Young Writers Society

The night is all that seems to be present, the open road in front of her being the exception. Her lantern isn't nearly enough to light her way, yet she trudges on with an urgency that goes beyond her sprained ankle and shaking hands. She has to keep going, whether she’s almost there or not. Of course, she also isn't certain where there is.

The old man told her to continue on this path until they found her, and he guaranteed that they would. (She doesn’t know who “they” are, either.) “Highway 55,” he called it. Apparently, it used to be a common freeway for people centuries ago. What an odd man he was. Everyone, even the other prisoners, claimed that he was deranged. They said that there wasn't such a place, that the old world was demolished, that all which was left was darkness. However, she believed him, and she made it out, and now she's here. It isn't her fault that she's alive. It isn’t her fault that they didn't take the risk as she did. She repeats this over and over in her head, as if to assure herself that it's not their blood on her hands.

The air is cold, which is unusual. She's never felt cold before, and she can't figure out how she recognizes it. Her feet have lost all feeling, and her teeth are, what’s the word, chattering. She wants to stop and collapse, but it only pushes her to keep moving forward.

Suddenly, as if her thoughts were heard, she sees a light up ahead. She walks faster, ignoring the limp in her stride. The old man was right.

As they get closer to each other, she sees a single person, and takes in the stranger’s features. They’re holding up a lantern, too, draped in a scarf and trench coat. They have the same short tomboy hair as her, and almost the same face. The only difference is the height and build. She’s bonier. They’re taller.

She slows down and stops. “I-Is this real?”

The stranger smiles. “Yes. You made it.” They suddenly stop and look above them. The astral sky above is twinkling and blinking more than usual. “But we mustn't speak here,” They say, lowering their voice. “They’re still watching.”

She nods. “O-Of course. I-I’m Kamil.”

They pull out a cloak and toss it to her. “Margo. Come on; we’re not far now.”

She throws the cloak on and takes their outstretched hand, and they keep moving. Not daring to speak, they let the distant small humming above fill the silence.