[Fiction]Steady

Fire burned his life away behind him, ten or one-hundred plumes feeding the already-ash sky as a machine-gun thumped in his ear, possibly repeating a true gun-fight over the ridge. Tunnel vision had set in and his music player drowned the cries outside, but all the better as he limped through the cliffside corridor. The song was urgent, his pace was urgent, his wounds were urgent, but he breathed steady.

She slumped, finally and expected, pulling him down under his right shoulder, his left arm moving fast and guiding her gently as consciousness took from her. He would have to carry her the rest of the way. He held his torn side; he sighed, but he did not waver. His music was fast becoming accompanied by other sounds -- he could not rest. Deceptively slender in form, his tall, lithe frame took her over his broad shoulder. Pain was there like a ghost, somewhere, apparent and not. All he knew was it was there. He grunted as he rose, as if he was expected to, as if his body was screaming. He couldn't tell. Something must still be right, as he was moving down the corridor again.

He thumbed his player's volume up before clutching his side -- he could hear them; too loud. The short ridge-line tunnel ended as his own tunnel guided him out in to a too-bright daylight, a light ignoring the overcast and southern smoke at his back, mocking him, giving him hope, depressing him. He breathed steady, his feet plodding to the bass in his ear, a pulsing beat he had to match. He moved to the song, somber violins warning him to maintain. The ridge emplacements were a fallacy; the hills about him would be swarming, his only defense behind him, that corridor the sole safe exit from the chaos behind.

He stepped passed a body, alive, but dead inside, from what he could only guess. Broken family, broken heart, broken sanity? He heard himself yell to it as he moved passed, maybe a minute ago, maybe an age, but it would be a lost cause. It would prove a distraction to those in pursuit, and time on his side, he thought numbly. Everything was numb and cold, the humid mid-Summer day sweltering around him. A ghost much less ethereal was taking him, his vision blurring, alien sounds behind him, but he tread on, his breathing steady.

Finally he had reached his destination, had come around the bend to stare at a small, cylindrical railcar, full of eyes, eyes that found him immediately as he continued his limp down to them. Eyes empty and lost, eyes weak and hopeless, eyes old and young -- oh, the eyes of the young. He suddenly felt himself again, ragged and mortal and despairing, a piano pleading to him, violins crying, his chest heaving. The pulse had left him, the violins all that guided him down the slope to the packed vessel.

Then he was there, at the car, a shorter man standing imposingly tall above him, and he realized he'd fallen to a knee. He looked up, in to the man's eyes, the only response a stern, stone face. Somewhere behind those eyes he saw empathy. He looked to her, now in his arms, and smiled solemnly. A glockenspiel echoed sadly, understandingly, and he nodded. His eyes met the man again, begging him to look to the girl. An eternity passed before he realized the man was already down to his knee as well, lifting her gently.

All limbs sore, sweat dripping from his dark brown hair, plastered and framing perfectly his face, he rose, with and against the violins. He shut them off. Wired buds left his ears, his player left his pocket, grasped firmly in his fist. He touched the man's shoulder, stopping him, turning him slightly, and brought his fist to the girl's coat, dropping the bundle in a pocket. Then they were gone, three meters that felt ten thousand away, and soon would be.

He turned to the west and looked down to the inlet, sun streaks shining off it's surface, then to the clouds, rays of light breaking through like hope. He looked north, to her destination, to the untouched trees, the ridges and mountain lines tall and strong and bold, ignorant of any invasion. He turned north to east, to south, slowly taking his surroundings in, inhaling the almost crisp air, clean yet of any smoke and defying the Summer's heat. He stopped and looked south, at black, brown and red streaming over the hills, dark figures closing on him as the packed shuttle took to the north, speeding along it's tracks. He looked to his arm and flexed, tightening his grasp, a pulse found again, the song playing in his head. He reached forward, arm extending, side ripping with pain. It was all a blur in a tunnel, but all the better. He closed his eyes and focused. His breath was steady.