Survival Tendencies

Chapter 1- Still Here

Year: 2023

Eyes stare into the abyss, heavy with dust and sleep. Breathes were small, short, and quick, making very little sound and disturbing little air as a result. Pale hands steadied a simple pistol pointed downward, fingers forced into relaxation so as to not send off a round. Feet adjust the body into a more comfortable crouched position, giving screaming joints a rest. 

You dared not move yet; the Eirians were sure to still be out there.

Your eyes narrow as you spots one dragging away an unconscious body. They must have been one of the 'lucky' ones, lucky being a stretch.

A breeze blows by, stronger than the others. 

You duck your head down, bracing your free hand against the ground. Short black strands fall into your view, obscuring a clear view of the ground. Faint footsteps sounded. A strained look upwards confirmed your suspicions. In the open window, was an Eirian.

A sweet scent blew with the next breeze, a by-product of the illusion the Eirian was creating. You knew to keep low, out of sight, not to get drawn in by the smells or sounds. That's how they get their victims; they lure them out with familiarity, with happiness, promises of the past. 

Those that don't break out so easily... get killed. 

Murdered. 

Slaughtered for fertilization. 

Those that do are kept alive for experimentation, to improve the illusions and see what makes those humans different from the dead. They were animals, forced to breed to figure out if the illusion breaker – as others have referred to it – was genetic. It was dangerous to follow those illusions, but it was even more so dangerous to run from it. 

You knew this. 

You had to stay hidden.

The Eirian stalked by, singing in a low tone you recognized as a child's lullaby. There must be a hidden child if they're singing that. You contemplate finding them, helping them, then reject the idea. A child on a journey in a world like this would be a waste of time, a burden. It was better to abandon the kid; they would only bring bad luck with their whining and needs. The Eirian stops at the window you're hidden below. They must be looking inside for easy stranglers.

You grit your teeth and force your head into the dirt, carefully breathing through said teeth and stilling your body. The bag you carried on your back was biting into your shoulders from the sudden, awkward position. 

You dare not adjust it in fear of causing the Eirian to look down. The lullaby stops, and nothing moves. A few minutes pass before you hear the familiar hum of the Eirian communication device.

"Meh emo orco folo. Hel mequ, quo usura logloug hel loseulto. cavdosg 1335 fuc ocsukoja emso utuyumutuym. Pook poom oioc eag hel cho cavdosg." It's speaking in that strange language again. Years of hearing it leads to some basic, very basic understanding of it. From what you heard, it was retreating, and someone escaped. 1335 apparently. Lucky them – for the time being, they're free – until the Eirians activate the tracking device installed into every subject. 

They'll be found within the next three hours unless you help.

You knew how to take out a tracker, knew how to go through the dangerous procedure. But unless it was beneficial to you, you would do nothing.

You didn't need any more burdens than the one on your back.

The Eirian steps away, the soft whispering tell-tale steps fading from your hearing range. You dare not move. They've been known to lull people into a sense of safety more than once. Tense and immobile, you continue to lie on the ground, straining your ears. Five minutes pass, then ten, then thirty. 

Nothing happened, nothing changed. No sounds, no smells, no strange images, just the horizon. 

It was clear to come out. You push up with your hands, unsteady and stiff from the awkward position. Your feet are numb and caked in dirt, face equally as dirty probably. You stare at your pale hands; they're still, not shaking. Good, you haven't gone into shock.

You stand on shaky legs and numb feet, combat boots and jeans an unrecognizable colour. The gray sweater is grayer than before if that was even possible. You stretch and adjust your backpack; you had to find somewhere to shelter you from the cold night. 

Nimble, pale fingers grab a half-empty bottle of water, bringing it to chapped and dry lips. You savour the cool liquid running down your throat, forcing yourself to pull back with a quarter of liquid left. You needed to save it until the next time you run into a stream or find supplies; you only had two bottles left, not including the one almost empty. You mentally check how much food you have left: a granola bar, a can of peaches, and two cans of soup. You decide to eat when you make camp.

You place the bottle back and glance around the building. It's a decrepit grocery store: the window is blown out, dust and dirt fill the flooring, the shelves nearly bare and empty. Worth looking around for supplies. 

You double check to make sure the mm9 bullet pistol was still loaded, and grab a flashlight. The switch flips on; the beam illuminates the shelves nearby and torn up tiles. Your boots make solid thuds as you walk the aisles, grabbing anything worthwhile. Your scavenging turns up three bottles of water, two cans of soup, and three granola bars. You hate granola, but not even that would deter you from accepting the food.

"...Check... Yeah... 'Dunno..." 

You hear faint whispers and automatically tense up. You peek around the corner of an aisle. Two humans.

Humans.

They're human, from what you hear and see. 

You step lightly near the front of the store, where the voice came from. There are two figures, and one is certainly male. They look taller than you; you know you need to run from them. 

More people meant more trouble and more burdens. You creep to the opposite side of the store, where you know there is a back door. Treasures in a bag, you leave, not bothering close the door silently. 

You didn't need any trouble. They made it this far. 

Why should you care about people anyway?

They end up being burdens to you, leeching off of your hard work for survival. You refuse to care for anyone- or anything for that matter.

There's nothing to care for, but your own survival.

Release

Kill

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