Fog Read Free

torture. Kids from poor parents had to work in the fields from dawn to dusk to put enough food on the table. When winter came, it often proved insufficient, though.
    I think of the first day of my apprenticeship and almost stumble over my own feet. What a shock it was when Runner led me to an aircraft the size of…of…heck, I don’t even have a comparison. The thing was at least fifty metres long and produced so much noise that my ears screeched for minutes after I climbed into its belly. When it took off, I thought I would die from terror. And all Runner did was to calmly place his rifle on the floor and show me how to aim, how to hold the stock steady, and how to exhale and pull the trigger.
    I’ll have to shoot people soon. I know it’s going to be members of the BSA — a bunch of sickos with the goal of eradicating all humans. They believe that God (or whoever wants us all gone) sent the Great Pandemic to get rid of us, because apparently he believes his latest job — the creation of humans — has turned out to be sort of unsatisfactory. Since the course of the Great Pandemic was unsatisfactory as well, considering three million of us survived the disease and the ensuing wars, the BSA feels compelled to help God bring an end to all human life. I don’t know what they think God will do after that. Start from scratch and have another unsatisfactory result?
    So…to save lives I’ll have to take lives, and that’s what Runner teaches me. I don’t want to think of my first time. I really don’t. But I can’t help it. He’s told me that his custom-built suppressed .50 calibre rifle doesn’t just plop holes into people — it rips them apart at a maximum range of two-thousand five-hundred metres and a muzzle velocity of one thousand metres per second.
    My own rifle is a suppressed .357 calibre highly accurized rifle with a maximum range of one-thousand five hundred metres. The thing can punch voids into folks. A shot to the head would tear half the skull off. I don’t know how I’ll keep my eyes open when a man is in my finder and I squeeze the trigger.
    Although my rifle is much lighter than Runner’s, the thing weighs heavy in my hand now. My pack carries fifteen kilograms, and half of that is a bag of the rice Yi-Ting packed with a grin. No, I’m not attempting to suffocate my enemies with grass seeds. I’m exercising. Endurance, Runner calls it. Fuck it. I can endure a lot of shit. I’ve starved every third or fourth winter. I’ve seen people die from bloody coughs and infected wounds no matter how much I helped our physician with infusions, cold wraps, and broth. I’ve had my hands in blood up to my elbows when I saved Runner’s life. And I saw my brother die.
    I wipe the last thought away and focus on running. He wants me to run a certain distance in a certain time. No idea which numbers he mentioned precisely and I don’t really care. I give my best and that’s all there is. He knows that, anyway.
    I’m not complaining. I had a whole night’s sleep and the sweetest girl on the island is with me. She thinks Runner is treating me too harshly. He can treat me much harsher if it makes Yi-Ting run with me.
    Her bare feet tread lightly in the sand. I stare at the swing of her narrow hips and her long black hair that is so shiny one would think it’s bathed in oil. Maybe she can guess I’m watching.
    As long as the ground isn’t freezing, I prefer to be barefooted. Here in the subtropics, there’s no reason for me to squeeze into footwear. Boots make my toes useless for balancing and my footfalls get loud and clunky. But in moments such as this, I’m reminded of how much more vulnerable naked feet are — I have to watch out to not break my ankles. The dark-grey rocks are round and slippery. The sea washes over them, allowing algae to grow on the surface and mussels in the cracks between. I’m pretty slow and can’t focus on anything but my feet and where to place them. Once I reach soft sand,