The Cellar: A Post-Apocalyptic Novella by Richard Dela Cruz Page A

fear pricked at the corners of his mind and tried to drive its way in. In his peripheral vision, he saw figures lurking, but when he whipped his head around to look, they disappeared. He sighed. A trick of the light. But a few more yards into the forest, he saw a green glow coming from the trees ahead. It didn’t flicker like a torch; it remained steady. He had never seen anything like it.
    The eerie glow sent cold dread through his body. A ghostly figure seemed to move out from behind a tree, and he turned away and bolted as fast as his lungs could bear. Terror fueled his mad dash as he imagined the specter floating just above—about to swoop down and snatch him. The trees melted into fleeting blurs as he barreled his way through. Low lying branches whipped his face and arms as he kept on running. Roots threatened to trip him at every turn. He staggered and almost fell when he stubbed his toe on one of the larger ones. It was as if the entire forest had conspired to attack him.
    Relief washed over him when he finally broke through the maze of trunks, though he kept on running until he was far enough away from the trees. He bent down and heaved in several mouthfuls of air. Behind him, the forest was a black outline against the evening sky. No green light was visible and nothing pursued him.
    Now that he was out of the forest, he could think clearly, logically. As his heart rate slowed, he began to doubt that he’d seen the strange ripples or the cloaked figure lurking in the trees. Maybe it was just the fatigue brought on by the hunt. He’d pushed himself too hard and probably just needed a long rest.
    He released a sigh when he saw firelight in the distance and columns of chimney smoke rising up from his village.As he got closer, he recognized the pile of rocks encircling the settlement—the bones of former dwellings blasted in a long forgotten disaster. The wall was about ten feet high, a bulwark against the terrors of the open wasteland. He always felt protected whenever he was inside it. It kept safe everything dear to him—kept everything from wasting away like the rest of the landscape. He loved his village because he never felt the need to guard his back. The comforting wall of rubble did that for him.
    He approached a rusted iron gate covering the rock wall’s only entrance. Just a few more steps and he’d finally be home. He would find his cot, lie down, and sleep away the fear and the weariness. He placed his hand on the gate and was about to enter when a red-haired young man wearing a patched leather jacket swung it open. He seized Daren by the throat and flashed a knife. Daren struggled against the man’s grip, but when he felt the blade press under his chin, he froze in place.
    “You’ve got some nerve trying to barge in here.” The man pushed his thumb against Daren’s windpipe. “Who sent you?”
    Daren responded with a faint wheezing noise.
    “Who sent you!” the man repeated.
    “Logan, it’s me,” Daren managed to croak out.
    Horror came over his attacker’s features. He released Daren and retreated a step back, dropping his knife as he let his arm hang limp by his side. Daren glowered at him while he rubbed the area under his chin where the knife drew blood.
    “Daren! I didn’t recognize you.”
    Daren narrowed his eyes at him. “I couldn’t have changed that much in two days.”
    “It was dark and you look pretty dirty and messed up.” Logan looked at him from head to foot. “I thought you were a raider.”
    A tall woman in her early thirties wearing a blue overcoat rushed over to where they both stood. Her raven hair, which had a few strands of gray, was tied up in a long braid. She wore an eye patch and a long white scar marred the right side of her face.
    “Are you all right?” She pressed both hands against Daren’s cheeks.
    “I’m fine,” he said.
    She hugged him tightly and stroked his hair. He shut his eyes and fervently prayed that none of the village girls were