Amer’s body screamed with every movement, but he forced his trembling legs to press down on the pedals, urging the battered bicycle forward. Each rotation of the wheels sent jolts of pain through his body, and the makeshift bandages around his wounds threatened to unravel with every bump in the uneven road. Still, he pedaled, driven by a purpose stronger than the aches that consumed him.
He aimed west, hoping the streets ahead would be less cluttered with rubble. The open view of the sea loomed in the corner of his vision, an ever-present reminder of the dangers of exposure. Amer knew better than to ride too far in that direction. Distant eyes could be watching from the horizon, ready to alert others of movement in the strip.
Yet, his greatest fear was the drones. The temporary reprieve brought by the EMP could end at any moment, and the mechanical hum of death could return to the skies. Every stretch of the road ahead had to be calculated—he would choose routes with the most cover, even if they added distance or challenge. But not all stretches of the journey allowed for that luxury, and some decisions would mean taking risks he couldn’t avoid.
As his legs settled into the rhythm of pedaling, the weight of his memories pressed down like the humid air of the strip’s summers. The last time Amer had ridden a bike before the war, the city of Hashem had felt alive in a way that seemed unimaginable now.
The pandemic years had been a peculiar time. Cars had been banned temporarily, clearing the streets of noise and congestion. Instead of eerie silence, the roads had been full of life. They’d been cleaner, more spacious than ever before, inviting for pedestrians and cyclists. Back then, Amer would hop on his bike every day, his destination set: Ali’s house, miles away but always worth the ride.
Those rides were joyful. The city, though modest and often struggling, had a beauty that shone brighter when viewed from the seat of a bike. The streets were well-paved then, lined with trees that offered patches of shade. Amer would pass rows of homes, ranging from humble, aging structures with peeling paint to grand villas that reflected prosperity. Each neighborhood had its charm, its own rhythm.
When Amer reached Ali’s house, the two of them would ride to the shore, the salty breeze in their faces. Their route took them to the very edges of Hashem, where the city met the middle area of the Defiant Strip. They always stopped before the bridge that connected the two regions, a silent marker of their unspoken limits.
On those rides, they’d talk about everything. The strip’s future—a topic Amer had always been passionate about—dominated many of their conversations. His father’s optimism about Hashem had rubbed off on him, filling him with dreams of what the city could become. He’d spoken of it so often that even Ali, who had once been skeptical, began to believe in the city’s potential.
But their talks weren’t always about grand visions. They’d fantasize about personal dreams too: growing their businesses, finding the right women to marry, and one day riding bikes with their children on those same streets.
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The memories brought a bitter smile to Amer’s face. Ali had managed to escape with his wife when the war started, and their last conversation revealed he was now in the state of Classico on the Euronian continent. Bashar and Abed were also gone, scattered to places like the Pyramids state. Amer felt some relief knowing they were safe, but the thought of them starting new lives while Hashem lay in ruins left a hollow ache in his chest.
He passed onto a wider street, one that had once been the bustling artery of Hashem. This was where two universities stood, where mornings were alive with the laughter and chatter of students hurrying to classes. Now, the rubble piled so high that only fragments of the buildings remained, like broken teeth in the mouth of a giant.
The street was filled with ghosts—memories that clung to every corner. Amer remembered spending nights at a nearby cafe with friends, the air thick with the smell of cardamom and cigarettes as they played cards until dawn. He saw the shadows of his past self walking out of his late grandfather’s house, the scent of jasmine from the garden trailing behind him.
Further down was the spot where his father’s favorite seafood restaurant had stood. They used to sit there together, sharing platters of grilled fish and shrimp. His father would always order extra bread, insisting it was the best way to enjoy the sauces.
As Amer pedaled on, he passed what used to be his uncle’s clinic. His mind replayed the day his mother had called him in a panic, stranded with a flat tire on her way there. He had rushed to help her, finding her in the middle of the road, grease already staining her hands from an attempt to fix it herself. Her grateful smile as he arrived was still vivid in his memory, a beacon of warmth in a world that had grown cold.
He reached another stretch of road, this one quieter. Here, Amer recalled nights spent with his closest friends: Ali, Bashar, Nafez, and Abed. They would gather weekly on a plot of land owned by Hidar in the southern city, barbecuing under the open sky. Those nights were filled with laughter and stories, the smoke from the grill mingling with the scent of the sea.
He remembered his own sense of pride the day he received his first speeding ticket, a seemingly trivial event that had felt monumental at the time. It had sparked teasing from his friends, who called him “Speed King” for weeks after.
And there was the building he and his father had worked on together, a testament to their shared labor and dreams. Now it was nothing but a pile of rubble. The memory of laying bricks alongside his father, sharing stories as they worked, felt like a wound as fresh as the ones on his body.
These memories weren’t just fragments of a lost past. They were anchors, holding him to the essence of Hashem. Every tree, every corner, every crack in the pavement carried the weight of a life that had been stolen.
Amer’s grip on the handlebars tightened, his jaw set with determination. The Zios might not be in the strip now, but their destruction lingered like a shadow, shaping every decision he made. The legacy of Hashem lived within him, and Amer vowed it wouldn’t die.
He pressed on, ignoring the screaming protests of his body. The road stretched ahead, uncertain and perilous. But Amer’s spirit remained unbroken. The memories of his city—its laughter, its struggles, its resilience—whispered in his ears, guiding him forward.
This journey wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about reclaiming the soul of Hashem, even if only within himself.