It takes us hours.
I wish I could say it was because we had so much to load up.
But it's not.
The truth is that we don't know how to drive the thing. We don't know what any of the buttons do. We figure out, after some trial and error and a few heart-stopping moments, that it can move forward, backward, turn, and go up and down.
The up and down is...unfortunately not very much. It seems to be more of an adjustment to the height of the thing when it's carrying cargo. So we can't do much with that.
But it's still better than nothing.
The difficulty lies in the process of loading it. We have to be careful not to overload it, not to unbalance it, not to make it too heavy to move. We have to tie everything down, secure it as best we can, hoping it doesn't all come tumbling off when we hit a bump.
The food is easy enough to find. The water, too. There are crates of both, stacked high on the shelves. But the other supplies... the weapons, the tools, the things that could be useful... they're harder to identify.
I'm standing in front of a crate, my fingers tracing the alien script on the side, my brow furrowed in concentration. I have no idea what's inside, no way of knowing if it's something we can use or something that's completely useless to us.
Alistair is on the other side of the depot, his movements quick, efficient. He seems to have a better eye for this kind of thing, a better sense of what's valuable and what's not.
I hear him swear under his breath, the sound loud in the quiet of the depot. I look over, curious, and see him staring at a crate, his expression a mixture of disgust and anger.
"What is it?" I ask, moving over to him.
He doesn't answer right away, his eyes fixed on the crate. Then he reaches in, pulling out a small, metallic device. It's about the size of my palm, with a series of buttons on one side and a small, pointed end on the other.
"What... is that?" I ask, my voice a low, confused murmur.
He turns it over in his hand, his expression grim. "It's a brand," he says, his voice a low, bitter growl. "They use them to mark us. To show that we've been... trained."
I stare at the device, a cold, hard lump forming in my stomach. A brand. Like we're cattle. Like we're property.
I reach out, my fingers closing around the device. It's cold, heavy, the metal smooth and unyielding. I can imagine it, the heat of it against my skin, the pain, the humiliation.
"We should destroy it," I say, my voice a low, fierce hiss. "We should destroy all of them."
Alistair nods, his eyes hard. "...Yeah." He looks back into the crate, then looks around. "...It'll take too long to do it, though. There's at least three crates of these."
He reaches in, pulls one out, and with effort, snaps it in half. "...See?" He holds it up, showing it to me. "It's not easy to break, either. We don't have that kind of time."
"...Then put it aside. Right now, we need to focus on what we can bring. I don't know how many more hours we've got before their morning shift starts, and I don't want to cross the desert in the daytime." I grimace. "We'll find a way to destroy them later."
He nods, tossing the broken device aside with a clatter. "Right. We can't use this stuff, anyway."
There's a moment of silence, the two of us looking at the crate of brands, a silent, shared hatred passing between us.
Then I turn away, my mind already moving on to the next task, the next problem. We don't have time to dwell on the past, on the injustices, on the pain. We have to focus on the present. On surviving this moment. On making it to the next.
We finish loading up the transport, the last of the crates and containers secured as best as we can. It's a hodgepodge collection of supplies, a mix of things we hope will be useful, things we might be able to use.
It's not much, but it'll keep us from the edge of oblivion for a bit. It's a start.
And that's enough for now.
We stand back, looking at our handiwork, the transport a strange, ungainly sight in the middle of the depot. It's loaded high, the supplies teetering precariously, but it's as good as we can do.
"So... You sure this thing goes fast enough to get away with it?"
"Goes pretty damn fast, yeah." He settles a hand on his hip. "Might be a bit slower with all that on it though." He sighs. "It's going to have to be enough."
"...I guess it is."
We share a look, and then we move toward the door. It's time to go. Time to get out of here before we're discovered, before it's too late.
I push the button to open the door, my heart in my throat, my body tense, ready for anything.
But nothing happens.
The door doesn't open.
"Damn..." I murmur.
I'm sure that I'm right. There's an easy way to get this door open. But like the transport, it means I'll have to press all the buttons until I figure it out.
Well, at least it won't take hours.
"Everything alright?" Alistair walks over to me, his voice low, his expression tense.
"The door..." I start to say, then stop as I hear a sound from outside. A low, rhythmic thumping, like footsteps.
They're coming.
I press a button, then another, then a third, my fingers moving quickly, frantically, over the control pad. I can hear the footsteps getting closer, louder, more insistent.
"Come on, come on..." I mutter, my voice a desperate prayer.
The footsteps stop at the door.
There's a pause, a moment of silence that feels like an eternity. Then a voice, a low, guttural sound that's unmistakably alien.
Damn it.
They're outside now, and I can't tell if they're just passing by or they're there for the rest of the day.
I turn to glance around the room. Is there another exit...? I don't know. I hadn't planned on having to use it.
I see Alistair standing by the transport, his expression grim, his eyes fixed on the door. He's ready to fight, to go down swinging.
Of course he is.
He signed up for a suicide mission, I'm sure he'd love a fight.
I...
I'm angry. So angry.
But I'm not ready to die.
I don't want to die.
I'm not ready to give up yet. I'm not ready to let them win.
My eyes fall on the gun tucked into my waistband, the cold metal a reminder of the power I hold, the choice I have.
I can fight.
Or I can do something else.
"Get on the transport." I say, my voice a low, firm command.
Alistair looks at me, his eyes narrowing. "What are you doing?"
"You want to die, or get out of here?" I ask, my tone leaving no room for argument.
He hesitates, then nods, moving to the transport, his body tense, ready for whatever comes next.
I can't promise that we won't die.
But I can promise to make it hurt them, just a little.
I sprint over to the transport, getting on it as it hums to life beneath me. I look around, my eyes searching for the right target, the right moment.
And then I see it.
A stack of metal drums, tucked away in a corner of the depot. I don't know what's inside them, but I can guess. Fuel. Explosives. Something that burns.
Perfect.
I aim the gun, my finger on the trigger, my heart hammering in my chest.
This is it.
This is our chance.
"Be ready." I say, glancing to Alistair, whose hands hover over the controls. "As soon as it's open, go."
"You'd better hold on, then." He shoots back, a smirk on his lips.
The door starts to open, the light from the rising sun spilling into the depot, blinding, harsh.
I fire.
The shot echoes in the small space, loud, deafening. The drum explodes, a ball of fire erupting from it, the force of the blast throwing me back against the wall of supplies we built behind me, knocking the wind out of me.
The door is blown off its hinges, the wall around it buckling, collapsing outward. Flames lick at the edges, smoke billowing into the sky.
I can hear shouts of alarm, the sound of running feet, but it's all distant, muffled, drowned out by the ringing in my ears.
Alistair hits the controls, and the transport lurches forward, the sudden movement jarring. I barely manage to wrap my arm around his torso to hold on, my body pressed against his, the supplies shifting precariously behind us.
The transport isn't designed to go up very high, but apparently it uses flaming impromptu ramps well. We're lifted up, up, up, the ground falling away beneath us, the flames a bright, blinding inferno below.
We're out.
We're free.
I look over my shoulder. In the gaps behind the shifting boxes of supplies behind us, I can barely catch that the flames are spreading across the warehouse with shocking speed.
"Sarah!" Alistair snaps.
Ahead, there are orange-yellow aliens, charging us.
We're fast moving, I'd think they'd get out of the way, but they don't seem to have any fear. My stomach twists with the sudden realization that they might have some way of turning this thing off, stopping us in our tracks and preventing us from leaving this damn place.
I can hear the screaming.
The screeching metal.
Sinead's screams.
I can see Ivan's blood.
Eric's eyes.
Mia's smile.
Eric-
I point the gun past Alistair's face. I've never fired a gun at a living thing before. I've never wanted to kill anyone.
I scream as I pull the trigger, a guttural, raw sound of pure rage.
I'm not thinking about the aliens.
I'm not.
All I can think is that if they stop us, I'll die here. Hestia will die. The people back at the cave will die. They'll all die and Eric and Mia will-
Will what?
I don't know.
I don't care.
I just pull the trigger.
And pull it again.
Again.
Again.
I fire until there's nothing in front of us.
We crash past the open gate of the supply depot, moving fast enough that the metal crumples behind us.
The wind whips past us, a cool, refreshing balm against the heat of the flames, the heat of my anger.
We're away.
We're alive.
I look at Alistair, my chest heaving, my eyes wild. He's looking at me, his expression a mixture of surprise, respect, and something else... something that looks almost like admiration.
"Remind me to never get on your bad side," he says, his voice a low, amused murmur.
I don't answer.
I just hold on to his waist and look back at the burning depot.
The fire is spreading, the flames eating away at the building, at the supplies, at everything.
"...I hope they all burn."
The words are venomous.
Hateful.
Full of rage I've never even heard before.
...They're mine. And I can't even recognize them.
Alistair is quiet for a moment, before he rasps. "Every single fucking one of them."