People of a Dying Sun

We are the last of the humans; the ones left behind to witness the final throws of a dying sun.

The Arc, the behemoth space craft, the life raft designed to save humanity by boldly exploring new places to thrive, left us behind, the unloved, the unheard and the unwanted. They promised to come for us once they found a new home. We knew their promises were empty, yet we lived in hope, but the Light Stalkers found us first.

Then we lived in darkness and fear. A dying people, under a dying sun.

****

The sibilant hiss sends shivers of terror up my spine. Beside me, Lillin freezes, barely able to breathe, his wide eyes searching my face. I hope he can’t read the fear in my eyes. I’m older, more experienced and I should be able to handle anything this mission can throw at me with cool calculation. However I’ve never had a seven-year-old tag along before.

I shove Lillin’s head down and press the precious bottle we retrieved from these ruins into his hands.

“I’ll distract it,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath. “Get this back to Rogue.”

The boy’s eyes widen even more as he opens his lips to argue. I shove my hand over his mouth and press hard, stifling any sound he might make.

“When I stand up, you move, get out quick. Stay low and in the shadows. Whatever you do, don’t stop and don’t look back.”

I stare intently into the boy’s pale face, imprinting his features on my brain. His will be the last face I ever see, and when I go down, I want to remember something good. Lillin is my something good. I know the moment he comprehends my instructions, because his eyes begin to fill and he tries to shake his head.

“Rogue needs the bottle, Lil. It’s either you or me. You’re fast and small, it’s gotta be you.” His whole body trembles with fear. “I’ve got this, go!” With harsh and urgent hands, I push him towards the rear exit, silencing any protest with a look. I’d like to think I look as fierce as Rogue, even though I have to use the back of my hand to smear away stray tears. Nodding towards the door, I mouth silently, “One, two, three.”

With a strangled cry, I stand and run to the far side of the room, actively drawing the attention of the creature outside. It hisses and I can hear it scuttling in my direction. A quick glance behind shows that Lillin has complied with my instructions. He’s gone, taking the precious bottle of whiskey with him.

Living in the dark of the ancient subway ruins is not the most sanitary of conditions. A simple cut can become infected very quickly and without treatment, can go septic, causing death. In the early days, we raided old hospital sites for medical supplies. Now we raid old bar rooms and pubs for any alcohol that can be used to cleanse wounds. The precious bottle of whiskey that we found will likely save many lives.

I am resigned to death. It’s an occupational risk for any scout above ground. The Light Stalkers are vicious and deadly predators. Nowhere is safe, not even the shadows. Stalkers can’t abide the darkness, so they wear light stones in their clothing as protection. I’ve never understood why it happens, but the reptilian creatures combust in the shadows. It’s the reason we retreated to the subway tunnels when the alien creatures invaded Earth. There is safety in the dark.

The door to the ancient pub opens with a cautious creak, disturbing years worth of dust as bright red sunlight fills the opening, outlining the stalker, its bronze scales flashing and glinting in the light. An uncontrolled whimper escapes me, drawing the creature’s attention, and I’m glad Lil is long gone. I would hate him to think less of me for my fear. There’s nothing I can do. I’m going to die. Terrified and weaponless, not even any mud to throw, all I can do is distract it long enough to ensure Lil’s escape.

The stalker tilts its head, then slowly reaches into a pocket hanging from a leather strap around its waist. To my surprise, it retrieves an orange and, holding it in its six multi-jointed fingers, offers it to me. I can’t move, frozen with fear, my heart hammering in my chest, threatening to choke the breath from my lungs. It gently throws the orange, and I catch it reflexively.

Last time I was above ground, a stalker threw an orange to me. Although all stalkers look the same: bronze reptilian features, bipedal and huge, it’s possible that this could be the same creature. My eyes drop to its body. Most Light Stalkers wear two stones fixed into the leathers on their chest, and two on their back, protection from the danger of the shadows. This stalker only has one stone on its front. Surely it’s not a coincidence. The last stalker I met gave me one of its stones, ripped it from the leather strap, and tossed it to me. Very strange behaviour for a species that has murdered so many of our people, catching them and sucking the moisture right out, until they are nothing but a dried up husk of a human.

Without taking its reptilian eyes from me, the creature tears the remaining stone from the anchor point on its chest and places it on the floor between us. Freed from its setting, the stone casts blue light into the shadows. The creature then does something even more inexplicable. It shuts the door, plunging the interior of the ancient pub into shadowy darkness, except for the pool of cool blue light. Slowly, cautiously, it sits in the light, its unblinking eyes not leaving mine.

Unbelievably, the stalker has made itself vulnerable, and I seize the chance with an orange in hand—a potential weapon. Covering the glow stone’s light promises a painful death by immolation for the creature. With a sense of newfound power, curiosity takes over. Slowly, the pounding in my heart not ceasing, I lower myself to a sitting position before the alien and place the orange on the floor between us, poised, wide eyed and tense, ready to act instantly.

The stalker chitters. I’ve only heard that sound once before, but it’s comforting. It chitters again, pressing its hand to its chest.

It chitters once more, slowly and deliberately separating each sound, “curr-irr-wrr-ahk-an.” Then taps its chest.

A name?

I tap my chest, “Tarna. My name is Tarna.” I separate the two syllables of my name with clarity.

“Rahk-an,” it says slowly, tapping its chest then points at me, “Tar-da.”

I shrug. It’s close. I’ve answered to worse names in my life. “Tarna.” I point to myself, then “Rahkan,” I say as I point to the stalker. Though stalkers lack expressive faces, I detect a subtle upward twitch of the scaly lip—a hint of a smile, perhaps. Rahkan, (as there seems to be no gender difference in the stalkers, I choose the pronoun ‘he’) runs a long digit through the dirt and dust on the floor, drawing a single stick, followed by a group of two, then three. He’s counting. Eagerly I draw four sticks, then five as a tally with a line through it. Counting aloud, I point to the drawings and display the corresponding number of fingers. Rahkan, with his six fingers, draws more sticks, tallying six instead of five, aligning with his base-twelve counting system, in contrast to our base-ten system.

We explore the numbers, playing with simple math, one plus one equals two, and Rahkan draws squiggles that represent numerals. He makes a few deliberate errors, one plus two equals five, and I laugh as I make the corrections. A soft chittering sound emanates from his chest, a sound that is possibly laughter.

Suddenly the door bursts open, startling us both out of the cosy exploration of our respective numerical systems, as a harsh red light floods the room. Rahkan leaps agilely to his feet, his back toward me, protecting me from the intruder. I scramble backward into the safety of the shadows, feet kicking up layers of dust in my panic.

The two stalkers hiss at each other, a violent confrontation of words I can’t understand. Rahkan points at our mathematical equations, now partially obliterated by my frantic retreat. He seems to be urging the other stalker to look, to interpret our mathematical conversation. I’m unable to understand them, but I don’t like the sounds the second stalker makes. It doesn’t stop hissing to listen, and I’m not prepared to wait until their conversation is over to discover the outcome. While they are engaged in this battle of hisses, I quietly slip out the back door. Silently I scamper from shadow to shadow all the way to the shadow mouth that leads down to the ruined subway where our group hides.

“Tarna!” Lillin cries from the darkness as he rushes to greet me, his words an unintelligible mess of tears and sounds.

“Welcome back, scout. We thought we’d lost you,” Rogue says as I enter the dimly lit lower chamber, while Lillin still grasps me tightly, unwilling to let go of me for a second. “I’ll expect a full report.”

I nod once, although I’m not sure he’ll believe me. We, the left behind, are not the only people here. But I’m the only one who knows it.