I awoke pleasantly warm. This was nice, this warmth after being so cold. Smiling deliriously, I snuggled deeper into the warmth until my thoughts suddenly flew toward, shattering my confused and disoriented bliss.

My brother.

The plane crash.

My falling out of a fucking plane.

Adrenaline caused me to shoot up and my eyes to fly open, and I hissed as the quick movement generated a sharp, stabbing pain in my ribs. Panic started to grip me, but I took several calming breaths and focusing my mind on what needed to be done. Plane. I'd fallen out of a plane, so I needed to account for my injuries, wee how bad off I was.

Ribs first. Some of my ribs were broken, probably my left fifth and sixth. Groaning in pain, I wiggled my legs. They seemed to be fine, but when I tested my arms, I found my left arm, likely my ulna, also broken. Still wincing, I looked down to see my injured arm wrapped in a crude cast. Finally, I gently moved my head, which I only just realized was bandaged. Miraculously, I didn't feel as though the concussion I had suffered was too severe. I didn't have any disorientation or nausea or sensitivity to light. .

I would heal from all of this.

Probably.

Injuries accounted for, I then assessed my location. I was lying on a couch in front of a stone fireplace in what appeared to be a hand-hewn log cabin. There wasn't a soul around, and I heard no sounds of life, but the roaring fire and my tended-to injuries told me someone had to be here.

Quickly, before whoever had set my cast could return, I searched for a weapon. I needed protection until I could figure out what was happening. Groaning, I settled on the heaviest item within reach, a solid ashtray filled with pipe residue from the coffee table in front of me. Thick-soled boots soon pounded on the porch, their wearer probably clearing snow from them before entering the cabin. I didn't have time to seek cover, so I laid back down and remained as still as possible. At the very least, pretending to still be unconscious would give me a moment to observe the person who might or might not be an enemy.

The front door opened, letting in a blast of bone chillingly cold air and revealing a male figure wrapped in multiple layers of moth-eaten coats. As he shed the layers and hung the coats on a rack next to the door, I identified the weathered face of an old man.

He turned and smiled warmly at me as I watched suspiciously through slitted eyelids.

"You're awake, child."

I didn't know how he knew instinctively that I was awake, but that he'd picked up on my consciousness without my moving an inch unsettled me. Soon, the man's kind eyes fell on the ashtray clutched in my small fist. He smiled again before speaking.

"There's no need for that, kid. You don't need to worry about me."

I kept the ashtray anyway and blinked my eyes fully open, regarding the old man warily as he moved next to the fireplace and threw another log on. His actions sent up a shower of sparks. Smiling as he stoked the fire with an iron rod, he spoke in the strained, crackly voice of someone who was a heavy smoker.

"You're one lucky kiddo. I tell ya' what. A fall from that height could easily a' killed a full-grown man."

Finally, I spoke, wincing at how strained and reed thin my voice was. "You saw me fall?"

The figure shrugged and returned the iron poker to its rack.

"Kind of. Lucky for you, I was drivin' back from town. I heard somethin' loud, stopped the truck and went to check. I hiked a couple a miles then ran into you, a tiny little thing in the snow. Brought you back and fixed ya right up."

At the facility, I had studied a little bit of linguistics, including sociolinguistics. Our trainers told us this was because we were going to have to fight monsters all over the world. We needed to be proficient in languages. This guy's speech was unique, though. The way his tongue rolled over words as if he was tasting them as he spoke... he had the thickest Appalachian accent I had ever encountered, which meant I had a little trouble figuring out what the fuck he'd said at first.

Unaware of my difficulty comprehending his words, the guy, now satisfied by the state of the fire, stood, his knees cracking audibly with the movement.

"Found ya. About 15 miles away, I saw the smoke from that downed plane a' yourin. I brought ya' back here and patched ya' up. Jus' got back from checkin' out the wreck. There ain't much left of it. Jus' smolderin' remains and a trail of debris. I did find these, though."

He hobbled over to his outer coat and dug into one pocket, knocking snow off the garment in the process before producing some scraps of metal that he showed me. They were stamped with the seal of the Department of Defense.

"Also found that near ya'." He said, gesturing to a darkened corner where I now noticed my backpack, "Don't worry, kiddo. I ain't opened it."

"Where are we?"

"My home at the edge of the Gates of the Arctic National Park." He stopped speaking and limped over to an armchair, and I watched curiously as he sat with an aged sigh. After clearing his throat, he picked up a pipe, packed it, and lit it, taking a few deep puffs before continuing, "What's your name, darlin'?"

"30B." I spoke without thinking of the consequences. This man didn't need to know my name. I didn't know if he was even safe, and I flushed with shame that I'd so easily given up my identity to an old stranger with a thick accent that I could barely understand.

"What the hell kinda name is that?" He asked between long puffs on his pipe, wrinkled face betraying his amusement as his lips turned up into a toothy grin.

Relaxing slightly, I lowered the ashtray slowly, sitting up with some pain so that I could place the thing back onto the coffee table, but I still didn't take my eyes off of him. I didn't trust the guy. At least not yet.

"It's the only name I have. What's your name?"

"Robert Short, but most times everyone calls me Pop."

"What does the nickname Pop have to do with Robert?"

"Well, Bob is short for Robert. My buddies started a' callin' me Pop back in Nam. I'd get high on opium, then fly my damn Douglas A-4 Skyhawk upside down more en' right-side up. If you flip 'bob' upside down and backwards, it's 'pop'." He looked at me as if suddenly realizing I was there, "Sorry, darlin'. That probably ain't a good story to tell a little one."

I shook my head, wincing as the movement caused me pain. "I liked your story. What's a 'Douglas Skyhawk'?"

He puffed more, sending up clouds of dark smoke before answering my question. "It's a military jet, child. Used it to fly missions over North Vietnam during the war."

I nodded. "So it's a weapon?"

"I used it as a weapon, but that ain't what it was. It was a plane. We pilots was the ones that used it for killing."

I thought for a moment about what he said, letting his words and smoke wash over me as I grew a little dizzy from my head hurting. "I've never met anyone like you, Pop."

"Ain't you go no papaw back home?"

I shook my head again, having already forgotten that moving made me hurt more. "We don't have families like other humans."

Thinking back on it now, that was such a strange thing for a ten-year-old to say that anyone but Pop would have shown their confusion, but Pop was Pop. Nothing fazed him. He simply nodded and continued puffing away. We sat in silence, listening to the fire crackle, and I leaned back on the couch, feeling my eyelids growing heavy. At one point, I looked over to find Pop opening his mouth to speak further, only to be interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approaching from a distance.

Despite my injuries, conditioning took over, and I lithely dove for my backpack, reaching with my good arm for the dirk I knew was in the left side pocket. Now armed, I assumed a fighting stance and whirled around to face the door before looking back at the old man. I didn't know who was more dangerous. The people coming in the helicopter or the old man. Perhaps they were working together, and I was stupid enough to let my guard down.

Well, I couldn't go back there. I couldn't go back to Imhullu. Never again. They'd kill me, surely. Like they'd killed my brother. Like--

Pop was now on his feet and taking in my wild-eyed expression and panted, pained breathing with a look of alarm all his own. Slowly, as if he didn't want to frighten me, the man put down his pipe and held up his hands, palms flat as if he was showing me he was unarmed.

"Woah, woah, darlin'. They ain't no need to go all Rambo on me. What's wrong. You was fine a minute ago."

I panicked, hearing the breathlessness in my voice as I thought about being dragged back there. They'd shove me into the helicopter, probably restrain me. Then they'd throw me into isolation while they decided on a punishment. Probably extermination.

"It's them! They're coming for me."

"What are you talkin' bout,' child?"

"The helicopter! Can't you hear it?"

"I don't hear nothin'." But, after a few seconds of quiet, the only sounds my labored breathing and the crackle fire, the old man tilted his head to the side. "Well, I'll be damned, kiddo. I do hear somethin' out there."

Rather than panicking like me, Pop calmly walked over and grabbed my bag from the corner.

"Don't you worry, kiddo. Come over to this closet here."

I didn't know whether or not I could trust him, but as I took in his frail frame and kind eyes, I realized I was far better off trusting him than pushing my luck with whoever was in the helicopter. Still terrified about the prospect of being recaptured, I followed him to the door of a closet. Pop placed my backpack on the ground so that he could open the door and shuffle around some boxes. Once he was done, he straightened his back and smacked the dirt off his hands. Biting my lip, I looked down to see a trapdoor, which Pop then opened to reveal an empty yet sizable concrete crawlspace.

"Hop in there, kiddo. Now, don't say nothin'. Don't even move."

Shaking, I contemplated refusing, looking down at the knife still clutched in my hand and breathing deeply. I had to trust this guy. It was my only option. But I was keeping my knife with me. Reluctantly, I nodded and crawled into the space, ignoring the pain in my body that all this moving around was causing. Once I was settled, Pop handed me my backpack.

"What are you going to do?" I said, my body fighting to adjust to the chill in the small space.

"Well, kiddo, I've seen a lot in my day, but I ain't never seen no little kids droppin' out of the sky. Somethin' ain't right about this. You've been hurt by more than fallin' out of a plane, I can tell ya' that. And, no little one should be able to move as quick as you can."

As he spoke, he gestured to me. "And, I saw all them scars all over ya, too. And that bar code tattoo ya got. Whatever they done, it ain't right. They did something to ya,' kid. And if that's them at the door, I ain't gonna let them take ya back. I promise."

He smiled, and I suddenly got the sense that nothing could ever shake this man. "Just hide here. I got us a plan." I didn't have time to speak before he closed the trapdoor. As I heard boxes being placed over the trapdoor, I tried to still calm myself down while I huddled like a coward in that space, wrapping myself around the backpack that my brother had given me. I really hoped that the old man had a good plan, but what could an old man do against genetically engineered Hunters and the American military? In reality, probably both myself and Pop would be dead soon, and I wiped angrily at my tears as I squeezed my eyes closed. It didn't matter. I could see almost nothing in the darkened crawlspace, even with my enhanced vision. So, I just let the darkness envelop me. At least if I died, I'd probably find my brother in the afterlife.

If afterlives actually existed, that was.