The heat ignites the air in my lungs as I’m thrown out the door. I tumble through the air, not able to tell which way is up, managing to swing my legs over my head as I see the water rushing towards me. I brace for the pain to come. At this height, the water will be like hitting cement. I brace for the impact – as well as I can – but the sheer force of the impact knocks me senseless, and causes me to immediately sink down into the cold. My head begins to cloud over with pain as I continue to descend. Somehow, I’m still conscious enough to strip off my sweater, socks and shoes, which cause me to rise.
I break the surface and see debris lay scattered all over the surface of the water. I find a crate top and cling to it in order to stay afloat, then look up to see the smoldering wreckage of the shuttle. Flames and smoke fill the sky as portions of the shuttle still cling to the rail. I look around for Quin, but all I see are chunks of metal and wood. I try to call out his name, but my voice is too dry from the heat and smoke to make a sound.
I kick through the water, holding onto the crate lid, and finally spot Quin a few feet to my right. He swims over to me, grabbing onto the crate. We float along the rail line, chasing it back from where we had come. It takes some time, but finally we see the shore. The lake bed meets our feet and we walk the remainder of the way onto land, then sit and take a moment, trying to determine our next move.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Quin responds.
We move further down the beach, trying to put some distance between us and the shuttle. Quin plops down on the sand, too exhausted to move. I sit next to him, leaning my head against his shoulder. He puts his arm around me, holding me tightly.
A crunching noise behind us gets my attention. I look up and notice a pair of brown eyes staring at us from behind the foliage that lines the back of the beach. I jab Quin with my elbow, then point to the eyes, which blink once then disappear. We get up and walk over to where we saw them. I hear the buzzing of electricity as we get to the trees and bushes. Quin pushes back several of the branches, revealing a rusted metal fence, barely alive with energy. Much of the barrier has been swallowed up by the vegetation; pieces are embedded within tree trunks and limbs. The current is probably not as strong as it once was.
“How did you get on that side of the fence?” A small voice whispers.
I look down and see the brown eyes again.
“You need to get off the sand before the Regulators catch you. The beach is lined with sensors, so they’re probably on their way.”
“Can we climb over the fence?” Quin asks, bending down to be at level with the person.
“Yes. Go that way about ten feet. There is a large tree that has completely enveloped the barrier. Climb that and you can come over. I will meet you there.”
The eyes vanish as quickly as they appeared.
We walk along the fence and find the tree. I go first as Quin stands below as a lookout. The branches of the tree are very thick and sturdy. I climb five feet up, swing my leg over onto a branch that is hanging on other side, and climb down. Quin joins me a minute later. The owner of the brown eyes is an elderly woman, severely hunched over. Her long white hair is unkempt, and pulled into a makeshift knot in the middle of her back. The few teeth she has are stained yellow, but she smiles at seeing us, lighting up her sunken face.
“Come with me,” she whispers, waving her hand as she turns her back and scurries down the dirt path lining the wall.
She takes us to a small group of homes made of gray clapboard with sagging roofs. The homes are laid out in a circle around a fire pit full of charred logs and branches. Old men and women sit outside on broken concrete steps, some rocking in chairs that look ready to collapse from age. There are about a dozen of these homes, all the same size and in the same condition. I don’t see any Regulators patrolling, and all paths around the area are made of either dirt or mud. Only one trail seems to lead out and down a small hill before disappearing.
“In here,” she says, as she opens a door to one of the houses.
I follow, but Quin is hesitant. He seems focused on the people gathering around us, perhaps trying to determine if any of them are dangerous.
“Go inside, young man,” an elderly fellow says in the same whispered tone. “You don’t want to be caught outside with those things on.” He points to Quin’s clothing, tapping his pants with his stick for a cane. Quin enters the house closing the door behind him.
The dwelling is cool, and the smell of mildew permeates my nostrils. The room we’re in has a table, two chairs, and a brick stove with burnt food stuck to the grill. Two other women are inside, sitting by the window towards the back of the room. Neither one gets up as we move about, following the old woman as she picks up scraps of rags lying on the floor.
“You, dear,” the woman says pointing to me, “come with me. Young man, you can go into the back room and change. Darla, get him some clothes from Thomas’ house.” The woman with red hair gets up from her seat and exits while I follow the old woman
