daydream?

  She shook her head from the nightmare. She dropped down from the tree to the ground.

  A battlefield.

  She frantically searched for cover. She ran to a pile of rubble, hiding behind a broken wall. She looked to her right and found someone next to her, lying face down.

  “Hey.” She shook him.

  Nothing.

  “What’s going on?” She shook him again, harder. Finally, she flipped him over. A damaged body, a burned corpse.

  Simon.

  The smell of disinfectant hit her first. Then the noises. Her vision returned last, collecting blurred images into recognizable shapes. Machinery hummed in her ear, just like the sirens had. She momentarily awoke from, her eyes glinting in the light.

  Another nightmare?

  Cynthia lifted her head, wincing in pain. Her grisly wounds were cleaned and dressed with bandages. Instead of her suit, a flimsy white gown clothed her. A mirror reflected her on the opposite wall.

  Long, disheveled red hair. Bloodshot eyes. Shadowed rims around them. A ghostly, gaunt complexion. Emerald irises.

  She closed her eyes contentedly; everything was safe.

  One, two, three…

  A ringing. Cynthia opened her eyes. In the mirror was a crooked reflection. Black ovals, inhuman smile, frighteningly stark expression. A monstrosity.

  She shut her eyes.

  One, two, three, four…

  The humming returned.

  She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of the room.

  A mocking melody filled her ears, wiggling itself into her head. A nursery rhyme. A chorus.

  Stop, stop… Cynthia looked at the mirror for a fourth time. Crimson. Stop… stop!

  The song ceased, but the voices lingered. They came in at her, their words slurred, articulation not quite right, like a child’s. They drowned out her thoughts, cramming themselves in.

  She pushed her hands against her ears. Get out, leave! Go away!

  But they didn’t hear her pleas; in fact, their words quickened.

  “Leave, leave, leave!” she cried. She struggled against the pain, trying in vain to sit up. Cuffs trapped her wrists.

  Her door burst open, revealing a nurse. She rushed over to the machinery, checking vitals. She turned to her patient. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re still here…” Cynthia whispered.

  The nurse scanned the room. “Who? There isn’t anyone here.”

  “They’re still…” Cynthia repeated, her wrists scraping against the cuffs. She looked at them. “The cuffs…”

  The nurse shifted her gaze towards the restraints. “What cuffs, Miss?” She leaned closer towards her wrists. “My, your wrists are rubbed raw. What happened? I’ll get some salve,” she said.

  Whirl of medical equipment. Squeezing of tubes. She leaned back in her bed, both emotionally and physically drained. Her eyes closed.

  “Miss, I have….”

  The lingerers had disappeared. Only the nurse’s voice remained when she slipped back into the darkness.

  A renewed wave of pain shocked her awake. A harsh light blinded her.

  A new nurse was there, watching her.

  “What… happened? How long…?” Her words slurred, like she was still asleep.

  “Oh, you’re finally awake,” the nurse said, bringing up a chart and scribbling on it. When she finished, she continued. “We thought you would never wake up—” The nurse clamped her mouth shut.

  “Never… wake up? What do you mean?” Cynthia tried to push herself up. “Tell me—” The nurse’s expression became grim. Cynthia saw her wring her hands. “You were the first to wake up.”

  Cynthia tried to produce a smile despite the sense of dread following the sudden silence of the nurse.

  “You’ll get the report tomorrow, but…” she trailed off, strands of black hair falling in front of her eyes. Her name tag read Clemet. Brown eyes looked away.

  Cynthia began to stare at her. “But what?”

  She didn’t speak.

  “But what?” she repeated. The silence was suffocating. “When can I see everyone else? You said I was the first to wake up—”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t—”

  “Please!”

  Five.

  Tears fell. She sniffled and wiped at them with her sleeve, but they fell nonetheless. They blurred her vision.

  Clemet stayed silent, checking her vitals.

  “I’m fine, Ms. Clemet—”

  “Autumn is fine,” Clemet interrupted, replacing one bag of clear liquid with another. “Besides, you are definitely not fine. You’re in constant pain, and your heart—”

  “I’m fine,” Cynthia whispered. I’m fine. Everything is all right. Nothing is amiss. Nothing.

  A throbbing. It began at the edges, and closed in. It wormed its way inside, slinking in the blind spots of her mind. Something’s wrong.

  “Well,” Clemet announced, walking back to the door, “I’ll see you soon!”

  And she was gone.

  A twinge of guilt began in her heart. A reminder. But of what? There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all.

  Tears ran down her cheeks once again.

  No, it wasn’t possible—he shouldn’t have even been there; there wasn’t any way—

  Her mind filled with possibilities.

  Not possible. An improbability. Not….

  The twinge ext
ended. The throbbing increased. Tears wetted the sheets. Her breath quickened, and she tugged at her IV. It wouldn’t budge.

  Come on… she pulled harder. Come on!

  Her hand slipped, drawing liquid from her incision. She was filled by an overwhelming sense of trepidation. There had to be other scenarios. After all, Simon was still living on Shadow, wasn’t he? That was his home, wasn’t it?

  For a long time, she gazed into the mirror. Her breathing quieted, and someone spoke.

  “He’s gone.”

  No…

  Cynthia tried to swing her legs over the bed but they wouldn’t move.

  That’s right. I damaged them in the crash.

  A knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Cynthia said weakly.

  The door opened, and in came a stout robot, its arms carrying a set of crutches. Or prosthetics. It rolled to her bed and carefully laid them down at the edge.

  “Wrap these around your legs, and they will operate automatically,” it told her, and rolled back out into the hallway. The door shut behind it, and Cynthia cautiously held the contraptions. She leaned forward, wrapped the slender coils around her legs, and waited.

  The silver prosthetics melted into her skin, and rounds of electric shocks jolted her. Within moments, the feeling in her legs was restored. She studied them intently, wiggling her toes, stretching, whatever worked.

  For a handful of minutes, she was content.

  Then the fear rebounded.

  She returned to extracting the IV.

  Hours had passed with no luck. She believed that if she was to stay in that room, the voices would return. So, she developed a plan: if Simon had foolishly saved her, she, in return, would ask for his release. If that didn’t work, she would escape and find a shuttle back to Shadow, and personally hug him. But if he was dead, then… then….

  She shook her head; there was no time for that option. Even though her symptoms would most likely reappear, she would push through them. Even if….

  Just a little more, and… Cynthia succeeded. Her fingers grabbed the IV and yanked it out, sending the medicine flying. The blood ran down her arm while she threw the tubing over the bed. She gripped a piece of fabric and wrapped it around the injection site, tying it into a knot.