When you were a child, your first word had been “burn.” You’d apparently heard it so many times from the mouths of adults, fearful of their city being the next reduced to ash, that you’d picked it up before even “mama” or “papa.” “Burn”… such a simple word. A fire started, a fire spread. Embers, smoke, and the inevitable death. It was the only life you’d ever known.

It had started a century or two before you’d been born. The fall of a government, the rise of the lawless. ‘Home’ could never be one place, for fear of looters. You’d never known a constant dwelling, a stable life; however, for the most part, you’d been lucky. You’d been shuttled around, sure, but it had all been alright. You had your family, and everything you needed to survive. But then, four days ago, your luck had ran out. Perhaps your family had stayed in the house a day too long. Perhaps someone had tipped the group of bandits off. Regardless, one thing led to another and you were now alone in the woods with your family gone miles behind you. You’d escaped with only a pocket knife and the primal need to run.

Now you wandered aimlessly amongst the trees, hunting. Many of them were scorched from fights days or decades ago. It was hard to tell, especially with how hungry you were getting. You hardly knew how to use a pocket knife, let alone make it a weapon. You’d never prepared to be alone.

Then, all of the sudden, the silence of the woods was shattered. “You step loudly,” a gruff voice said almost mockingly. A deep voice. You whipped around and there, gun in hand, was a man. “You’ll be killed in a day,” he said.