Short Fiction by Dany Keagan
Lungs burning, they fell to their knees, bare, bloodied hands resting on fallen leaves. The ground is slick from the downpour. The fact that it was only now that they’d fallen came as a bit of a surprise, but there were also years of agility training ingrained in their muscles.
The shouting and barking of hounds had faded. There was a moment to rest. Their greatest desire was to scream, cry out, let the pain flow through their vocal cords, and pour out of their lips. But that wasn’t an option. That would reveal their location and cut their resting time down significantly. They leaned against one of the wet, mossy trunks that surrounded them, letting out a hefty sigh.
With a grunt, they forced the sleeves off their shirt. The heavy droplets that fell from the sky felt cold on their skin. There was a cut somewhere on their arm, but it was practically pitch black, the moon’s illumination concealed by the Sycamore and Oak. They began prodding their arm, trying to find the source of the outpour of blood. Eventually, they manage to plunge three fingers into the deep wound. Their head turns up to the sky in agony. Teeth clench tightly, a moan of pain coming out from in between them. Breaths came out quickly and labored. The fingers remain in their place until the torn cloth is placed over it. Then, they are carefully withdrawn from the laceration and aid in tying the cloth tightly around it.
Once the task is completed, they fall back and lay atop the earth. The red and brown leaves covering that grass have an almost glossy shine to them. Once, pristine military-issue combat boots had been coated in a layer of mud from the soft, wet ground. Rain falls on their face, a cold that chills down to their bones. The remainder of their wounds were superficial in nature, except for the likely concussion. Battered and bruised was fine, but dead was an unacceptable condition to be returned in. They can’t help but wonder what would happen if they were caught. Maybe they would be locked away, only taken out for restricted training. Devolved in rank to some kind of dog, kept on a leash, and only used when something needed to be hunted down.
No. There was no going back. There would be freedom, or there would be death. Those were the only possibilities in their eyes. They reached into their boot and pulled out the Glock that rested beside their ankle. Getting hands on the gun was relatively easy, but rounds were much harder to come by. It took three months of slipping bullets into their sports bra to get enough for a full magazine. Fifteen. They collected fifteen bullets for their escape. It was just a precaution in case things didn’t go according to plan. None of them should have been fired. Fourteen remained, one bullet expended. The farthest thing from according to plan.
They perked up, hearing indistinct chatter over radios. The troops had fanned out. A dog barked. By the sound of things, they were five or six miles away. It would be best to move again and maintain a strong lead over the pursuers. They stumbled to their feet, bodies aching from the previous sprint. This time, they could go a bit slower but still needed to maintain a decent pace. They felt their head pulsating like their brain was going to burst within their skull.
Being a child among adult recruits came with its benefits. More often than not, they were excluded from mess hall conversations because they were too young to understand what it was like for the others. While lonely, it allowed for many opportunities to listen. No one was supposed to talk about the outside world near them, but such conversations were heard from tables away. Ears were carefully focused, tuning out any other conversation that would not provide pertinent information. Most cadets stayed in the barracks, but a select few lived on a reserve thirty miles out. Between the facility and the reserve, there was a city, a remnant of a bygone era. If they could reach the city, there would be buildings to hide in. Or so they hoped. Most of the things they knew about the times before the collective came from Kenji at breakfast. For a moment, their mind goes to him, a chasm in their spirit. But there was no time for that. For now, they had to rely on his information that cities were full of tall buildings with many rooms. Getting there was the goal. They could stop to think once they had settled into some place safe.
Typically, especially in areas where the collective was an established presence, cities or old towns were demolished, leaving room for farmland. This city stood because it was used for upper-level training. They were told they would be taken there when they were older, closer to when they would be taking on real missions. Other cities still stood in areas such as the Reaches, where the land was desolate and the population was dense. Those who lived there were beneath the rest of society, impoverished and unworthy, so it was fine for them to crowd up old buildings with their lies and filth.
When people would train for marathons, there would always be an emphasis on the need for pacing. To maintain a pace that you could hold onto for the duration of the journey. This was not a luxury that they had. Their lungs were filled with fire, but they had to continue to let it burn.
After about an hour, they reached the city and slowed their speed. They couldn’t hear anyone within a few miles, so they could try to catch their breath. Walking, they begin trying doors to the buildings that towered over them. Those that were unlocked seemed structurally unsound. At first, this was a deterrent, but the weakness in their knees came to object. They stumbled their way up the stairs of what must have been an old housing unit, jiggling on locked doorknobs. Finally, one opened, 5-C. It had clearly been abandoned in a hurry. Belongings were thrown about as if ravaged by some feral creature. They slumped down against the cabinets of the kitchenette. They swept their ponytail to the side and rubbed the back of their neck.
Fuck. Right in the center of their nape was a small bump. To most, it would be unnoticeable, but they knew what it meant. They had always been told that if they ran, they would be found. This is what was meant by that. A small tracker embedded in the back of their neck, just under the tattoo that read 002.
They forced themselves onto their feet, finding the knife block on the counter opposite them. They picked out a short serrated blade, then sat back down on the hardwood. They carefully found the spot once again and plunged the knife into the skin just beneath it – teeth pressed down heavily, air squeezing out between them. They blindly dug upward, attempting to detach any muscle that may be holding the device in place. Once they felt that they’d done enough, they removed the knife from the gash and allowed it to clatter to the floor. Taking their uninjured arm, they reach back again, digging into the wound until they grasped onto a small metal device. With a harsh tug, they pull it out, a few remaining pieces of connecting muscle snapping. They take a look at it, bloodied as it is. Beneath the crimson is a blinking blue light.
Once again, they stumbled onto their feet and made their way toward a window. When it refused to be forced open, they decided to cut their losses and punch through the glass with their already injured arm. For once, they let out a shout of pain. They took the small device that was hopefully a tracking device and hopefully nothing important and threw it as far into the streets as they could manage. Finally, they crumbled to the floor, head burying itself in between muddied knees.
Dany Keagan is a recent college graduate. Their first publication was “splitting,” which was published in Gandy Dancer, a publication for undergraduate students in the State University of New York system. They write realistic fiction with a touch of sci-fi mixed in. They hope to soon publish their own collection of short stories.
