Release Blast for In the Shadow of a Valiant Moon by Stu Jones & Gareth Worthington!
MILA
No matter how badly I want it to be different this
time, in the end I still die.
We all do.
I lie on the cot, cold sweat clinging to
my skin, arms raised to my face, stuck like a marionette tangled in its own
strings. The dream feels so real. Another breath—count it out. In, two, three,
four. Out, two, three, four. My heart slows, my mind no longer caught in the
grip of the terrifying dream: a battle in which I play a critical role, yet I’m
no soldier. This nightmare stalks me night after night, and even though I know
I’m dreaming, I’m powerless to prevent the inevitable—the coming of Death.
The alarm on my personal electronic
device, or PED, chirrups three times: 05:00. Not much sleep during the dark
hours, again. I squeeze my shoulders, rubbing away the dull, muscular ache, and
try to remember the fading embrace of a brother who now feels far away. A deep
breath in, a slow exhale out. Get up already, Mila.
The frigid floor stings my bare feet. I
shrug into a few less than-clean garments and pull on my boots. The stale smell
of the attire fills my throat. A shiver crawls across my skin. Sard, it’s cold.
Gotta find something warmer. After rummaging through a pile of soiled clothes
that lie in the corner of my room, I pull out a short leather jacket, its
collar lined with fur—though from what animal is unclear. Shaking it hard a few
times, I stare at the fur lining. I know the lice are in there somewhere. No
time to try and clean it now. The jacket slips over my shoulders, the ice-cold
collar
snugging up around my neck. It stinks like dead rat.
My PED and my precious collection of
writings go into my satchel, carefully so as not to crush the worn old picture
that lies at the bottom. I fish out the faded image of Zevry and me. I can be
no more than eight-years old in this photo. He’s grinning, as usual, with one
arm wrapped around my shoulder. It was taken more than twenty years ago—yet
little seems to have changed. Still have roughly cut short hair, now with a
streak of color in the front. Still have a lean, almost boyish frame—though
I’ve added some piercings and tattoos over the years in an attempt to distinguish
myself. And then of course there’s my scar—cutting its pink path across my
forehead and left eye. Slashed deep into my face not long after this picture
was taken, it’s a permanent reminder you don’t walk the streets alone in a
place like Etyom.
No time for this. I stuff the picture
back into my satchel and head out the door without locking it. Anything worth
stealing is already on me—and it wouldn’t take much to force the door to my
closet-sized room anyway.
My boots creak on the rickety stairs leading
into the bar below. It’s quiet now, a far cry from the bedlam hours earlier.
Smoke hangs lazily in the air, like the memory of an old ghost.
“Come on, Clief.” I cough. “How do you
breathe this stuff night after night?”
The man at the bar raises his head but
continues to wipe down the counter. “Oh, it’s not that bad. Sorta like burning
plastic.” He offers a tired smile. “Off so early?”
“Every day.” Still pinching my nose and
squinting, I make my way toward the door. “I’m serious. Get some fresh air in
here. That botchi is going to scramble what’s left of your tiny brain.”
He huffs out a laugh. “And that out
there? That’s where you get the fresh air?”
“You know what I mean.”
As I push open the door, the wind hits me like a frozen punch in the mouth. Going out in this icy hell never gets easier. The streets are dark and cold, shadows upon shadows concealing the horrors of Etyom. It’s hard to believe this place was once considered a haven. Long ago, it was a vast, sprawling gulag turned-mining community called Norilsk. Between World War III and the New Black Death, nearly nine billion people around the world lost their lives. Those who were left fled their homes and cities in search of someplace safer. For many, this barren hellhole was it. The conflict hadn’t fully destroyed the city, and the New Black Death struggled to take hold in the brutal Siberian climate. Survival was possible here. A mass migration followed; the Russian government was helpless to stop it. Outside Norilsk, organized social structure, at least the way people understood it then, gasped its final dying breath. And then, silence. Communications with the outside world went dark. Zev said anyone who hadn’t died in the war succumbed to the New Black Death. It was then everyone here knew they were truly alone. They chose to isolate themselves, even renamed the city Etyom. My brother and I weren’t born for another few hundred years, the descendants of those who fought to survive. We’re fighters, Mil. Survivors. Nothing can keep us down. That’s why we’re called Robusts.
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