Amer’s legs pumped steadily, the rhythmic creak of the bike’s pedals the only sound in the vast silence around him. Hashem’s ruins faded into the distance, the destruction of his home swallowed by the barren wasteland ahead. Once, this stretch of land had been alive with neighborhoods, bustling with children’s laughter and the chatter of markets. Now, it lay scraped clean by the Zios’ relentless machines. The land was flat, open, and cruelly exposed, a minefield in more ways than one.
His eyes scanned the cracked, uneven road, watching for any sign of danger. This area had been a Zio military base, its original character erased and replaced with sand berms, barbed wire, and the faint traces of machine tracks. The EMP blast might have neutralized electronic surveillance, but mines and other traps didn’t need electricity to kill. Amer slowed, calculating every movement. His body thrummed with adrenaline as he weighed the risks of speed against caution. One wrong turn here could mean a silent death.
It wasn’t death itself that haunted him—it was the thought of what might follow. If the Zios caught him alive, they would strip him of more than his freedom. He would become a test subject, his altered body dissected to study the effects of the Soul Reaper. That was the name Amer had given to the Zios’ new weapon. It wasn’t just a bomb or a missile; it had stolen something deeper than life. It had torn away the spirit of the Strip, leaving its people as scattered ash, their stories unspoken, their memories stolen.
Amer felt his heart tighten as he pedaled. The soreness in his muscles that he expected after so many hours of riding never came. His wounds still stung—his broken arm ached beneath its crude splint—but his body worked with an eerie efficiency. He pushed harder, testing himself, but fatigue refused to set in. His movements were smooth, almost mechanical, as if his body no longer obeyed the limits he once knew.
A memory surfaced, unbidden, of an article he’d read years ago about long-distance runners in the FSU. Their muscles didn’t build lactic acid, allowing them to run tirelessly. Was this something like that? Or was it something else? Ever since the weapon had struck, there had been changes—not just in his thoughts, which now carried the weight of the Strip’s collective knowledge, but in his very body.
He didn’t know whether to feel grateful or terrified. Whatever had happened to him wasn’t natural, but it was keeping him alive. For now, that was all that mattered.
As he approached the edge of the base, the barbed wire fences rose into view, their sharp points gleaming under the weak light. Amer crouched low, scanning for a way across. The ground offered no cover, but near a collapsed wall, he spotted a tattered tent half-buried in the dirt. Once a brilliant white, the fabric was now stained with the grays and browns of war, blending seamlessly into the barren landscape. It was a gift, a rare stroke of luck.
Amer wrapped the filthy fabric around his shoulders, pulling it tight. It wasn’t much, but it broke the clean lines of his silhouette, rendering him harder to spot. He approached the fence slowly, the bike at his side. Carefully, he lifted the wire using the edge of the tent, sliding himself and the bike beneath it. The metal snagged the fabric, tearing it slightly, but Amer pushed through.
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Inside the base, the roads were smoother but no less dangerous. The skeletal remains of buildings rose around him, their walls scorched and crumbling. Sand berms lined the pathways, and every corner felt like a trap. Amer moved swiftly, using the shadows to hide himself as he pedaled. His eyes flicked constantly between the road and the buildings, searching for any sign of movement.
The emptiness was almost worse than an ambush. Here, the Zios had left their mark not with soldiers but with silence. Every inch of the base reeked of destruction, and with each turn of his wheels, Amer’s memories surfaced unbidden.
He passed the ruins of the university, the place where he had once taught, where he had stood before lecture halls filled with eager faces. His students had been full of hope, young minds ready to rebuild the Strip into something stronger. Amer had poured everything he had into them, believing that their dreams could withstand even the darkest storms. But the Zios had torn those dreams apart, leaving only rubble and ash.
Amer clenched his jaw and pedaled harder, forcing himself to focus. He couldn’t afford to linger on what was lost, not when survival demanded every ounce of his attention. The deeper he moved into the base, the more he realized how methodical the Zios had been. Barracks and storage buildings lined the roads, each one stripped bare. He stopped briefly to search a few of them, scavenging what he could. Most were empty, but in one storage room, he found a stash of military rations and water canisters. He packed as much as he could carry, the weight a small comfort against his back.
In another building, he discovered medical supplies. His hands shook as he opened a first aid kit, the sight of clean bandages and antiseptics filling him with a surge of relief. He replaced his old, bloodied wrappings, cleaning his wounds as best he could. The pain in his arm dulled slightly as he secured a proper splint.
But in one locked building, a shattered window revealed a scene that stopped him cold. Inside were bodies.
Men, women, children—all stripped, tortured, discarded. Their lifeless forms lay in twisted heaps, the room reeking of decay and cruelty. Amer’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse. He turned away, his hands trembling with rage and grief.
The Zios hadn’t just destroyed the Strip; they had desecrated it. They had turned its people into nothing more than objects to be discarded. Amer’s hatred burned hotter, fueling his resolve. If he survived, he would make them pay for every life they had taken.
As he left the base behind, the land grew quieter, emptier. The middle area stretched out before him, its roads littered with debris but free of the oppressive structures of the base. This had once been a thriving community, but now it was a ghost town. The occasional building stood battered but upright, a lonely reminder of what had been.
Further south, the land became even more desolate. Amer stayed close to the rubble, avoiding the open stretches where ships at sea might spot him. His mind churned as he rode, the silence amplifying his thoughts.
The Zios wouldn’t return immediately. They would wait, fearful of their own weapon’s lingering effects. To the world, they would claim it was a military operation, cutting off communication to hide the truth. But how had they persuaded the soldiers of the country of the Pyramids to step away from the border? Could they still be stationed at the far southern edge?
The questions gnawed at him, but there were no answers yet. Amer pushed forward, his thoughts dark and his path uncertain. The road stretched endlessly ahead, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The people of the Strip were gone, but they had given him one final gift—a chance to survive. He would not waste it.