"Who's there?" I shout. I am immediately taken aback by the sound of my own voice, so unused to it's low ring.

No answer. I peek out of the door way and see that the room is, in fact, empty of anyone but me.

Slowly, I inch forward, until I reach the shoes. They are brand new. This is clear from the smell, a fresh scent.

I approach them and pick them up, letting them swing gracefully by the shoelaces. Side to side. Left to right.

I watch them swing. It is hypnotising. Impossible to look away. I feel the air blowing softly from the repeated motions. I grip the plunger in one hand and focus my attention on the shoes in the other.

That is until I feel it. A motion behind me. A presence.

Instantly, upon some hidden instinct I didn't know I had, I turn and throw my plunger straight through a person. Or, at least, I think it's a person.

It's a woman. She wears a black dress, with a white overcoat, that looks like a laboratory jacket. A large white pocket sits upon the right side of her chest. Inside it is a notepad and a black pen. Around her face is a gas mask, so I can't identify any of its features. But the mask is charcoal black, and covered in some sort of dust. The pane of plastic covering her eyes is darkened, so that I can barely see them, but what I can see is that they are small, dark, and beady. She is short. My height, but in a pair of black heels that make her taller than she actually is. Her blond hair is gathered up in a tight bun behind her head, not a wisp sticking out. Orderly and neat.

But none of that, not even the mask, is the strangest part about her. The plunger soared right through her, and hit the wall behind, knocking over a picture frame holding a picture of a happy family, one that I no longer remember. One that holds a woman that was my mother, and a man that was my father. Two people that don't exist anymore holding a child in their arms, that used to be me. And now it lies broken on the ground, behind a woman who, I am not sure, is actually solid.

The woman stands there, motionless, staring at me. Despite the fact that I know I shouldn't, I creep closer to her, until I am inches away from her. She stares ahead, unblinkingly, as if right through me. Then I punch, aiming right at her throat, where I know It is a weak spot. But instead of my hand colliding into her, with horrendous force, it passes right through her, and she dissipates away from me, until she is no longer there.

Strange. Where did you go? I think to myself. Who are you? Why are you here? And most importantly, why can't I hurt you?

I turn slowly, intent on heading back towards the comfortable sofa, but instead, jump three feet into the air. The woman that just disappeared before my eyes, is now standing in front of my sofa.

"Who are you?" I growl, trying to sound menacing.

"Activating Holographic Message Initiative number 781. Otherwise known as NWCRRC code 17984201," the woman rumbles in response. Or, at least I think it is her. Even through her mask, it seems as if her voice isn't coming from her, but from somewhere else. Somewhere closer. Somewhere, where I can feel its annoying rumble, right against my rib cage.

I stare down at my mother's radio, and nearly drop it from surprise when it starts to speak again, using the woman's voice. Somehow, she is communicating with me through my mother's old device.

I stare back up at her in shock, and she continues on. "Hello Beatrix, full name Beatrix Algora Dixie, otherwise known as survivor number 9, placard code 17984265, test subject for The Rebirth," The woman stands there, and her jaw isn't moving, as if she isn't talking, yet I know the voice coming from the radio is her's.

I stare at her, then the radio, back and forth, trying to decide if smashing my last memory of my mother into a billion pieces, will make this strange woman go away. I decide against it.

"My name is Aeolia and I am the Head of Rebirth Subjects at NWCRRC. We have been watching you for awhile now," she pauses, as if expecting something of me. I do nothing, unsure of whether she can see anything I do, and afraid that showing shock at the words 'watching you' will be a sign of weakness. She continues talking through the radio in my arms.

"You are our second most promising subject for The Rebirth, capable of surviving on your own, not reliant on anyone else, and depending only on yourself. Intelligence is a great factor for our subjects." There. She says that word again. Subjects. What does that mean?

"We also factor in your ability to survive, and your human instincts to be under control, not impacting your decisions, among other things. Now that we know you are susceptible to the first factor, we need to understand how you react with the second one.

"The door to your home is about to be unlocked," at this I cannot help but react with a gasp, "and you are now free to leave your home. All you need to understand is that the world is different. You must continue to rely on yourself, and no one else. All you need to do is survive."

"Survive what? What is 'The Rebirth'?" I ask, But the blond woman in the gas mask ignores me. Perhaps she can't hear me. But either way, she continues on as if I had not spoken.

"Obstacles and fears will be thrown in your path. Pass those. Survive. Then we will know that you are capable of producing The Rebirth right along with us. We believe in you, Beatrix. We need you to survive and help us make the world better.

"And please keep in mind, the UDH virus is no longer a factor of your test." What does the virus have to do with this? What does it mean, that it was one of the supposed factors?

"Keep your messaging system with you at all times, use the footwear that was sent to you, and survive by yourself. That is all that is required of you.

"This concludes Holographic Message Initiative number 781. Otherwise known as NWCRRC code 17984201 to Beatrix, full name Beatrix Algora Dixie, otherwise known as survivor number 9, placard code 17984265, test subject for The Rebirth." And with that, the woman dissipates once more, as if into thin air, and I am once again left alone with the spiders.

***

"Wait!" I shout, and am again taken back by the sound of my own voice, "Come back! Come back!" I shout to the woman, requiring answers to hundreds of questions. "Come back, damn it!"

But she doesn't come back.

***

I turn to the shoes, which I dropped at some point, and now lay in the corner of the room. Picking them up, I feel the urge to throw them through the window in frustration. But I don't. Instead, something inside of me forces me to bend down and slide them on.

I try my best to tie the laces, although I haven't done that in three years. After several tries, a crooked knot is my result, but it is good enough.

I have no clue what the woman in the gas mask was talking about, but she said that the doors are unlocked. And that is what I am choosing to focus on. Not the gas mask. Not the perfectly slicked back blond hair, almost fake. Not the beady black eyes. Not the fact that she disappears before my eyes and isn't solid enough to be hurt by flying plungers.

Not any of the strange words she said. No, I focus on the one thing that sounds familiar. The doors are unlocked. I am free to leave.

Pulling on my green jacket, I zip it up, and grab the radio with frightful stability. It is as if I am not afraid of the radio that talked for the woman. And I guess I'm not. I'm not afraid of the radio, or the woman, or the fact that something seems off about the fact that she didn't just come to me in person.

Because I am not afraid of anything. I was afraid for my family, a hundred years ago, or what seems like a hundred years. I was afraid of being responsible for someone's death. But I am no longer afraid. They are gone, and dwelling even more on this fact than I have dwelled by myself for three straight years, is of no help to me.

It is hard to be afraid, when there is nothing left to be afraid of.

And that is the way it is for me. Nothing left to be afraid of. Nothing left to love. Nothing left to lose, except myself. Nothing left except the radio in my hands, the jacket on my shoulders, and the faint hope that maybe, possibly, I will see the light of day again.

***

I am ready. At least, I think I am. What is waiting for me out there? Children, running up and down the block? The faint smell of a barbeque, from one of the neighboring houses? The sun, waiting to greet me with a warm embrace, reminding me of all I do not have, and all that I do?

Perhaps out there, I will see my mother and father. Perhaps when I step out that door, I will die and be sent to Heaven where I may possibly be reunited with my family at last.

As slowly as possible, I walk to the door, and let my hand rest on the handle, feeling its cool metal under my fingertips.

Then I turn the handle, open the door, and step into the seathing heat of the sun, in the world I haven't been in for years.

***

It is far too bright out here. My eyes aren't used to the amount of light and heat the sun emits. So instead I crouch on the cement of the front porch, holding my head down to the ground, hugging the radio close to me, and squeezing my eyes shut.

It is too hot. Not at all how I remember the sun to feel. Through the lids of my eyes, I see red. Why is it so bright? Why is it so hot?

I shift the radio to my left hand, and with my right, I tug at my jacket. I am already sweating. I have been out here one minute. One second. I am already sweating.

Something is wrong. I don't live in a warm place. Nothing about Washington state is hot. Even the summer offers a cool breeze and an occasional rain. Something is wrong.

I force myself to open one eye, just a bit. Then the other eye. It is still too bright, but I don't care. With a groan of pain, I open both eyes to the normal amount, and stare into the bright light and heat.

Everything is blurry. I blink. Nothing. I blink again. This time my eyes adjust.

Fire.

***

It surrounds me. Every house that stands on this street is engulfed in red hot flames. Flames that are ten feet high. Twenty feet tall. Fifty feet. Red, dancing, teasing flames, swallow the houses whole until it is not houses engulfed in flames that I see, but rather bits of burnt coal, as big and wide as a house.

I gasp, nearly choking on the humid air. Slowly, I back away, into the frame of my house. I should not go inside. If those houses are on fire, then mine will be too. I should not go inside.

But even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I didn't close the door, but it is closed. Slowly I lift my hand and yank on the handle, which has started to burn up. I wince in pain at the searing heat from the metal, but still try to open the door.

It doesn't budge.

I kick it, punch it, yank and yank, but nothing happens. My door has been locked and I didn't lock it.

I turn to face the flames, the wretched flames that seemed to have grown in seconds, and sink to the ground, pulling myself closer to the door.

Is this how I am going to die? Surviving the UDH virus, but dying the day it is over and my freedom returned?

I grab hold of my knees and tuck them into my chest, hurting myself by placing the radio in between. I press my eyes into my knees, trying to see dark instead of the flames I can see even with my eyes closed. It doesn't help.

Then I hear a clatter. Opening my eyes just a bit, I see a dagger lying on the ground before me, just a foot away. Before I can stop myself my hands reach out and grab the dagger, which is somehow cool, even in the heat. It's blade is long and clean, reflecting the light bouncing off the fire. The grip is black, with some sort of embroidery in it, holding a few letters I can't decipher. Get up, Beatrix, a voice in my head tells me. Get up.

I don't know what I am doing, listening to the stupid voice in my head, but I get up, pressing my back against the door the entire time.

Now run Beatrix. Run out of this neighborhood and further away from town. To the fields. Run to the fields.

Just a mile out of my neighborhood stood some fields, where children used to play games. Beyond those fields are the woods. My mind has never been stupider. Where there is wood, there is food for the fire. If this neighborhood is on fire, the woods most definitely are too.

But I listen to the voice. I stumble off the front steps and take off, knife in one hand radio in the other.

I run, with my jacket zipped up, containing the heat already consuming the world, closer to my body. I run, keeping as firm a grip as I possibly can allow on the radio, and a careful eye on the knife that appeared out of thin air. I run, past the flaming houses, past the school I used to go to, now covered in fire, and past the shops, streets, buildings, stores, and homes that are all simultaneously burning.

What is going on? Why is everything on fire?

And despite my mind, urging me to stop, I keep on running to the place I know is the field. The little voice in my head is telling me not to stop. Telling me that soon, I will be safe.

And when I reach the field, I am disappointed to see that the fire has reached it too. But I don't focus on my disappointment long, for behind the field filled with flames, I can see the woods. And for some insane reason, they aren't on fire.

Beatrix, run through the flames. Run through them, and you can get to the woods. The little voice inside my head cooes for me to do something death-defying. And I am stupid enough to listen.

So I push back the vomit, making its way up my throat at the thought of running through the field, and run.

The flames nip me and lick me, as I run through them, but it is too late to turn around now. Now all I can do is run. So I do. I push through it, feeling the pain sting my arms through my rough jacket and my legs through my thin leggings.

And then I am there. The flames no longer on me, but behind me, on the field. And I am in the forest. I don't know how to explain the fact that the fire isn't catching onto the woods, but I venture farther into the forest, not bearing to look back at the haunting world behind me.

I walk, slowly dragging my burnt limbs behind me. The trees I pass are tall as skyscrapers, and the forest extends so deep that I cannot see where it ends.

I walk like this for a while. Noticing my surroundings, trying to calm myself, but to no avail.

Finally, after what seems like hours of walking, my breaths begin to even. I turn around to see that the flames from the city are no longer visible, so I sink down to the ground and lean against a tree.

I am tired. Too tired to move. Too tired to think about all the strange stuff that has happened to me today. Too tired to keep my eyes open for another second. So I fall asleep.

***

I awake to the sound of branches cracking and stand up. Pain shoots through my side at my sudden gesture, but I raise the knife that has somehow remained in my hand, ready to slice open whatever jumps out at me. It is dark outside, except for a thin orange light on the horizon, which I assume isn't coming from the sun, but from the fire.

Nothing. No sound. No noise. I breathe a sigh of relief, ready to turn around and head back to the tree and continue to rest, but then I feel something cool pressed into my throat. Something made of metal, a dagger. And I feel a large arm grab me from behind.

"Don't move," A deep, low voice cautions from behind me, so close, as if pressed against my ear, "or I won't hesitate to slice."

So what did you guys think of this one? Omg I had so much fun writing it! You met two very important characters in this one!

I wanted to tell you guys that a trailer for this book is currently being made and that I revised the cast list due to footage for the trailer!

The new Axel Finnegan is played by Theo James.

Okay bye guys! Love you! I will post the next one tomorrow! Or at least try!♡