John Murphy cut through the forest with bleary eyes and a stolen machete. He had returned to the woods that very same morning – he took several hours to blink away the dust of the Dead Zone. The Lighthouse was far behind him, a faded point along the narrow path of his history – and between each image laid a thousand shades of human life and death.
Murphy stopped by a brook and refilled his canisters, all depleted from his journey, then stored them away in his backpack. He stole it from the Lighthouse: it was frayed from trek through the Dead Zone and patched with various skins. Suddenly, Murphy saw a flicker of movement from his peripherals. He shot up, firearm in hand, and walked to the edge of the brook. He stood listened, working his toes into the worn soles of his shoes, and strained to make out fading footsteps. Huh. Well, that didn’t take long. His mouth drew into a tight line; he grabbed his stuff and idly followed in the general direction.
Little did he know that the footsteps belonged to a skittish
sky person, who immediately sprinted back to Camp and grabbed Bellamy’s
attention. “It’s Murphy,” she insisted,
feeling somewhat delirious. Most people assumed that Murphy was dead. “I saw
him. Only him—not the others. He’s back.”
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