Static Road

The boy’s legs shake. Not from fear. Just too many miles, too little food. His jaw aches from clenching. He’s been counting without meaning to.

They haven’t seen another road in hours. Just orchard rows and crooked trees. Apples hang in clusters, far too many for July. Their skins gleam like red glass.

Above the branches, power-lines hum louder than the bugs.

He rolls his board along a dirt path. The wheels catch on every rut. Hunger gnaws at him. He digs through his pack and finds a crumpled pouch of kibble. Pours half into his hand. Ruckus sniffs it, then backs away with a low, guttural whine. The boy doesn't push it.

A new line glows on the map:

Rule Five: Lights lie. Look for shadows.

Up ahead, a sodium lamp buzzes to life. The sky is still orange, but the bulb burns white and high. Moths swarm the glow. Their wings catch fire and drop like ash.

Two adults stand beneath it. Still. Watching. Their eyes shine like glass.

The boy taps a tree with his bat. One apple drops and bursts open. The pulp leaks something dark and metallic. The air smells like pennies.

He starts forward. His front wheel hits a root. He stumbles and scrapes his palm. Blood trickles onto a cable buried in the dirt.

The lamp sputters. Then it dies.

The adults twitch toward the dark. Eyes locked. Unblinking.

The boy freezes.

Ruckus snaps his jaws. Not at them. At him. Sharp. Loud. A jolt. The boy flinches, startled into motion.

He ducks into the trees.

No countdown. No plan.

They don’t stop moving until the orchard is gone.

Natchez, Mississippi – 31.6° North, 91.4° West