Through the Ashes

Chapter 1

After an hour of talking, trying our best to improve the dirty weapons lying around, and ignoring the underfed animals, I hear a loud rustle in the leaves nearby. I place my finger to my lips, signalling silence, and we move closer to the window, taking caution to hide ourselves from view. We both hear the rustle this time and grin at each other. A fat bird hops out onto one of the many braches protruding from the tree, hopping into view. I slowly pull a pistol from my belt, hoping not to alert the pheasant-like bird. I pull a silencer from my pocket it and attach it to the muzzle barrel. I peek out the window and take aim, firing just as the bird locks eyes with me. I'll never stop feeling bad about hunting, even if it's for my own survival. Kasie and I practically fall down the ladder to retrieve the pheasant. As I pick it up by its feet, I spot two more big birds out of the corner of my eye. At this rate, we'll have enough food by sundown.

It's almost dusk by the time we've filled two small bags full of turkeys, pheasants, and even some fish. We haul them down and out of the treehouse and go as fast as we can towards the rocky cliff. I carefully guide my bag down the hill, straining to hold my footing. Today was a good hunt. After descending the boulders, Kasie begins to jog in the direction of Former Poughkeepsie while I follow close behind. Around the ruins and under the bridge. We're told that jogging with a bag full of game through devastation would have been nearly impossible for someone my age in the old times, but years of working has made me strong.

Once you begin working jobs, it's hard to escape it all. Most people try out all the jobs and when they take a liking to a certain one, stick with it the most of their lives. I've always preferred to switch every once in a while, getting a taste of everything. Ryan, my almost-mother, always says I'm a "jack of all trades but master of none," whatever that means.

Soon, we arrive at the entrance to the crater, large dusty stairs carved crudely into the wall. Kasie and I bound down the stairs and move quickly past the rugged shacks on the surface where some reside. Most live in the Crypts over here but others chose to live where the sun still shines and the rain still falls. When either of those things actually happens, that is. Quite a rarity here.

Kasie and I soon part ways with a wave. We seperate and I hike into a tunnel directly across from hers. I pick my matchbox out of my pocket and light one of the oily torches wating in a sconce by the entrance. Lifting it out of its resting place, I bring the torch up to the ceiling, its light illuminating the walls of the cavern. Drawings, words, and symbols are carved into the walls, some so elaborate, you'd have to squint to find all the details. Some people even went as far as to paint their sketches. The thing that I see the most is the "100". The word and the number, simple drawings and intricate paintings. Sometimes praised and other times cursed. It's everywhere.

I drag my hands along the wall, the dips and curves of the rock smooth against my skin. I move my fingers to the carvings, the thin grooves almost sharp enough to break the flesh. Although beautiful, they were carved by the first people to shape the Crypts into what they are today. They were said to be crazed, at least crazy enough to decide living underground was the best idea. The first insisted that someday, it could be dangerous to live upon the surface. They were wrong but we still choose to live in Crypts. After all, they're pretty spectacular now.

I slip the torch back into its sconce, waving the fire out first, and walk further into the tunnel, careful to watch my step. After a minute of walking, a faint glow appears at the back passage and I start to jog towards it. Doorways begin to appear on my sides, little pockets in the walls people seeking rest or food regroup in. I stop at one of the closest and pull out two birds by their feet. I toss the bag with the rest of the game into the room, knowing it will be picked up soon. Finally, I move forward and gaze into the vast Crypts in awe. It will never not be amazing.

How people managed to create what most people in Former Poughkeepsie live in is unbelievable. A whole city has been able to form underground. Each tunnel lining the crater leads here and you can clearly see the mouths of the tunnels and their walkways. The thick bridge in front of where I stand either dips down, more bridges branching off or creeps along the walls of the enormous cave. I used to be scared that I wold fall off and disappear into the oblivion below. The gaps in the wall could lead to a home, store, or even recovery center. Some tunnels lead to certain jobs. Large lanterns of all different types dangle from the ceiling and more torches and gaslights line the walls. The atmosphere is arid and dust visibly floats through the air but it also carries an earthy scent, something that smells of the flora and fauna of the outside world. It smells like home.

Turning to my left, I walk along the bridge, swiping my hand over the metal railing that's coated thick with dust. I wipe my hand on my jeans, leaving a sunburst colored residue in the shape of a smeared handprint. For a moment, the once mundane color seems to dance with a new life under the flickering lights of the cave. I blink hard and shake my head, the animated hue gone and replaced with a stale orange yet again. I sigh and shake my head. I should really get more sleep. I continue to walk and arrive at a stairwell that curves around a large pillar of rock, like all the staircases. I hold game in front of me and hold it tight as I disembark down the long flight of stairs. When I reach the bottom, I'm only a few levels away from the very bottom of the Crypts: the prison. I shudder and walk up a bridge connected to the wall. Above a door on the far side of the wall reads Archer, my adopted surname.

Knocking on the door three times, I nervously tap my foot, hoping to God Ryan or at least my sister Aisling is home. My wish is granted as the muscular woman known as Ryan opens the door, her scowl instantly replaced with a grin when she lays eyes on me. People have said that ever since my sister and I started living with her, Ryan's mood improved tenfold. The memory of me going to live with her is faint and Aisling was barley a newborn. I guess it makes some people happy to have someone to take care of. I'm glad I could be of assistance.

"Sammy!" she says loudly, bringing me into a hug and I happily squeeze her back. It may seem a little pathetic that I'm an adult and still live with my guardian but why leave with treatment like this? Besides, it costs kind of a lot to get a home. We both walk into the house and I hand her the pheasants. She raises them into the air, inspecting them. When she find the fat birds suitable, she goes to stow them away in our ice box. I collapse into one of the chairs by our dinner table. Aisling is already eating there and she looks up at me with wide eyes. She smiles and pushes me an extra plate already piled with food. Fish, rice, and broccoli sit in three, perfectly arranged piles. Aisling made this. I could spot her need to organize a mile away.

"Thanks," I say, reaching across the table and patting her hand. She grins at me, her face stuffed full of what I assume is fish, her favorite meal. Ryan sits down beside me with her own plate and starts eating. We recount that days events and Aisling tells me about her training. I love seeing her so happy.

"They let me try out a sword and a gun like yours, Sam!" she says, holding up her hands and closing her left eye, miming shooting a pistol.

"That's awesome! I can't wait until you're old enough for me to take you out hunting."

She looks hopeful and I grin at her. I bring my hand down the holster on my hip. Ryan notices my action and gives me a warning glance. I return it with a look that says, "Really?" She sighs and flips her hands up. "Why do I even try?" she mutters. Aisling, who has been oblivious to our quiet exchange, looks at my pistol in awe as I bring up the gun everybody gets when they turn 16. She's just a year away from hunting all on her own, as her 15th birthday is just next month. Time's passing much to fast for my taste.

"Wow," she murmurs. I made sure the safety is clicked on and I slowly hand her the gun. She gently flips it over in her hands, admiring the pearl-handled barrel and rose-and-thorn engravement I designed myself. I gesture for her to hand it back and she slides it across the table. I pop out the magazine and empty the remaining bullets into Aisling's hands. She takes one and examines the smooth metal of it. She quickly dumps the bullets into my fingers and drops her hands down to her lap. Chuckling, I push the bullets back into the magazine and reload it.

"Alright," I say. "Time for bed." I pat Aisling's head and place a kiss on her forehead. I hug Ryan and gives me a smile that I can easily decipher as pride. "Glad you grew up the way you did, kiddo," she states proudly. "Good night, Sammy," I hear my family call in unison. I wave back at them and walk down the hall and into my room. I pull off my boots, set my pistol on my dresser, and change into my more comfortable set of clothing. I collapse onto the bed and pull the black and white Navajo blanket over myself. Today was a good day.