Run

I was eight at the time and easily influenced. I don’t remember exactly what I had been doing, but I was alone in the middle of the road between some random houses. A lone man walked up to me. He was absolutely beaming with joy and had an aura of frightful intensity. Not a single word had left his mouth, but I was already overwhelmed.

“I’m not here to frighten you,” he spoke calmly, his voice silky smooth and softer than cotton. I was immediately comforted.

“Sorry, Mum told me I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger though, if you look deeply you’ll see we’re connected.”

“Sorry, Mum told me I shouldn’t.”

“Tell your Mum that I would love to talk to her, if she’s around.”

“Okay.”

“You have fun now. And remember, even when we’re far away we’ll be able to comfort one another through the unbreakable bond of our souls,” he smiled.

It was a short conversation, less than a minute in length, but I ran back to Mum and talked to her all night (or what felt like all night for a little kid) ‘bout this man. It was less his words, and more the way he talked. He put you at ease with nothing more than a hello and his smile. Combine that with the intense atmosphere he created and you get easily swept away by any words he puts in your head.

While growing up in my little ol’ half-town, missionaries from The Soulless would visit to spread their beliefs and ideas. Sometimes people would leave with them, sometimes they’d leave empty-handed. That had been the only time I ever spoke to one of them.

After that, Mum told me ‘bout the harm The Soulless have caused, and the people they’ve killed. She said, “Those people are strange folk, so you must stay away, else you might get sucked in by their pretty words and empty beliefs.” Being easily influenced means it also didn’t take much to make me opposed to The Soulless.

I’ve been running for days—running from The Soulless, running from the life I thought I knew. That first night, I didn’t sleep a wink; I just kept going, fueled by nothing but fear. I can’t let them catch me. The Soulless—the name alone is enough to make most kids piss their pants.

I know they sound like demons that spawned outta Hell, but they’re people just like you or I. In reality, “The Soulless” is just a nickname—their real name is the Soul Brothers, one of the biggest factions around. They formed after The Incident, creating a new religion that believes everyone who survived did so because they are connected to each other and a greater power—they’re “brothers through their souls.” Soul Brothers also believe that anyone who doesn’t agree must not be truly connected and don’t deserve to live. Obviously they’d rather convert people than kill them outright, but they still do kill a shitload of folks. In fact, they supposedly use more novacides than any other faction. And that is where they got the nickname: The Soulless.

That is also part of why I continue to run; I mean, aside from the fact that I am holding onto a potentially world-ending weapon that, in anyone’s hands, is extraordinarily dangerous. The Soulless are just that much more likely to use it to actually harm others. Normally I always abide by my contract and make the delivery, but now that the faction I was delivering to has been absolutely obliterated and definitely won’t be coming back, I got nobody I’m obligated to deliver to. I guess shouldering the very literal weight of the world is just the way it goes.

Normally this is my favorite part, getting to bike and bike and bike some more, but this time it doesn’t feel like biking. I don’t wanna run and run and run some more; I just want things to be normal.

I don’t got the time to look around and appreciate the world; I gotta keep my eyes forward. All I see is road and a endless distance that just makes me anxious ‘bout how long it’ll take to reach.

Three days down and all I got is the shittiest, most well-thought-out plan known to man—keep on biking. Safety has become foreign concept. Nowhere feels good enough to stop for the night; as long as I can still squeeze even the smallest bit of distance out of myself, I can’t stop moving.

Eventually, once it’s been dark for ‘bout who knows how long (I certainly wasn’t paying attention), I stop at an abandoned house a little bit off the road I was biking on. Somebody must have lived here since The Incident because it’s far too nice to have just been sitting here for 70 years. It feels nostalgic, even though I’ve never lived in a house like this. I can hear the echoes of a family, laughter crowding the dining room table and sweet dreams filling the bedrooms. Maybe it’s less about nostalgia and more about the fear that I won’t get to see my peeps again. I hope Mum will still be happy if I leave her behind.

I shouldn’t be thinking like that; I need to remember that, just as there’s still good in such a shitty world, there can still be hope in such a shitty situation like mine. Even though I’m running, I get to continue biking. I couldn’t ask for much more. And what if I wasn’t the one holding onto the Supernovacide? What if someone who was okay with handing it off for some cash or using it for evil purposes had it? Imagine what would happen if…nevermind, I don’t wanna imagine something so terrible. My plate already so full that it’s ‘bout to break.

I decide to leave the house and bike a couple more miles before finding another abandoned house, this one seeming like an outhouse compared to how pristine the last one was.

Another week of sleeping, biking, sleeping, biking, and my achy bones and blistering feet remind me that I can’t keep this up. I have no idea how far I’ve traveled, but this has to be far enough for now. I’ll find a town to settle into and then hide out there for a while.

A couple of days and an agonizing amount of soreness later, I finally reach a town. From the looks of it a faction must control it because it isn’t a half-town. It’s not unusual to have randos passing through towns when traveling, but the people here are giving me the strangest looks. Luckily, I’m just here to hide, not to make friends.

I find a house near the edge of town that seems to be unused and decide to make it my new home, at least for as long as I can. It’s homey, consisting of a slightly rundown kitchen, a dining room with just one chair at the table—two small bedrooms—only one of which has a mattress on the bed, and a bathroom that feels a bit more unclean than I’d like. 

Before doing anything else, I immediately search for a spot to hide Supernovacide. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and I sure as hell can’t be parading it around. The best place I find is a lower cabinet in the kitchen. Luckily, it’s tucked inside a nice little inconspicuous box, so it doesn’t draw any attention.

After all that biking, I’m sure I smell ‘bout as bad as a skunk after it’s let loose its whole spray thing, so before I do anything else, I’ll take a shower and then a nice, long bath. 

As I soak in the bath, enveloped in a little bit of comfort, I take a moment to think about what I’ll do going forward. It doesn’t take long to figure out—there’s just so little I can do with an unstoppable force chasing me. I’m stuck between a rock and a place so hard that even The Incident couldn’t break it.

The plan is to stay inside the house for the next few days. I make sure to restock food whenever I can while traveling, so I’ve got enough food to last that long. After that I’ll try to blend into the town and stay in the background going unnoticed. There seem to be some books around to pass the time; hopefully they aren’t too complicated though, my peanut brain knows how to read ‘bout nothing.

I’m lying on my bed reading, at least trying to read, some real confusing book, when I hear voices right outside the house. This is the first I’ve heard anything so close. I immediately jolt up and, realizing that my dumbass self never locked the door, try to run and lock it before whoever is outside ends up inside. I barely make it to the bedroom door.

Click.

Three young men enter while in the middle of a conversation, “—I mean why would he even say something like that? Some weird ass stuff.”

“I know, he’s got a stick shoved so far up his ass that—” I think he noticed me.

“Howdy, fellas,” I greet while leaning against the bedroom door frame, readjusting a few times to get comfortable. For some stupidass reason, I got the bright idea that “acting chill” would convince them that I was supposed to be here.

“Who in the hell that is today are you?”

“You know.” That’s a stupid answer.

“We know everybody, and we do not know you.”

They begin to tag onto each other, “You’re not from around here are you?”

“We don’t like outsiders here.”

“You’re in This is Our Town Faction territory,”

“So what the hell are you doing in our town?”

I think I may have chosen a bad town to live in.