Ash and Cinder

29| Radio Static

I can't stay here. Propping myself up on the tree, I get my legs under me. My right leg still aches like it's been shattered all over again. Throwing a wary look around for telltale red, I limp for the road. The plan, if the numb-brained fixation that got me out here could be called a plan, has changed. I have to get back to Amiah's house.

I hit the asphalt and hobble as fast as I can. The luxury of time is gone, I can't take the whole day this time.

And I don't.

As it turns out, running—a close approximation of running—gets me places faster than sluggish ambling. Little houses begin to pop up. I come to the place where the single snake starts sprouting more snakes, and stall.

Where...?

I slow but don't stop, sticking to the snake. It keeps going, winding on and on, branching over and over. None of the landscape is familiar. Damn my foggy brain. Damn it!

A car whizzes past and I flinch half into some stranger's yard. The house is bright red, doesn't invite any memories. I think I've come too far down the snake. I would remember a house this color, right? Then which of the branches before here was the right one? My fingers work their way up to the burn. I'm wasting time. I step back towards the snake.

The right direction?

My skin breaks under my nails. It's not familiar. The other direction; not familiar. Where am I?

Movement in the corner of my eye wrenches my attention back to the red house. A crooked door set in the face of the house creaks open, a withered prune waddles onto the stoop.

"English?" I call to her, "¿Español?" Anything other than Russian? The prune plants her wrinkled hands on her hips and waddles back inside. Dead end, like every other cursed route in this cold, dead land! I whirl to the road, biting hard on a curse when my knee buckles.

"Ah! Boy!"

I turn back to the sound. A different withered prune shadows the stop now. "English." He juts a stern, wobbly chin at me.

"English," I repeat, "yes, do you speak English?"

He narrows his droopy eyes. Flapping his hands at me, he scoffs and shuffles into the safety of his home.

"Why would you ask if you don't speak it!" I shout after him. The house blurs and fades for a second, like a power flicker, and suddenly my breath is gone. Oh, ugh.

I blink away static. Coming back to the stable world, I see the second prune shuffling out into the open again.

"Boy, fight."

"Yeah, sure, I fight," I say.

A loud click announces the entrance of a rifle. The first prune steps out from behind her partner-in-crime, a long black gun that looks heavier than both her arms combined nestled in the crook of her shoulder. Aimed at me. I lift my hands above my head.

"No move," man prune says, "Militsiya come, you no move."

As if I time for this.

"Please, I'm not going to hurt you," I say, slowly, "I'm trying to find my friend."

Man prune crosses his arms, woman prune scowls. I don't know if they understand a single word I'm saying.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I repeat, searching for any inkling of recognition on their faces. I slide one foot back, and the woman prune barks an order, brandishing the rifle.

"Okay." I still. I don't think I'm supposed to be feeling my heart beating in my palms or seeing the edges of my vision blur in time with my pulse, but I am. The sun beats down on us. Midday, already. I look around the yard for something—anything—to use as a shield or a weapon. The best option is a tiny pointy... man... thing. I could kick it at them, if I reached it before the woman could squeeze the trigger. And I could swim on the moon, too.