I finish my silent prayer, eyes opening to show my shaking hands. Between my fingers is an envelope, one I'd been dying to open, but also afraid to. I've been putting it off. Every time I try to read it, to pull back the sticky seal of the slightly crumpled envelope that's got stains from the oils of my fingertips pressing against it for long period of time, I become so strung out that I can't force myself to do it.
But I have to. I've had this here unopened long enough. I got this about a week ago, and I can only guess how long ago it was actually written.
With a shaky exhale, I rip it open. My eyes drift to the date written at the top.
April 18.
She probably wrote a response as soon as she received my letter, which I wrote and sent off in February. Although this might be a reply to all of the other letters I sent her afterwards, which talked about my engagement, since Sam didn't propose until a few weeks after my first letter was sent.
My mother's handwriting is faint in the corners of my memory, but seeing it brings it back, and I realize just how different our handwriting truly is. Ours is both chicken scratch, but hers is a bit more fluid, and she writes her 'A's the simple way that they taught in elementary school, while I do it as it would have been in a book. Some of her words are hard to read, the letters small and pushed together, different from mine, which are usually too large and looping over each other at times.
But it warms my heart to see it, knowing that she's at the very least alive. And now that we've given the recipe to the cure to both America and Canada, she should be safe.
My dearest Callista,
You don't know just how happy it makes me to have gotten your letter. For the longest time I wondered if you were alive, if you and the others had made it to safety, built a life for yourselves in this living hell the world has found itself in. When I found Katelyn and she told me you were shipped off to England, I was afraid I'd never see you again, especially since she told me she was supposed to tell me you were dead. I never did find out why she was told to lie to me, but I suppose her work with the A.M.T.B. isn't something I'm meant to meddle in. Funny, since she was sixteen then. I celebrated her birthday in June, even though she wasn't there to hear me wish her a happy eighteenth. Has it really been that long?
Anyway, when she announced she was going to England on a hunch that the Runner Five from Abel Township could be you, I begged her to bring you home. A part of me still hopes you will come home, but what you've told me in your letter tells me you have much work to do with defeating the Prime Minister. If she is responsible for starting the plague, then you must bring her down.
I know you can do it. I know you are strong enough. You were strong when you were twelve, so I can only imagine how strong you are now. There are things I know you probably haven't told me. Your letter only talked about happy things, with brief mentions of why you must stay in England. I don't doubt you have good times throughout these years, but I know it can't have all been good times. That wasn't even possible in life before the apocalypse.
I'm so glad to hear about your friends. I'm glad they've been there for you. Both Peter and Tom sound odd, but everyone is a little odd from time to time, and I'm glad you're close with Dr. Lobatse. Being friends with a doctor means she can at least stitch you up in you hurt yourself. They all seem like amazing people who I hope to meet someday.
I also hope to meet your boyfriend, Sam. I do find you story of how you confessed your feelings to each other funny, but you were always one for dramatics. I'm glad that hasn't changed, and I'm glad he was immune. All in all, I like him. If what you've told me is even half true, then I suggest you latch onto him and don't let go. You are blessed to find someone like him, just like I know he's blessed to have someone like you. And I am blessed to know that you have found happiness in such dark times.
Things are well in the little fenced town I'm in. It's not Arkansas. It's not home, but it's not so bad in Virginia. The name is weird, but I'm sure you'll find it funny. No one could decide on what this place should be called, so one of the children piped up and suggest Stratogale. You know, one of the heroes from the Incredibles movie. And since no could decide, it just stuck.
But here things are peaceful. We do have people who volunteer to go get supplies or trade, but we don't really call them runners like Abel and the A.M.T.B. do. They don't have to go out almost daily, sometimes not even weekly, so they're just volunteers. Because of how well we are with our farming, we usually don't need to go out to get food, and we grow enough in our gardens to make natural soaps and washes.
I wish life had been as peaceful and safe for you as it has been for me, with few people dying and less pain and hurt. But since you confirmed that you are the Runner Five that saved the world from mind control-something I had trouble believing in at first-I know that that cannot have been the case for you. And with having to stop the Minister, I'm sure you're still in danger, which worries me more than you know.
I look forward to hearing from you because it lets me know that you're alive. If Stratogale had stronger radio towers, I would suggest talking to you over that, but we cannot, so I can only wait for your letters. Please write back to me. I don't care if all you tell me about is your day with Sam, or about those children that you said you have... adopted. I don't care if you tell me about the pain of a run or what terrible things you have been through. I don't want you to keep those things from me. And you writing to me, even though I receive these months later, lets me know that you were alive then, so there's a chance you could still be alive now.
I do not know when or if I will see you again, but I pray every day that you will find a way back home, or that I will find a way to you. I miss you and Katelyn both. Tell me if you've made any progress with stopping the Minister. The closer you are to stopping her, then the closer you may be to being safe.
Love,
Mom.
I set the letter down in my lap, taking a moment to process it all. So, she hasn't got my other letters. At least, she hadn't when she wrote this one. Otherwise she wouldn't have referred to Sam as just my boyfriend. I haven't written her anything new since I sent her the letter about me and Sam being engaged, so I'll probably receive another letter in reply to that too.
She'll probably be happy about it, since she told me to latch on and hold tight. I don't think I can hold on any tighter than marrying him.
I'm pretty sure Sam will be ecstatic when I tell him what she said about him. I mean, even though he hasn't met her, and probably won't for a long time, he did say that was one of the things that worried him the most-that they would meet and she wouldn't like him. She's the only parent I have left, I think, since Nicole has no idea where our father is.
I asked if he wanted to read the letter with me, but he refused, saying that this letter was for me and that I should read it by myself the first time. It's special, and I'm lucky he cares for me so much.
Although he did say he expected me to tell him about it later, since he doesn't want me to be hurting alone if there was anything upsetting written.
My eyes scan over the words again, ink blots on the white, pristine paper, probably from dropping the pen or pressing down into the paper as my mom looked for the right word. I should write her back. I should tell her how things are-that the Minister is dead, and now we have to worry about the V-Types and the Last Riders. I should tell her about who we faced in the past, what I did and who I lost while trying to take them down.
I should tell her about my doppelgangers. I should tell her about Dr. Cassandra Feive.
I should tell her that she's not technically my mother. I don't have a mother or a father. I was created in a lab, and she was simply used to carry me until I could enter this world.
The thought makes me sick to my stomach. No, no, I can't say that. I can't say any of that. Doing so would break her heart.
I run my hands through my hair, sighing heavily. It's nothing compared to the heaviness I feel on my shoulders as I think of what I could possibly say to her.
I mean, I could tell her about the nicer things that have happened, like our recent movie night and Phineas's pet chinchilla. I could tell her about Adora and how she's calling me "Mama" and Sam "Dada", although she might not like that so much. In her letter the word "adopted" is scribbled out and rewritten several times, as if she doesn't like admitting the fact that I'm a parent.
I am, after all, only nineteen, which was pretty young to be having a kid according to pre-apocalypse standards. She probably thinks that I'm too young to worry about children.
I suppose that means I shouldn't tell her that Sam has asked about whether or not I ever want to have kids in the future. That might make her like him a bit less...
A lot less.
I know she said she wants to hear about everything that's happened since she left all those years ago, but I don't see the point in making someone else hurt by bringing up old memories. I already feel their sting. Why should I put that onto someone who is really none the wiser?
I mean, the V-Types are only here. They were in those caves in England and Finland, and those caves were made by Vikings who knew about these zombies and made sure they would never get out. The only reason they got out of the caves here was because we tripped something there too early, whereas we were smarter in Finland.
England is basically the only place V-Types exist, so telling other countries about it right after we got a cure is stupid. People will get paranoid and go back to killing people, insisting they got bit by a V-Type. The cure will be marked worthless to people who don't understand, who haven't seen the difference, who haven't heard it.
If we were to tell other countries, it would have a telephone effect, words twisting and changing. I doubt my mother would really have any influence over anything, but just to be safe, I can't tell her.
And the Last Riders... Why should I tell her that a week ago they put zombie blood into pills and tricked 300 hundred people into taking them? Why should I tell her 300 people died confused and afraid just because they wanted to have some fun at a rave?
Peter is still upset about that. I see it in the way he runs on the track sometimes. He's too stiff, too focused. I've seen it the last few nights we met up with Tom. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, his face holding a scowl that was very unlike him. Even when he's upset, he typically plays it off with a self-deprecating joke and a smile can make almost anyone swoon.
Too bad for him I see right through it.
But to see him like this, angry and simmering like this, is scary. He made a comment last night how if he had taken those pills, he would have been fine.
I could hear the bitterness and pain in his voice.
Why should I tell my mother about that? What good would that do her?
I set the letter down and lay down on the bed, placing my arms on my stomach, the only movement being the rise and fall of my chest with each slow breath that I struggle to keep controlled.
Later. I'll write her a letter later, after I've found things I want to tell her about.
My eyelids feel heavy even though I got a decent amount of sleep last night. I don't fight it, closing my eyes and letting darkness consume me. Hopefully my dreams will be less depressing that my thoughts in reality.
•
I was wrong.
My dreams are terrible, horror filled illusions that can only be from my own constant thoughts that are dripping with worry and confusion.
It's not a vision, not a memory. I know that because I'm here, standing on a street that I recognize. We're in the middle of the road, but a quick look to the right shows my house, the house I lived in before the apocalypse. It's still got the little rock wall and metal roof and flagpole, but the door and the old swing and the driveway are blurred, my mind unable to conjure up the memory of it.
That's how I know this isn't a reminder of the past. The old memory dreams are exact, no imperfection as my brain tries to bring back the pain of yesterday.
I want to say I lose control, but I don't think I ever had it to begin with. It's like my mind suddenly glitches, my vision becoming hazy and nothing registering besides the constant blur of shouts and cries and blood-stained hands. I'm forced to my knees by Dr. Feive.
When did she get here? Where did she come from? Why is she so strong?
I'm unable to do anything but bend to her will because I am ultimately hers to command. I was made by her and I will die by her. That's what she says as my knees dig into the hot asphalt of the street.
I don't want to raise my head. Facing it will only make it worse. This isn't a vision, or a memory. I don't have to face it.
But this is a nightmare, and I don't have control. So when Feive grabs my hair and yanks it, I have no choice but to lift my head and meet eyes with the people looking at me with horror.
My mother, Nicole, even my dad-they all stare at me with a mixture of hatred and disgust burning in their eyes.
I'm terrified.
"You're a monster," My mom says, and it's true. I've known that for ages, but for some reason hearing her say it feels like I'm being stabbed in the chest by a hot knife. "You knew you weren't blood, and you just kept on lying!"
My dad shakes his head, and even though I lost respect for him long ago, seeing that look on his face hurts. All this hurts, but when I try to push myself from my spot on my knees I'm simply shoved back down. Feive's grip on my hair tightens, but she says nothing.
"I should have killed you in Noah Base," Nicole snarls, her eyes burning with hatred. "You deserve it. You're not my sister!"
"Yes, I am!" I yell back, but it sounds so broken, so weak. I feel weak.
"No, you're just a liar," Mom sneers. "You're not even human."
My hair is pulled back again, harder and more forceful this time, and my back arches painfully. A choked noise leaves my mouth at the pain in my scalp, the ache in my back and the asphalt scaping against my skin.
"Do you see? I'm the only person who matters now," Feive says, and it almost sounds smug. "They will never accept you now that they know what you are. You are mine, Abel Runner Five. You were made to do my bidding. You and your sisters were made by me, and you were made to obey me. You were supposed to be the ones who saved the world, with you as their leader, but still under my command."
She sounds angry, but with the way it wavers, I think she may be on the verge of tears. Not that any of this matters.
It's odd, because I know this isn't real. I know, but it still feels real. There's still a part of my brain that believes it's real.
And because of that I'm scared. It's probably the reason that I'm crying.
"They aren't my sisters," I tell her. "They were people. They had their own lives."
"Lives that could have been so much better had my plan succeeded. But don't worry." One hand leaves my shoulder to stroke my cheek, a stark contrast to the stinging in my scalp. "I won't leave you behind. Catherine is still alive. She's trying to find a way to fix the plans. She said she would find a way for you and her to become whole again."
"Why can't you do it?" I ask, and now I'm beginning to wonder if some of this is real.
"It's... complicated," She replies. "But you will not be forgotten. You have no idea how much you mean to me, eramque creaturae."
I don't know what that means, but I know I've heard that word before. I try to grab at the memory, but it's gone like smoke between my fingers.
"You've never even met me," I say, but it comes out a more of a croak.
She ignores it, continuing to speak in her language that I can't understand. "Last sanguinis mei. Reincarnation de ea. You and Catherine will both fix this, what you couldn't control."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, struggling against her. I don't even notice my family has disappeared, no longer important to my confused mind. "Answer me."
"I won't lose you again."
"What? I don't understand-"
I wake up.
It takes me a second to realize I'm awake, my gaze staring at the ceiling, silence engulfing me to the point that it almost feels deafening.
But it's shattered when I scream in frustration and throw a pillow across the room.
Did that dream mean anything? I don't know any other language besides English and BSL, so how could my mind have made up whatever it was Feive said? But I know it wasn't a vision because my mom looked exactly the same as she did the last time I saw her, and I was in Arkansas, and my dad was there! And I'm almost certain my dad is dead!
No, this was a nightmare, but could some bit of truth be sprinkled into it? Like when I have those dreams and visions where I'm someone else? Like I know I'm still me, but at the same time there are times when I say or do things that I wouldn't do, but the person I currently am would.
I groan and bury my face in my hands. Why does this all have to be so confusing? I'm not
I hear the door click open, and I lift my head. It's mostly out of instinct, since I really don't care who's coming in here. I'm not in the mood to talk after that.
Sam senses something is wrong the minute he steps inside. I can tell by the soft smile and asking eyes. "What's that look for?"
"Just a bad dream," I reply, my voice slightly scratchy from sleep and screaming. "Weird stuff, frustrating."
"Wanna talk about it?"
I shrug. "I mean, it wasn't a vision dream, I don't think, and it definitely wasn't to do with the past."
"Was the Original there?"
"No, but Dr. Feive was... But the thing is, usually the Original shows up in a dream that has some significance to my past or future. I don't see how this one did."
"What happened?"
I explain to him what I saw and heard, my voice flat and annoyed. Not at him, but at this, and at myself for allowing something as simple as a dream get under my skin.
God, I'm pathetic.
But Sam listens intently, nodding at some of the words and making certain faces at some of the things I say. He takes a moment to think before he responds.
"Well, it might have some significance since you, well, you know, have never heard those words in that language before, so I don't think you'd just make them up. Do you want to look up foreign languages on Roufflenet?"
I shrug. "We could, but the thing is I don't know what language it was spoken in, so it'll be really hard to find a translation."
"Do you want to ask Janine? She or Tom might know," He winces as soon as he says it. "But then they might ask where we heard those words, especially if it's something less than kind."
"Yeah," I let out a puff of air. "I guess we'll just have to wait it out, like we always do."
He nods, looking a bit disappointed until he spots the opened letter on the bed. "You finally opened it."
I eye the letter and hum. "Yeah."
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, my mom's doing well. Her town has been fine, really. It's weird to think of a town living so peacefully for so long when Abel is constantly on the verge of destruction."
"Well, that's the life of the main characters in the story." He shrugs. "Well, the main characters of the story in this time period. Once another apocalypse comes or-or a war or something in seventy-two years, someone else will be the main characters who have to save the day." He gasps. "Maybe it will be our grandchildren! Or our great-grandchildren."
"Yeah... Well, if our great-grandchild is the, ahem, 'main character' in 2092, hopefully I'll still be alive to see it. I'll be old as dirt by then, but people live to their nineties all the time." I send him a pointed look. "Don't get too excited though over the prospect of great-grandchild, since to start that jounry we'd have to have children. And my mom apparently likes you, but she gave off some not-too-happy vibes about me adopting kids. I don't think she'd be too happy if you wanted to add another one so quickly."
His eyes light up like Christmas lights. "She said she liked me?"
"Yep," I say with a smile. It's too hard not to when he's this happy over this. "She said I needed to make sure I never let you go. She probably hadn't gotten my other letter to tell her we'd gotten engaged."
"Yeah... have you written anything else?"
I shake my head. "No, I didn't know what to write." I sigh when he blinks, patiently waiting for me to elaborate. "I just don't want to write about the bad stuff, you know? And there's so much bad stuff, and sometimes the good stuff intertwines with the bad stuff so I couldn't write about it without including everything and..."
"And you're overthinking this," He says, smiling knowingly.
"Probably. What do you think I should write?"
"Well, you could tell her that the Minister's dead, since she already knows we were against her, and just tell her a bit about the Last Riders so she can't ask why you haven't come home. As for good news, have you told her that you're Head of Runners? I mean, it's officially unofficial, but... I mean, you've had the title for awhile now. I think you've earned it."
"I haven't, actually. I don't really think about it as an achievement, just something that I am." I shrug, before gasping softly. "Oh! I could tell her about the wedding. The last time I wrote her was announcing our engagement, so talking about the wedding itself might be nice."
"Yeah! Just uh, don't tell her about how I told you I cried myself to near dehydration when I woke up that morning." Sam rubs the back of his neck a bit bashfully. "Since she's only read a few letters about me, I don't know if that will change things."
"She'd probably think it's sweet. Like I said, she wants me to latch onto you, and she said I was blessed to have you."
He scoffs. "Laying on a bit thick, isn't she?"
"No." I reach out and cup his cheek, and he leans into my touch as I swipe my thumb across this skin. "I ask myself all the time what I could have possibly done to deserve you."
"And now you're laying it all really thick." There's a twinkling gleam in Sam's eyes that quickly shifts into adoration as he grabs my wrist. He turns his head so he can press a kiss to my palm, grinning in satisfaction at the heat that floods my cheeks. "You need to be careful with all these compliments. I love having my ego stroked as much as the next guy, but I don't want to get cocky."
"Oh? And why's that?"
"Because then you'd get annoyed and try to find a way to humble me, and I have enough to worry about. Can't have you cooking up a wicked scheme in that head of yours because I pissed you off." He pokes my forehead, and I giggle.
"Yeah, well, I can't promise I'll calm down on the compliments. I think I love you too much to not shower you with them. Plus, I call you dork enough times to let you keep you in check."
Sam shrugs halfheartedly. "I guess that's fair. Now here." He shoves a pen and paper into my hand. "Write your mother something nice. The faster you write this, the faster we can send them out so she can get them. I'm sure she's dying to get another letter from you."
A/N: Here you go, guys! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter! This is probably the last one before I go to weekly updates. Please be sure to vote and comment!