Awakening

This is a continuation of the story The Year Before. You can read the other parts of the story here:

The Year Before

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The air smelled strange, a mixture of wood smoke and something sharp, like the antiseptic tang of crushed herbs but artificial. My head throbbed, and my limbs felt heavy, as though I’d been pinned beneath a rock slide. The soft fabric beneath me—a blanket, I realized—was unfamiliar. No burrow had ever felt like this. The walls around me were solid, not the cool embrace of packed earth, but some hardened material.  

The light wasn’t flickering shadows from torches but steady and warm, like sunlight in its color, though it lacked its vitality. A single lamp perched on a flat surface nearby, casting a faint halo of light in the gloom. I shifted and winced, each movement met with dull aches. The noise stirred something across the room.  

“You’re awake.”  

The voice startled me. My ears twitched, and I forced myself upright, regretting it instantly as the room spun. My vision cleared, revealing a figure seated a few paces away. A human. They were unlike any I had seen before. Their clothing was worn, patched in places but clean, and their face bore the lines of hardship and resilience.  

“Where am I?” I asked, my voice rasping.  

The human’s eyes widened slightly at my words. They set down the bundle in their hands and leaned closer. “I knew it,” they murmured. “I’ve heard of your kind, but I never thought I’d see one of you myself. Talking. Thinking. You’re… Awakened, aren’t you?”  

I didn’t answer immediately, unsure of their intent. Instead, I asked again, “Where am I?”  

“Safe, for now,” they replied. “You were half-dead when I found you near the ridge. Thought you might not make it. Whatever’s in the air out there is killing everything slowly—your kind and mine.”  

The ridge. My chest tightened as I recalled the green valley and the rabbits who had greeted me there. It hadn’t been real. A hallucination, perhaps born of the poison coursing through me.  

The human must have noticed the change in my expression. They spoke carefully, as though trying not to spook a wounded animal. “What were you doing out there alone? You should know it’s not safe, not for anyone.”  

“I wasn’t alone,” I said softly. My voice cracked under the weight of the truth. “I have a burrow. Family. They’re… they’re still there. I need to get back to them.”  

The human frowned. “Family? Are they like you?”  

“No,” I admitted. “They’re ordinary. They don’t understand what’s happening. But they’re still my family. They’re all I have left.”  

For a long moment, the human was silent, their gaze heavy with something I couldn’t name. Sympathy? Pity? Perhaps both.  

The human got up and crossed the small room. They piled some wood into the fire place and worked to get a small fire burning. With that task complete, they pulled out a small box with food in it. 

While they prepared a meal, the human spoke, never looking at their small guest. Their voice was even but carried a weight of bitterness.  

“It started a year ago,” they said, stirring something in a metal pot that hissed and steamed. “We thought it was just another flu at first. Then the mutations started. People… animals… everything changed. Some got stronger, faster. Some lost their minds. Entire cities collapsed overnight. The ones who stayed human—truly human—are the minority now.”  

I listened, the details both alien and familiar. My mind wandered back to the shadows that had swarmed the plains and the creatures that wandered within them; their mindless hunger and unrelenting ferocity.  

“What about you?” I asked. “How have you survived?”  

They glanced at me briefly before returning to their task. “Luck,” they said. “And staying away from others. People panic when they’re scared. Do stupid things. Trust can get you killed these days.”  

Their words hung heavy in the air. I wondered if I had made a mistake trusting them now, but what choice did I have?  

The human slid a bowl toward me, its contents steaming and fragrant. I hesitated before picking it up, fumbling slightly with my paws. The human watched, their expression unreadable.  

“You’re not like them,” they said finally. “The other rabbits. You can think. Speak. Why risk your life for them?”  

“They’re my family,” I said simply. “They can’t fend for themselves. I can’t leave them to die.”  

For a moment, they said nothing. Then they sighed, leaning back. Then they nodded and rubbed a hand over their face.

“Will you help me?” I asked, my voice quieter now. “Please. I can’t do it alone.”  

They shook their head, but it wasn’t a refusal. It was the look of someone resigning themselves to a difficult task.  

“I’ll help,” they said finally. “I know what it is to loose your family."  

I nibbled at the contents of the bowl. It was strange, but pleasant. He watched me in silence for a time before speaking again.

"I'm Jon," he said, holding his hand out to me.

I stared at his hand and blinked at him. 

"Jon?" I asked.

He titled his head to the side and then laughed. The sound was a loud, robust barking. It startled me.

"I suppose rabbits don't have names or shake hands."

I blinked at him again, still not understanding what he was talking about.

"Us humans give each other names, so we can identify each other."

I nodded. "You can't smell the difference?" I asked.

"Our noses aren't as good as yours," he said.

I gestured towards him and said "you're Jon."

He nodded.

"I don't have a name," I said.

"Mind if I call you Peter?" he asked.

I nodded. "Okay."

"Tell me about where your family is," he said.

The human listened carefully as I described the burrow’s location, layout and the conditions above ground. I spoke of the long tunnels, the hidden entrances, and the dwindling supplies. My voice caught when I mentioned the younglings—how they didn’t understand why we lived in darkness.  

“They’ll follow if I lead,” I said. “But they’ll be frightened.”  

“They’ll have to trust you,” the human replied. “We’ll need to move fast and quiet. No mistakes.”  

Jon laid out his plan, speaking in brisk, practical terms. We’d travel at night, using the shadows for cover. He had a collapsible cage, large enough to hold numerous rabbits at once, and bait to draw the others if needed.  

“We’ll have to work fast,” he said. “The longer we’re out there, the more likely we’ll draw attention. Predators, infected… you name it.”  

I nodded, though my heart was heavy. The thought of caging my family, even for their own safety, felt wrong. But I knew the human was right. They would not be able to understand enough to stay safe. I had to bring them out of the dark plague and show them that there was a place where the grass still grew.