The day we ran

We had to hide, leaving our home and belongings behind, it was not a choice. The neighbours were long gone by the time we left, whether they were taken, killed, or are on the run, we don't know. I remember the reddish haze covering our valley, the dark forms moving down the mountain. Abandoning all we ever owned before the thick hulking bodies reached our cottage.

Armaros, that is what we call them. Many stories have been told about what or who the Armaros are, some say the scientists went too far, ripping open a gateway to hell for all the incubus and succubus. Other rumors report the Armaros are aliens who have come to assume our planet. I have heard they are dead men risen to claim revenge. But I believe that they were men who fell from grace and were corrupted by wickedness.

Lucky, they didn't come for us sooner than this, we were almost believing we might have been safe. That morning through the thick haze of early dawn and the smoke that forever haunts us, we saw the shapes loping down. Ever step I take away from my home I think about that day, the day we ran. We snatched only food and water and snuck out the back. We crawled through the long grass and the bushes, scraping our forearms and our legs, until we reached the woods. And then, we ran. For hours or minutes, time passed differently while we were running. I ignored the blood and sweat the trickled down my body and forged ahead. When our legs finally gave out, we stopped by a lake to admire the injuries we had acquired along the way. I had a long gash down my calf that had not had time to clot yet, as well as several other scratches and bruises. Though Chester had many scrapes himself he took his time tending to me, cleaning my wounds, bandaging them. We could not risk getting infections, not now, not since we made it out of there alive. Thirty-six days have passed since then and we are surviving, just barely.

I looked up at my husband, the skin on his nose peeling from a sunburn, his unkempt hair and beard growing wild, his lips cracked and dry. I figure I must not look any better, I haven't seen a hairbrush in over a month and I am so dehydrated my lips are sticking together. With the setting sun I can see smoke settling on the horizon, more homes ravaged, more people killed.

"Do you ever wonder if they have a conscience?" I spoke softly, it always feels like they can hear us.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Do you think they are aware of what they are doing, the pain they inflict?" he knows I refer to the Armaros.

"I do not know." Chester paused, "Can you still have free thought and the ability to choose once you sell your soul?"

I shivered; I do not like to think about the men they were before they gave up their souls.

Days and weeks passed us by, and we had seen few signs of life. Excluding the odd chipmunk or robin it seemed most living things, like us, had run. We kept on the move, never staying anywhere long. Hiking up the grassy faces of some rolling hills and occasionally climbing over exposed rocky outcrops. Climbing was horrible, it scraped my hands, bloodied my legs, and felt utterly unnecessary. I was especially tired of not having a place to call home. Living in fear is hard enough, but lack of a roof, a bed, my books, and the fireplace, made this life so much more difficult. Many days I spent longing for the comforts and things I could now only consider to be a luxury.

Every morning I used to wake up before the sun to boil my coffee and read my book. In the cold months I would start a crackling log fire and curl under a blanket reading the day away. Evenings when Chester was home, he would draw a large hot tub and together we would submerge, relaxing in the bubbly depths. I remember the warmth of the oven when I would pull out a fresh batch of cookies, the sweet smell that filled the cabin. The life I had always dreamed about, the life the Armaros had taken.

As we hiked, I watched the grass undulating and rolling in the wind as we hiked up. It always mesmerized me to gaze upon the grass in the wind, it calmed me. The worldly horrors could be forgotten entirely, as my body glided through every blade of grass. Chester came in from behind wrapping an arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his chest, yanking me out of my reverie.

"Look," he spoke hushed, his breath hot against my ear; "You can see them, way out there."

He gestured out towards the east, where the sun had just risen. I could see the burgundy glint of their claws sweeping through the grass like scythes. They certainly had not noticed us yet.

"Elaine, we must climb." Chester knew I always hesitated to climb over the exposed rocks jutting out of the hillsides. But he was right, if we climbed over the rocks we could quickly sneak out of view.

I peered up towards the beautifully folded shale and sandstone that no grass managed to grow on. "Very well."

Chester held my waist steady as I gained my starting foot hold. Grains of sand scraped against my nails and palms, but I gripped the rock tightly. Holding my waist, Chester guided me up the first half of the rock, but I climbed higher, out of his reach. I continued with my climb gripping tight, confident and steady in my footing. Uncertainty is the most definite hazard when clawing one's way up and outcrop. Nearing the top, I heaved my body over onto the flat rocks atop the hill. Pressing my body into the sandstone I popped my eyes over the edge to watch as Chester made his way up. Three quarters of the way up a rock dislodged and tumbled down the hillside, bouncing and crumbling and catching the attention of the three Armaros we sighted on the horizon. My eyes popped, heart racing out of my chest. Stoically, Chester gripped the rocks tighter and kept climbing up fast as he could carry himself.

Dripping, blackened and furious the Armaros rapidly mowed towards Chester. No longer could I watch, I turned my head and pushed myself further from the cliff edge. Tightly shutting my eyes, I prayed up to the heavens. I heard scraping which could be nothing but metallic claws upon rock. Chester was my everything, I would not live without Chester. The sound of heavy breathing and movement across the plateau rang in my ears. Swiftly my heart now sprinted towards the promised land. Firmly a familiar hand gripped my wrist and wrenched me off the ground. I did not think twice, we ran like thunder rippling through the sky.

The adrenaline coursed through our bodies so fiercely we ran for one day straight and then we collapsed. I do not know how much time passed as we lay unconscious in the sweet-smelling moss of a fir forest. Chester and I gazed at each other, for a moment we stayed just like that, then we embraced. As I held him to my chest, appreciating the warmth of his body and the continuing beat of his heart, I recognized my mistake. Lodgings do not make a home. A home is made from the love poured into it, the soul you anchor to it. The cottage, baths and books are not my tethers to humanity. My soul is not attached to a residence, it is attached to him. Any place is my home, so long as it is with Chester.