Chris had insisted that something was wrong, or that something was about to be, since the moment the first colors began to tumble across the sky. He had even go so far as to pack everything into the bags, much to Pj's annoyance, "just in case".

Dan, for one, had been fully supportive, if a little annoyed. After all, he had been pressuring the others to start moving for weeks. If only he had known that it was just as simple as stuffing everything into the packs and threatening to leave without them.

They had only been walking for a few hours when they decided, unanimously and wearily, to stop for a break. After so long without constant movement, they were all sore and slow.

No one talked. Pj leaned against Chris and quickly fell asleep, and taking up what little energy remained to speak seemed like an impossible feat to the other three. Instead, they sat in silence, chewing numbly on the bits of dried meat they had collected and losing themselves to their own thoughts.

For those moments, all was peaceful. The silence between the friends was something familiar, a comfort that, if only for a short amount of time, allowed them to forget the world beyond, and the dangers that lay ahead.

But then, Pj's even breathing stuttered. His eyes flared open, widening in panic as he sat up hastily. With a shaky voice, he said, "Something's coming."

In a second, the rest heard it too. The low, quick whirring sound that was all too familiar to them. The one normally associated with robots, fans, or, more commonly, Hangers.

They all jumped up, clumsily throwing supplies over their shoulders. Later, they promised themselves, there'd be more time to fight over who had to carry what later. But in the moment, they couldn't afford to allow petty arguments over who was hauling more weight to let them drag behind. Dan and Pj, the strongest of the group, carried the most and heaviest bags, and Chris and Phil (a former engineer and nurse, useless with weights), grabbed one or two others, filled only with clothes and knick-knacks.

The whirring got closer, and suddenly the machines burst through the leaves. The metal, mismatched, as ugly as they all recalled, was dull even in the sun, reflecting the light no better than a black hole would.

They all ran, sprinting and falling and stumbling back up again—no one could even exchanged panicked glances, lest the ground slip beneath their feet and send them tumbling forward—even as they went, they could feel them getting closer, hear the loud clicks and beeps like the machines were talking in an alien language.

Next to Phil, Chris stumbled. Out of impulse, he reached to help his friend, but the other was back up before he could even fully turn back. "Go," Chris urged, pushing Phil forward, roughly, but not so much that he would fall, "don't mind me."

But then it happened again. And again. And Phil could tell that Chris had been lying when he said his leg was fine to walk on, that it caused him no pain whatsoever. Because it did—you could tell in the erratic way he walked, how his left leg seemed to stutter before rising into the air again with each step; how, when they had stopped for a break, he hadn't complained, or even brought up the possible danger of staying.

Phil had noticed these signs; they all had, however slightly. But no one had really thought anything of it, until it was too late.

They had just reached the top of a hill when Chris fell. This time, he couldn't get up, and even Dan and Pj came sprinting back, faces red, barely able to ask what was wrong through their pants.

"It's my leg," Chris admitted. Tears were streamed down his face, and he couldn't help but grunt in pain as he reached back for his bag. He pulled out a knife, one that they usually used to slice the meat. "You guys go on. I can fend them off, or at least buy you a little time."

"Chris—"

"No, Dan. If I keep going, I'm just going to fall again, and you're all going to get in a load of shit. I'm a dead man already."

"Guys," Phil warned, "we don't have time to argue this. C'mon, I can carry him." He reached to do so, but the other boy pushed him away.

"Please, don't."

"We aren't leaving you." Dan grabbed his own weapon, a small switchblade that would be useless in a fight, against any foe. Pj and Phil followed his example, pulling out their own small blades, chins set in determination.

The Hangers crested the hill, flying towards them with terrifying swiftness. "Go," Chris begged, pushing himself up unsteadily. "All I want is for you to be safe, alright? We can't all die here. Someone has to remember."

"Dan—"

"Pj, how could you even consider—?"

"It's what he wants."

"My last wish, Dan, please." Chris wiped away the last of his tears, looking at each of his friends in a way that was almost wistful, like he was trying to memorize their features.

Without waiting to indulge into the argument further, Chris sprinted forward, suddenly rejuvenated. The Hangers swarmed on him, a few falling back as Chris fought them off, hitting the visor-like glass area in the middle of their bulbous heads.

Dan struggled towards him, yelling unintelligibly. Pj and Phil held him back, trying to drag him backwards but inevitably failing. The best they could do was sink their feet in the dirt, wrap their arms around his middle, and pull him backwards as best as possible—barely enough to keep him in place.

There were about ten Hangers in total, and Chris had managed to knock down two of them. Still, it was easy to tell that Chris was already growing tired from the fight—even from this distance, they could all see how his face was paling and movements were slowing.

"Can't we help him?" Phil asked Pj over Dan's screams. "There's so few—maybe we could all make it out."

Pj held Dan tighter, pinning the struggling boy's arms to his sides. "You go; if we let Dan get in there, he'll be more trouble than anything. It's like he doesn't even want to live anymore.

Dan swore at them. "I can hear you, you know! Just let me help him!"

"No. Go, Phil. Quickly."

Phil sprinted over to Chris, jumping into the fight immediately. They stood back to back, Chris leaning slightly on him, fending off the Hangers. The sound of metal against metal was like fire on Phil's ears, worse than any gun or bullet or bomb.

One of the Hanger's blades cut his arm; it was like ice, burning but somehow numb, like his nerves couldn't decide which one to feel. Immediately, he lashed out, jabbing the handle of his knife in front of him randomly. It went right through the visor, and glass shattered all around, a few pieces sticking painfully in Phil's hand.

The fight seemed to drag on forever—both Chris and Phil were wounded in multiple places by the time the last two machines remained. Some were deep, gushing red, and others were less so, more like pinpricks than anything.

Phil had just pushed his Hanger down when Chris fell again. He turned quickly, grabbing his friend's hand and pulling him up. Just moving his arms hurt, but there would be time to deal with the pain later. "Are you alright?" He asked, making sure Chris was standing steadily.

Chris half-nodded. "Yeah, I'm—Phil!"

He pushed him to the side—Phil fell to the ground, the impact feeling like a truck mowing into his body, taking the air out of his lungs. No, not taking—forcing. Pushing it out like he was a balloon, and someone had let go of the lip. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the pain, the ache, the fire in his spine. Phil saw Chris knock the Hanger down, and through blurred vision saw him turn towards him, and was able to faintly make out the sound of Chris yelling.

It sounded like a warning.

…

Dan had often been told, in times of great stress, to breathe. Breathe, in and out and in and out slowly, as though that itself would fix whatever was agitating him.

The second he saw the Hanger behind Chris, he forgot how to breathe.

More than that—he forgot how to speak. How to yell out a warning, how to give Chris enough time to maybe—possibly—jump out of the way. So he didn't, he couldn't, and only watched in horror as the machine lifted its bladed arm and stabbed Chris in the stomach.

…

It is not common knowledge, but in every person is a small string, one that connects the heart and the soul. This string is what many know as the will to live. It starts out, early in life, thick, rich, and unbreakable. But slowly, it begins to fray, its fibers tearing slowly, or quickly.

Some are lucky enough to have strong strings; ones that hold out for the entirety of their lives, and are only gently frayed as they close their eyes for the final time. But others, far, far too many others, find that their string breaks too quickly. They grow thinner more easily than others, whether it be all at once or over time.

Pj was the perfect example of this. His string, which had for so long appeared strong, was actually quite weak. When his fiancé died, the shock acted like a saw, wearing it down too quickly for him to realize what was happening. He wasn't observant, in that way—he had learned, like so many others, to put off the pain until it could be more easily dealt with.

Which was why, when the Hanger dropped Chris's body carelessly, and red blood began to seep across the ground, he wasn't able to tell that his string had finally snapped.