A Savage Life
Chapter 7

Running around the bend of an unknown place can be quite an exciting thrill, if you’re 5 and not being chased by white-bodied soldiers in hot pursuit of your life. I soon found a set of double glassed doors-the only physical doors of the future. I burst through them into a quite hallway. And in less than five seconds, I was shaken by the blast of an explosion. I was thrown to the floor and slid a few feet. I raised my arms to block the debris coming my way as I laid there on the floor. More soldiers ran toward me and I knew I was dead. But instead of shooting me, they nearly trampled me and scattered through different doorways I didn’t know was there. Then I knew why they ran; from the place where the explosion had happened, Pumps was bounding through the hole in the wall. His gorilla arms entrapping a man and snapping his spine in half. Broken IVs sprouted from his arms, and he snorted in anguish.

So he did find a way to break free. Or he likely bided his time and strength to break free.

“There’s more acomin’, so ya better run.” he shouted.

I followed his orders and started running, wondering why he was helping me, I was nothing special. But he seems like a nice....mutant. Let’s just hope he stays that way.

I followed Pumps and I have to say, it was more like watching a nature show in action, in a weird, mutant-filled way. His run was based on that of a gorilla and his perception was sharp, then I remembered that he had the eyes of a wildcat. “The exit’s this way Neanderthal.” Pumps said.

Ugh, that Neanderthal thing again, but that was the only alias he knew me by. Just like Pumps was the only name I knew he had.

“Um, my name is Josh.” I panted as I ran. If we died, at least he’d know my proper name. I wonder if Pumps really is his name.

“Rodger Cortez of 1897.” Pumps replied. How did a man from the 1800s wind up here? This all makes no sense. I’ll figure it out eventually.

I heard another explosion and more soldiers were hurdling toward us, angrier than the last bunch.

“What did you do?” I asked him frantically. He looked straight ahead and in an “oh well” voice, “I jus’ planted some grenades and let ’em off on purpose.” I was shocked.

I would’ve loved to’ve known where the grenades were in a place like this. We dashed around the bend, and I stopped to grab a gun.

“Stop, it’s on voice command, it’ll detonate if ya say somethin’ to it.” Pumps warned. I dropped the gun like it was on fire.

Being virtually defenseless, I felt slightly useless and ashamed. We ran through doors, through little apartment rooms (The looks on peoples’ faces were priceless), fighting our way out, and we were almost there....sweet freedom here we come! That was, until I heard a sound I ain’t heard in years. A gasp. And not just any gasp. A gasp that meant that you’ve been shot.

I turned around to see Pumps laying on the ground, blood pouring from the hole they put in his chest. In a split second, I saw all the people who’ve I seen shot and lying dead in that position flash through my mind. It opened so many old wounds. So many.... I picked up a grenade, set it, and blew the people who shot him sky high. Then I turned my attention to Pumps.

“I always knew somethin’ was up.” Pumps wheezed.

“Rodger, stay with me, we can get through this.” I pleaded, choking on my words. Even though I hadn’t known Pumps for that long, I felt as if I was losing my closest friend.

“Comfort me.” Pumps asked of me. His eyes glazed, and his breath shallowed.

“How?” I ask, my voice shaking with sadness.

“Tell me, where ya from?” he replied.

“Alaska, 1986.” I answered.

Pumps looked me in the eyes, a serious acknowledgement finally being realized, and he gasped, “Josh....”

When his body went limp and his breathing stopped, and I knew he was gone. I shook my head and wiped a tear from my eye. I haven’t been here long enough to map out where the bathroom was, and already I’ve lost so much. What more do I have to lose? Nothing. My heart felt heavy, but I had to press on. I had to, not only for myself, but for Pumps. No. His name is Rodger, and his sacrifice cannot be wasted. I sigh. Have you ever felt the hurt you feel when somebody you care about’s last words are your name? It cuts pretty deep doesn’t it? I’ve felt it six times before, and I got a bad feeling that this won’t be the last. A lot of people are (or at least was) counting on me, I have to press on for their sake, and Rodger’s.

I heard another explosion, somewhere a couple of feet ahead, and I numbly began to creep to there, as quietly as possible. When I had, I slammed my back against the wall, spray bottle ready, and mop in hand. I was ready for another volley of soldiers, but instead, I found a narrow hall with the exit door (I hoped) -and the second set of real doors I’ve saw today- locked in sight, that laid unguarded.

Listen, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably isn’t. And I was right too. Another explosion went off and shot me through the air like a cannon. More guns were aimed at me. My back was against the wall, there was nothing I could do but make a dash for those double doors and pray that they lead me somewhere good. And I promise you that the rush you get dodging bullets isn’t excitement, it’s fear. I could have died several times over by now, if not for my wits, my experience, and Rodger. When I finally reached those sugar-sweet double doors that took an Act of Congress and an Act of Desperation to reach, and I knew I was either going to be safe, or step into a trap.

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