The Weight of Ashes by Zachary Steele

Author:Zachary Steele [Steele, Zachary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-02-26T15:30:14+00:00

13

We walked a while without a word. The narrow path was one Mitch and I had walked a number of times, though only a short section while looking for wood to burn. I’d never gone this far. It cut straight through the heart of broadleaf trees, worn down to the soil. In between the tromping of our steps, bird cries mixed with the chatter of squirrels. The grey blanket of clouds cut into the usual blast of June heat, but not enough. The humidity had us drenched from head to toe. The bloody patch on my stomach from Zippy’s claws had darkened and spread into the sweaty white fabric of my shirt. The thought of Zippy running off bit into my brain. Every bit as sharp-clawed as his fuzzy feet. It was a strange and horrible thought, knowing I’d probably never see him again. Somehow felt worse than the day at the ballfield.

My throat tightened. I pushed it all away.

The path rose slightly, low hanging branches and prickly brush slowing passage to a one-by-one squeeze in spots, vines and exposed roots catching shoelaces in others. Reggie had to call for me to stop a handful of times. I stopped for her but wouldn’t look back to see who was bent tying a shoe. Instead, I calmed the voices in my head by practicing my swing with the Easton, clipping the tips of a few branches.

Sweat stretched the neckline of my t-shirt. No matter how many times I pulled at the sleeves, it’d slip back down below my collar bones. Between that and the plastic sheath of the baseball card sticking to my chest, the frustration about drove me to a fussing fit. Finally, I gave up, pulled the card outside my shirt, and let the neckline droop.

Wasn’t until Dunk spoke, words broken by his labored breath, that I knew for sure all three of my friends were back there.

“I’ve been thinking about it, Mo. Gordon isn’t Jason at all. Jason has some magic mojo that gets him where he needs to be, sure, but he’s just lucky, mostly. Dumb campers are always running right to him. Gordon’s not lucky at all—I think we can all agree on that—and we sure aren’t dumb. Nah, he’s the Borg. Relentless, heartless, all kinds of firepower, all about us not resisting him.”

“What’s a Borg?” Mo fought a bit with the walk as well, winded less than Dunk, but winded all the same. Between the slow rise of the woods and the packs we carried, it was a wonder we could talk at all.

Sure seemed simpler when I was planning it.

“New species on The Next Generation. Militant robot-human dudes that turn other species into more militant robot-whatever dudes. They just want to conquer and destroy because they can, basically.”

“Is that the show you forced me to watch that has the unfortunate woman in the hideous mauve jumper that does her figure no favors?”

“Who, Troi?”

Mo’s shrug somehow had volume to it. Like a sigh meeting a cough, whispered on a sharp breeze.

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