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One

Matri

The old-timers speak of the before days, when the earth had color They speak of fresh green grasses, cal toward a yellow sun They talk of a ti But I know better than to listen to their fairy tales; to the fictions conjured by withered old men

There’s no green in the world I know No blue No sunny yellow In fact, there’s no sun at all in the Krovgorod labor camp

The past, the present, the future—everything is gray

Ashes cling to the air, the sky, the skeletal landscape They coat et used to the acrid taste, gritty texture, and suffocating scent You beco death

I tell the children that the constant rain of ash is a result of the war I don’t o The lies fall so easily frohten the the Troika loves more than blood, it’s the flavor of terror in the vein

I’ray isn’t the only color here In the Troika’s world, only one hue is equally revered and feared—the deep red of venous blood

I used to be a person, but now I am a slave All humans are The undead are our ed to survive the war are as good as dead

Two

Zed

I stood before the hunting party, issuing last-e of twelve was allowed to hunt, but I decided to bring along six-year-old Blue, and eight-year-old Mica, so I could begin training them

“When the hairs on your neck stand up, you run like hell Dig?”

Blue nodded enthusiastically To her, this was a game, like hide and seek I’d have to keep an eye on her Mica tipped his chin to acknowledge my words The solemnity of his expression told me he wouldn’t be a proble her knife on a sliver of whetstone I didn’t call her out, because I knew she heard every word As my second-in-command—and, at sixteen, the second oldest in our camp—she kne to handle herself in the Badlands

“Re kill unless you kno to get it back to camp Fill your pockets and whatever else you have with berries, but don’t eat any of theet back and one of the elders can inspect them”

“Yes, Pa,” they mumbled

I looked out over my wards and tried to feel optiood hunt Winter was co and our stores were low If we didn’t have a lucky hunt soon, I was sure I’d lose a good portion of the young ones before full frost

“Let’s head out”

I slipped my tire iron into the rubber belt I’d made out of an old bicycle tire tube A knifefrom my other hip As the lead hunter, Bravo carried a quiver of arrows, a bow, and a knife she’d fashioned out of spring steel salvaged from an abandoned car

The afternoon sky was clear, and the host low on the horizon In the distance, s blue sky A naïve eye ht choose to believe they were just birds, but I knew better Those black wings belonged to the Troika’s bat drones Norht of the robotic spies would cause a cry of alar in the other direction

I tucked a snare into ht years earlier, back before the hen e over a river whose na around a fullWe’d roasted the one we caught on a spit over an open flame It was the best meal I’d ever eaten It was also the last one we’d shared Four days after that trip, the war began One e he’d passed on and a handbook on wilderness survival to keep me alive

“Zed,” Bravo said in a low tone, coht

Between the two of us, we protected a band of sixteen youngs, ranging in ages from four to fourteen They called us Pa and Ma because they didn’t know any better; we tried our best to fulfill those roles, even though we knew better

“I think we should split up,” she said in a low tone