So she ran. Another shot fired, and for the second time that day she felt a burning in her shoulder. Her bones shook, and she felt the heat of her own blood begin to seep into her shirt.
Confusion and fear grappled for control of her mind. She could hear the pounding of Shepard's feet behind her. A shot flew past her face.
"To the field! We can loose them."
She cut right, and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, diving into the casaka, ignoring the beating of the leaves on her arms, legs, and face. She fought to slow down, to ignore her instinct to punch and kick her way through the crops and keep quiet. Keep calm. Blood thumped in her ears as she finally came to a stop.
The deep bellowing of the Batarian dialect echoed through the night. She had never learned the language, but she knew the sound of taunting. And that's what they were doing.
"Don't listen to them, kid. Don't even listen to them." Shepard whispered. She spun to face him.
"Where are the others?" she asked.
"They had mom and dad trapped by the time I got inside. James too. Shock collars, the works. Definitely slavers. Emory… they shot Emory. He didn't make it out"
She couldn't find the words, felt a heaving in her stomach. She wanted to wretch. "Oh, god, Shep. What do we do?"
"Shit," he said catching sight of her shoulder. "Shit." He pulled off his t-shirt and whispered the swear again, balling it up. "You have to staunch the bleeding."
She grabbed it from him and pressed it to her shoulder without looking down. She didn't have to, to realize that she was loosing blood, fast.
Shepard bounced on the balls of his feet glancing back and forth between her and their home.
"What do we do? Oh, god. They'll find us," she said. She did not have the time to be ashamed of her fear.
"You have to stay here. Stay here, and stay quiet."
"Wait, what about you?"
"I'm going back for them."
"Shep," she said.
"I've got to. But, don't worry. You'll be safe. Don't… Don't…" he started, grasping for words. He finally pulled her into a hug, jostling her bullet wound. She stifled a cry. "Watch your six, Kiddo. I'll be right back."
She nodded, clutching his shirt to her shoulder and watched as he whipped back the way they had come.
Above the line of crops, she could see the plumes of smoke-hundreds of them-billowing up into the night sky. The screams of her neighbors echoed periodically. She felt helpless, was helpless. She had lost her gun somewhere back in the underbrush. She was bleeding out. She was frozen, and she had let Shepard go alone.
She stood there, frustrated, willing her feet to move, to follow after him. But they wouldn't listen. Instead they collapsed beneath her. She curled into a ball and felt the tears come over her.
"I'm going to die," she whispered to herself, over and over again. "I'm going to die. I'm going to die."
Everything they said about her was true. She didn't deserve the freedom, couldn't handle it the way Shepard could. She was too small, too scared, and too god damned chicken shit. She didn't even deserve the name, Shepard. The minutes went by like that. Hours, maybe years, until the screaming had stopped, and the sun began to peak up over the horizon. Useless. Slowly, she picked herself up, trying to kick off the pins and needles that had held her captive. Shepard hadn't come back, but that didn't mean much. She had to get back to the farm, find him. She imagined him, bruised and battered, but triumphant, helping the neighbors put out their fires, patching Emory up, helping, just like he always did.
The bleeding had stopped and, though the fingers on her right hand were pale and cold, she could still move them, and she counted that as a small win. She pushed her way warily back through the casaka, stopping every few moments to listen for the sound of Batarian voices, maybe even the voices of her own family. But there was nothing. By the time she made it out, she could feel the heat of the morning sun beat down on her neck.
The farmhouse no longer existed in any form that could be called a house. The charred remains of her bedroom had collapsed into the living room, and several walls had shriveled down to ash-as if they had simply given up on the idea of carbon bonds. By virtue of luck and distance, the barn remained untouched. She ran to it, making a wide ark around the remains of the house, avoiding the waves of heat that seemed to radiate from it still. Beside the ashes, the barn looked bright, almost cheery, like a postcard from earth. The paint was untouched and the wide doors were flung open to let in the sun.
She ran to the barn and burst in, yelling, "Shepard! Shepard, I'm back! Shep! Where are you? We lived!"
The animals had been released; the gates to their pens stood open. She peered in each one, hoping to find her siblings hiding behind bales of hay, but each one revealed nothing. "Mom! Dad! James!" She paused a second waiting for responses. "Emory?"
A door creaked open to her right, and Shepard fell through it onto the floor. He was covered in soot and blood, red and black streaking across his body. She rushed to him, and rolled him over onto his back. "Shepard? Oh, god. What happened. Shep? Talk to me. Are you hurt? Are you ok?"
He looked at her, his eyes half closed, and drooping on one side. "Hey, Kiddo." He smiled. "You made it."
She smiled back, feeling the tears come back. "You did too, Shep. We both did. But, where's everyone else? What happened?"
"I couldn't save them. I…" he coughed red into his palm. "The Batarians… I wasn't, couldn't…"
"Hey," she interrupted. "Hey, hey. No, no. You could. You did. I saw you go back."
He coughed again, and looked at her. "I wasn't fast enough." His eyes began to droop lower.
"Hey, don't say that." She pulled him into her lap. "Stop. Don't say that. You… you're going to fix this. Like you always do."
"I think I'm done fixing things."
"Stop."
"You've got this, now." He laughed, dryly.
"Stop, stop stop."
"There has to be at least one Shepard here to save the universe. Right?"
"I can't do this alone, Shep. I'm not like you. I can't be brave like you. I hid. I ran and hid. You went back."
He didn't respond, and she shook him. "Wake up, Shep! Wake up. We've got.. we've got to get mom and dad. We've got to go now."
She leaned down, putting her forehead on his, listening to his ragged breathing slow. "I need you Shep. I can't do this without you. I need you."
Her eyes were all out of tears, but she cried just the same, her breath hitching as she sobbed. She waited until she could no longer see the rise or fall of his chest. His eyelids no longer shuddered. His body had become heavy, painfully so, but she would not let it go. Instead, she hooked her arms under his armpits and held him to her chest, whispering.
"It'll be all right. Please, it'll be all right."
She wasn't sure how much time had passed by the time Shepard's body had gone cold. The air was filled with a deadening stillness, a sickly silence that was interrupted only by the faint crackling of the morning dew meeting the night's dwindling fires.
She had to get a beacon out. She had to get help. She slowly pushed her brother's stiff body off and moved to rest his back against the barn wall. If not for the paleness of his skin, he almost seemed to be resting, laying his head against the barn after a long day's work, trying to hide from the chores that had piled up behind him. She leaned down to kiss him on the forehead.
"I'm sorry Shepard," she said. "I'm so, so sorry."
She stood, her bones aching, and crept to the open door of the barn. The Batarians were probably gone—their hunting style did not involve lingering—but she couldn't be sure. The only comm that could reach beyond their atmosphere was at the local dry goods store. Mindoir was mostly self-sustaining now that the crops were bearing fruit, and ships passed by only rarely to resupply the outpost with munitions, spare parts, and the tools to mend their water filters and farming equipment. Four miles away if she went straight through the thick fields, walking would have taken her over an hour, and she didn't have that kind of time.
Beyond the barn doors she could see the family truck parked in the driveway, miraculously untouched. She ducked down low and made a dash for it. Nothing stirred. The fires crackled, her only company. With a quick breath she pulled open the door and shoved herself into the driver's seat. She was not a very good driver. Never had been. Her father had spent hours with her in the driver seat, patiently trying to coax her into traveling over a straight line, teaching her to navigate, to pull gently on the clutch, to make sure the jets that propelled them over difficult obstacles were delicately handled, but she could never get the hang of it. She was too rough with the wheel, too heavy with her foot. But there was no need for finesse now. Only speed.
The key sat in the ignition. Mindoir was sparsely populated. Twelve families, some day laborers, and a small research outpost with a few scientists made up the majority of the town, and theft was never a major concern. Doors and windows were left unlocked and children walked to town on their own and were left to their own devices for much of the day. It was often lonely and claustrophobic at the same time, but now she was only grateful. She turned the key and listened as the engine revved up, then placed her foot on the pedal and pushed it down hard, tearing up onto the road. Her heartbeat was like a machinegun as she sped down the main dirt road, praying that the noise would not attract any notice.
Through the windows, she could see each burning house as she passed. Maybe there were survivors. More like her who had hidden and escaped. She wanted to pull over and check. To see if the Chens and the Smiths and the Taylors had survived, but fear kept her tires straight. Fear and a deep, terrible knowledge: no one escaped the Batarians. No one but her.
She pulled up to the store, and almost fell out of the car in her rush to get inside. The building was riddled with bullet holes, and the window glass was shattered. A smear of blood ran down the steps and across the dirt, but the store itself seemed mostly intact. As she pushed through the door, she saw its contents scattered about the floor. A barrel of shovels had fallen and scattered its contents, the shelves had been emptied, and a thin mist of flour floated in the air, she coughed as she picked her way respectfully across the debris-ridden floor and behind the counter. Below it, sat a glowing blue console. Beautiful. Intact.
She fell to her knees and began to type out a quick message, the only one she could think of: SOS. They'd been taught that in school since kindergarten, like a mantra. When she was much younger she had broken her foot climbing trees with her brothers, and instead of crying, she had simply yelled SOS at the top of her lungs. Her family still told that story every once in a while, over dinner. Had told that story.. Would never tell that story again. She bit back tears and continued to tap out the message across the keyboard. SOS, SOS-Save our ship, Save our souls, Save one last, fucking Shepard.
She pressed another button, and allowed the message to play on repeat, projecting out across the stars, hoping against hope that someone would recognize it. Her eyes slowly began to close, the weight of the night, of her family, of her wounds pulling her into a dreamless sleep. She awoke to static.
"Hello? Hello. This is the SSR Bergen, do you copy? Hello, we've received your distress signal. I repeat, this is Lieutenant Anderson of the SSR Bergen. We've received your distress signal. Is anyone down there?"
Her heart felt like it was about to beat out of her body. She scrambled to her knees, and grabbed the microphone, trying to push the words out between ragged breaths. "Yes. Yes. I copy. I'm here. The batarians… everywhere. They got everyone… Fires, guns… the Batarians, they… they killed them."
"Are the Batarians still there? Are there Batarians still on Mindoir?"
"Don't know," she said. "I don't.. I don't think so."
"Good. We're pinpointing your position now. Should be down there at about eleven hundred hours. Do you know how many survivors?"
She spared a moment to look out the front window at the sprawling fields of burnt crops and the ruins of her neighbor's houses. "One," she said. "Just one."
She heard the man on the other line pause before continuing, his voice more cautious than it had previously been. "How… how old are you?"
"Sixteen," she said.
The line went silent again. She held the microphone up to her lips with both hands and rested her forehead against counter. The man was feeling sorry for her. She could tell. He thought she was too small, too weak, too young. He wanted to erase all her pain and put her in a school, in a home, give her a blanket and make everything all right. But he couldn't. He didn't know yet, but he was wrong. She would never be all right again. She didn't need the family or the house. When a bone breaks, it grow back thicker, stronger to prevent the same thing from happening ever again. She did not need the comfort some councilor could provide. What she needed was revenge.
Lieutenant Anderson's voice clicked on again. "Look kid, what's your name?"
She took a deep breath. "Shepard," she said. "My name is Shepard."