Running Scared

The trees are sparse at the edges of the forest so we move quickly, without talking, until we are granted more coverage. I gape openly at them, incredulous at the sheer height that they grow to. It's almost impossible to me that anything not built by man could touch the skies. If I weren't seeing them so close, I'd never have believed it.

Grahame, still clad in Enforcer red, notices my awe. "They're birch."

"Sorry?"

He manages a grin, turns his head away as he rests his palm against a trunk. I've noticed that his left hand, the one that would lie beside the gun attached on the Enforcer's belt at his hip, hasn't remained still since he changed into the uniform. The weapon makes him jittery, I can tell he's itching to be rid of it. He has to wait a little longer.

"The trees. They're birch trees. Didn't you pay attention in history?"

I cast my mind back to my life in the orphanage, realise that the only thing I took away from the experience was a resignation about the world I lived in and the ability to knit. The lessons that were offered held no interest for me and I often approached them with a sense of resentment; time stolen from me, moments that I could have spent in solace. I wanted to be alone, in the days where I still wondered what my mother would be like. The other children in the class were intruders of my private imaginings, interrupting pretend conversations with a women I desperately sought a connection with, scenarios that I relived over and over again in my head.

"Not really, I guess I was a dreamer." I confess ruefully.

He snorts gently, stepping over branches that grasp at his ankles. His voice adopts a monotonous tone, strikingly similar to a past teacher of ours and points, his face scowling, all around us.

"The Community is adjacent to a wilderness that constantly threatens our city, children. Birch trees overcrowd space that we need as a society to grow, to adapt, to succeed. According to the history books, there was once a time when forests existed all over the country but today, I can assure you that the numbers have since dwindled to much more manageable sizes, thanks to our government."

There's something about the greenness of it all that bothers me. This must be the impression that The Community has left on me, the constant warnings that it is us versus it, whatever it is. Nature, neighbouring cities, strangers lurking in the shadows of the trees that surrounded the outskirts of our home - the very trees that Grahame and I are hiking through now .

However, the presence of the trees crushing in at us from every direction helps slightly, makes me feel more at home, the nearness a source of comfort rather than claustrophobia. It's eerily quiet here, no bustling or city noises, just the sounds of birds hidden among the leaves above us and the rustle of the wind across the forest floor. It will take me a while to get used to it, presuming I will live that long.

I try to assess my situation. I am four months pregnant with no shelter, no regular food source, limited water and only Grahame and an outdated book to help me give birth. I search for any feeling of worry, fear, anything that will make me doubt our decision but all I know is that I feel a great sense of freedom. We live by no one's rules but our own here.

The knowledge is empowering, so much so that it surprises me. I never realised the strength of my own - and of Grahame's - imprisonment until we were out of it. Living blind all these years, barricaded by our walls that were self-built from being afraid. The government didn't shut us out - we did it to ourselves.

We've walked for what seems hours when Grahame finally calls out for a break. I sigh in relief; the repetitiveness of the forest had started to make my head spin. The trees here are close enough to conceal us so we settle down on a fallen trunk, to plan out what we should do next.

"Priority is protection. We need to build some sort of roof or something - anything to keep the rain out, if it starts. It's important we keep warm, too." Grahame says, swigging from a bottle of water. He holds it out for me but I shake my head, staring down at the woodland floor.

"I can't believe we actually did it." I whisper, turning to look at Grahame. His face, strained with the preoccupation of how to survive in the wilderness, softens at my words.

He allows himself a moment to marvel at our feat, all that urgency and trepidation seeping out of him for a few seconds. His hands find his hair in a familiar habit; they grope hopelessly along the scalp, feeling for a longer length. He is not yet used to this shorter cut. His hands fall to his knees, giving up the search, and the laugh he releases comes out more as an exhalation. It is at this point that I realise he has not yet let himself register all that has happened since we ran out onto the yellow field before the fence.

Grahame, the optimist of the two of us, had not dared to believe we could achieve this much.

With consideration, I choose what I think are the right words, not wanting to be clumsy or impulsive with them. It's imperative that he listens.

"You can't just run on this desire to keep living and not breathe, Grahame. I can read it in your face, you're just checking points off, moving straight onto the next thing when we've accomplished something. If you don't take time to see that every little action matters, you'll just stop caring. We got away! Celebrate our achievements, no matter how small."

He glances up at me, a flicker of blue, then stares at his hands clasped in front of him, his elbows swaying on his knees. He nods as if he's assuring me but it seems more as if he's assuring himself.

"I know that. I'm glad we got out but - I think we should wait till we're somewhere more secure before we celebrate. I don't feel safe yet. Enforcer's could be coming after us right now." he says, looking over his shoulder to emphasize his point.

"That's what the uniform is for. They can't know who's an Enforcer and who isn't. We'll be fine."

He gives me a half smile but it's not enough to pacify my worry for him. My mouth turns down in a frown but he must see that I'm about to argue because he speaks up, tactically switching subjects to draw the attention away from himself.

"You must be hungry. I don't have much, just a few bread rolls that I managed to get from Bob for doing extra runs on my own."

After a quick rummage in the bag, he holds out a stale bread roll for me. I take it begrudgingly, determined to raise the topic again when we find somewhere to sleep.

"So what do we do when the bread runs out?" I ask, tearing the roll in half and handing a portion back to him. He bites out a chunk before he replies, staring wistfully around us.

"We'll have to start looking for animals or something, maybe we can find some rabbits? I know there are wild ones out here, I've seen them sometimes by the fences."

I'm not thrilled by this idea but I see no other options. If we want to make it outside of The Community, we need to adapt.

Before long, we finish our trivial meal and pick up our pace, stopping only for measured sips of water. The sun is starting to set when we finally break through the cluster of birches to come out into the open; it's such a vast, glaring emptiness that I stumble back to clutch at a tree trunk. I've never seen so much space.

Agriculture left us before I was even born, I have no recollection of what this country was like when it prospered. Everything is grown in the cities now and farming is just something that we're told about as children, treated as a sort of local folk-lore. It survives only through memory of those old enough and the remnants we keep in our deserted wilderness; the skeletons of a landscape long gone, made up of dusty, cropless fields. There's nothing much here that we can salvage for our use, except for a speck in the distance that makes my heart leap.

I have to shield my eyes from the sun but I can just about make out the structure, implausible yet utterly unmistakable that it is still standing out here in our no-man's-land.

I turn eagerly to Grahame; he's wiping sweat from his eyes, he hasn't seen it yet. I deliver my question triumphantly, its purpose serving nothing more than to simply share the building's existence with him, to share a wonder. My words are rhetorical, I know that it is no question that he will agree with me when he catches sight of the small silhouette against the horizon.

"Does that look like a building to you?"