The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 7: The Ring of Fire (Parts 7 & 8 of 8)

The wind cast a handful of snow into the air, where the sun caught each separate flake and made them shimmer like silver against a sky so bright it hurt to look at.  The blue dome circled around the horizon and up to eternity.  It was a heartbreaking beauty after so long underground.  Such wondrous freedom and emptiness were forgotten under dull gray ceilings of concrete and steel.

Amy stared at it gaping until her jaw grew sore.  It was only when she looked down that she noticed her bare feet sunken into the frozen crystals covering the ground.  She wiggled her toes and gripped the snow with them.  It should have been painfully cold but there was only a pleasant coolness against her skin.

I'm dreaming.  The thought was an assertion against the impossibility of the world around her.

To prove it to herself, Amy walked to a nearby birch tree and ran her hand along the trunk, expecting to find a plastic texture of a semi-formed prop.  The tree was smooth and papery.  Her fingers reached a knot.  She felt the rough texture of each whorl. 

Could I dream that?  Can a dream feel this real?  But how did I get here?

She was standing on top of a small hill.  A forest stretched out in front of her.  Down in the surrounding valley, the trees grew thicker, and deep in the wood, a living darkness seemed to emanate.

She didn't want to go down there.  She wanted to stay with the unending sky and bask in its brilliance.

The sun was directly above her.  She shielded her eyes against the light.  The sun was blinding but there was a shadow falling over it.  A tiny crescent of black was infecting its outer edge.  A thrumming like electricity coursed through the very air.

"Come to the woods," the wind whispered.  "Come."

A shiver ran through her and fear twisted in her belly.  But the draw of the forest was too strong and her legs began to tread down the slope.  At first, they moved stiffly with unwilling jerks, but soon she developed a smooth easy gait.  The snow squished beneath her feet leaving small evenly spaced footprints.

When the path grew steep, Amy never stumbled.  Her legs seemed to be made to walk this terrain.  The forest became thick around her and she felt the gloom of the canopy shroud her from her sky.  The bare trees stood like gaunt, sinister men draped in black. Dark grooms at an altar of a decrepit wedding.  Their brides were the fir trees.  Plump in their ragged lace dresses of needles and spider webs, they waited silently.

Amy stepped over a fallen tree trunk and crossed a stream.  Water struggled like thick ink, fighting the cold that was trying to stop it dead.

"Come to me, my dear one."  It had become more of a voice than a whisper on the breeze.

Her feet kept moving.

At the top of a ridge, a deer spotted her and froze in place.  The air was filled with the scent of the creature.  It was a mature female.  It had given birth this year—and it was terrified.

Amy's muscles tensed but she didn't look toward it.  No need to spook it.  Anticipation sent the taste of blood flooding into her mouth.

"No," she said aloud.  The sudden repulsion took her by surprise and confused her.  Before she could second guess herself, the doe was gone, dashing to increase the space between them.  The horror she felt with herself did little to counter the disappointment at the loss of her prey.

She could still catch it if she hurried.  In these woods, nothing could outrun her. 

She forced her thoughts away from the meat and charged deeper into the forest.  The trees blurred past lost from concern.  They were mere watchers, their dreary existence was nothing compared to muscle and sinew.