— He's not answering. Is that even reasonable? We've been calling him for a week.
— He'll be fine. He left on his own.
— Shame on you. He's still young. Someone could trick him, something could happen to him.
— Trick him? Zenon? — the father said it with the tone of a man hearing a joke he didn't understand. — Sounds like you don't know your own son very well.
— Then, philosopher, why won't he answer my calls?
— He left a little upset. He won't answer no matter how many times you try. I was his age once, and I did the same thing whenever I fought with my parents. We think we're fine without them, and we go looking for distractions.
— You're impossible. I'm going to his friend's mother's house to ask.
— Don't go. If he's not answering, that's the biggest proof he's fine. If he were in danger, he would've called you.
In Amazon, Zenon lay on the ground in agony.
Dust drifted around him. His hand groped blindly across the dirt until it brushed something sharp. A green syringe. He grabbed it without thinking, jammed it into his neck, pressed down.
The dizziness evaporated. The pain pulled back like a wave retreating. His chest began knitting itself together from the inside until everything settled back into place. His breathing slowed, little by little.
I'm alive.
He stood. His face changed in a single second, from something like shock to something like grief-soaked rage.
Thank it? How pathetic. I need to get out of here.
My mind and my mood are wrecked, so I have to leave.
He moved toward the bodies, searching them for clothes in better condition than his own. He stopped at one.
— Eddie. — he said, his voice hollow. — Your clothes are better than what I've got.
He stripped off his white pajamas, stained with dried blood, and pulled Eddie's clothes on instead.
— Your turn now, Haïssi.
He walked to a bare patch of ground. He picked up a large rock and sat down to dig with his hands, his torn fingers, with whatever strength he had left.
I wonder what my mother's doing right now. Probably calling me, with my father trying to stop her. He thinks he understands how young people think. But what happened here — no one could imagine it.
A hole the size of a person. He stopped, looked at it, then went to carry Haïssi over.
When he laid him inside... he looked at him.
He dropped to his knees. Then further, until his chest was pressed against Haïssi's, his face in the dirt he was supposed to be shoveling over him.
— Haïssi. — he said, in a voice that didn't sound like his own. — This isn't the death you deserved.
He cried. No warning, no attempt to hide it.
— You were the only person I could ever relax around. We were different in every way and it never mattered. You knew what you wanted, and I envied you for it without ever telling you. All those years, talking about your dream of living in Aristia. — He stopped. — And it ends with you here.
He wiped his face with the sleeve of the stained pajamas.
— But it wasn't me who killed you. They're the ones who brought things to this point. I know that. And I'm starting to know something else, too.
He took Haïssi's hand, slid the ring off gently. Looked at it — Dream — then closed his fist around it and shut his eyes. Put it on.
He raised his hand to the sky.
— I swear. That I will avenge us. Virüs, Albatross, everyone who caused this. — His voice was strangely calm for a man swearing an oath. — I'm the chosen one, but I'm a mistake. And I'm not going to try to fix it.
He lowered his hand. Wiped away what was left of his tears. Started shoveling the dirt back in.
This won't be easy. It'll be impossible. But everything that happened here was impossible too.
When he finished, he brushed off his hands and started digging through the wreckage. A weapon. A bag. A lighter. Damn it, the fire's still eating through the forest, I can't go far.
He caught sight of something big and black in the middle of a burning patch. He got closer, tried to grab it, but the flames beat his hand back every time.
Then he heard the sound.
Leaves shifting. Coming closer. Closer.
He turned.
And froze.
A massive creature stood between him and the trees. Its skin metallic, catching the firelight. Half its body warped in some way that defied explanation. Tall.
Human? No. Animal? No. What is this? Not the time for this, I need to survive first.
The creature closed the distance with slow, deliberate steps until it stood face-to-face with Zenon. No eyes — just a broad green line across the middle of its face, and four slits on each side like ears. It opened its mouth, revealing yellow, jagged teeth, extended a long tongue, and screamed directly into his face.
Zenon stumbled back a step.
Damn, this isn't the time... no — there's no time for you at all, I need to run.
He turned.
In a fraction of a second the creature was in front of him. The blow came from its massive hand into Zenon's stomach, hurling him into a tree. He hit it and fell. Blood ran from his mouth.
He looked down.
Black.
My blood is black. Am I even me. — He stopped. — It can't see. The green line, the four ears. It hears.
He gathered small stones from the ground and started throwing them one after another toward different trees. The creature turned with every sound, confused, twisting its head left and right.
A look of resolve crossed Zenon's face.
He grabbed a large rock, hurled it at the creature, and ran the opposite direction in the same instant. The creature heard his footsteps and lunged toward them, but the rock struck it from the other side. It turned.
And in that second, Zenon struck.
He clenched his fist, screamed, hit it with everything he had.
Nothing.
The blow stopped dead, like hitting a wall. It was Zenon's hand that took the pain.
The creature turned slowly. It seized his arm, aimed a sharpened finger at his stomach, but before it could drive all the way through, Zenon shoved himself forward with his legs and jammed a rock into one of its ear-slits.
It let go. Zenon staggered back.
No reason left in it. Like a predator. It would be pathetic to die to this thing.
He filled his pocket with stones. Ran at the creature screaming at the top of his lungs. Suddenly stopped, spun back the way he came, still screaming. The creature charged after him. He ducked behind a large tree and kept screaming from behind it. The creature slammed into the tree with its full weight. Then, without pausing, it tore the tree out by its roots and lifted it.
Zenon backed away. A body lay near him. The creature aimed its bladed hand.
He covered himself with the corpse. The hand swept past it, inches from his face. He hurled the body at the creature, circled behind it, grabbed it from the back with both hands.
Too heavy.
Something struck the creature in the neck — Zenon never saw where it came from. It screamed, he pulled with everything he had, hooked his foot behind its legs and tripped it, and they went down together into the fire.
He grabbed a large rock.
One blow. Straight to the head. Blood the wrong color.
Another blow.
And another.
Until everything stopped.
Zenon pulled back, gasping, leaning against a tree. He looked at his hands.
I... survived. At some point I felt its weight suddenly lighten. I don't know if that was me or something else. What matters is the fire went out when it fell. I can see that black thing now.
He got up, walked toward where the creature had fallen. Beside it he found a long, sharp black stone, reflecting his face back at him like a warped mirror.
He stood there, staring at it.
— What is this?
He reached out to take it.
But another hand reached from the other side and began examining the creature's body. Zenon lifted his head.
An old man. White medical coat, a mask, a huge bag slung over his shoulder. He didn't look at Zenon, didn't seem to register his presence at all.
Then he noticed him.
A shot. It hit Zenon in the side. Not a bullet.
A tranquilizer.
Zenon collapsed to the ground, and the last thing he saw before his eyes fell shut was the old man turning back to the creature's corpse, as if nothing had happened at all.
To be continued…