Surobi, Afghanistan.

Run.

Oh god, keep running.

The crunch of gravel and stone under my feet. The sharp, shallow wheezing of my breath. And them, the sound of their footsteps getting closer and closer, echoing like a crack of gunshots through the narrow streets behind me.

The breeze has been picking up all day, and now it's grown in violent waves of turbulent air, catching the reams of brightly-coloured silks and soft linens outside the fabric store and sweeping them up high. The storekeeper comes out with his hooked-pole to take them down and shut up shop for the night and he glares at me as I pass.

'Devil boy,' he calls out, but he has no idea.

No idea at all.

I'm not the Devil here. They are. He was.

The wind catches my sob, forcing the cry back into my throat as I picture his face in my mind. It's a good thing. I can't be weakened by tears now. I can't be slowed down by sorrow. I just have to keep running, even though it hurts so very much.

Reaching the end of the row of stores, I take a sharp left and almost wish I hadn't. The market-place is so full of her that I can't bear it. The traders have all gone home, but I see her as clear as day.

She's picking fruit here from the stalls. Huge, lush pomegranates with their reddish-purple husk, sweet melons the size of rugby-balls, and the largest, juicest grapes I've ever seen. A bag of rice for the palaw. Flour for the bread. She hands me a tub of yoghut so large and so heavy, I'm petrified I will drop it to the ground. Potatoes and eggplant and pungent onions. The air is thick with orange peel and spices.

As night draws in, it's still thick with orange peel and spices and now, with her blood too, which drenches the front of my clothing, its sharp, coppery tang salting the air. I can still feel her body in my arms, how I'd cradled her head, my fingers finding the edge of the hole where her skull bone had shattered at the back. It's as if I'm carrying her as I run. The ghost weight of her still-warm corpse makes my muscles ache and my legs feel like they're wading through water.

I can't give up now. I can't slow down, not even for a second. I have to cast her ghost aside if I am to escape. Leave her where her body lays lifeless. Leave it all and just flee as fast as I can.

Focus. Run.

Run, child.

That's what he'd said. The Devil.

Run.

And I did.

I'm still running now, even though my feet scream and my heart wails with grief. There's a strange static noise in my head, like the sound the radio makes when you're turning the dial to find a frequency. Every now and then, it clears for a split-second, and as soon as I think I'm free of it, the white noise crowds my mind, filling my ears with an irritating buzzing, like sandflies hitting a lantern again and again and again.

Turning into an alley, I vault a stack of crates blocking the way, scrambling up them with a sudden ease that surprises me. It makes me think of the Spider-Man costume I used to wear when I was younger, when I used to jump from one couch to the other with a striking agility, creeping up the stairs on all fours, pretending I could stick to the walls. I'm not a child anymore, despite what the Devil had said, but my youth means I have energy and speed on my side, and I hold onto that as I reach the top of the crates, ready to jump down.

There is a shout from behind me.

I glance back, full of alarm. The man wearing the general's uniform barks orders at the others, but I don't understand the language. It sounds strange on his tongue, almost as if it's coming from the back of his throat. When they'd arrived at the house earlier, I'd initially thought it to be an odd regional dialect that I'd not heard before, but then the Devil had showed up, and I'd realised it wasn't that at all.

It was something else entirely.

They are something else entirely.

The man wearing the general's uniform isn't a general. It's a costume. A pretence. He's no more a general than I am. The other men run in another direction, away from the alley, and when the fake general looks back at me with pure black eyes like they've been dipped in ink, the white noise halts again and what's left behind almost makes me lose my balance.

I see them. I see them all.

I see the orbs, encased in the huge chamber, suspended in the air, all joined, all connected by thick, fibrous membranes that stretch up from the floor. I reach out and I touch one. The surface is like oily, paper-thin flesh and it pulsates under my touch, a sensation that makes me feel both slightly nauseous and thrilled all at once. The network of orbs reach to the top of the chamber and somewhere up there, right in the centre, there is... something else.

Something I can't see.

But it's there and it senses my presence.

It knows I'm here.

The orb pulsates again, more violently, as if it seeks to dislodge me.

I disconnect instantly, clutching a hand over my chest to calm my pounding heart.

What the Hell was that? What the Hell am I?

Hell is a good word for it, I think, because I am the Devil's child, and all at once the realisation of that knowledge hits me so hard, I almost crumble. I am... I don't know what I am. I don't even know what he is. Was. All I know is that everything is changed now. Nothing is as it was and I'm terrified.

The man in the general's uniform stops and leans a hand against the wall for support, as if winded. Tilting his head to one side, he stares up at me, his mouth open and what comes out is a series of clicks, so alien, so utterly horrifying and yet I want to...

No. No, I can't. I won't.

I tear my gaze from his, jump down to the ground and run.

I sense them all now, the others. I know where they are, I know the route they are taking, I know where they plan to intercept my escape. I sense the tremors that still pulsate through them all. But, mostly, I sense the general's fear. It's like a hair-line fracture. As thin as a spider's web. But, it's there and I know it takes him a moment to pull himself together and give chase again.

My route takes me to the edge of the highway, where the river surges through the gorge.

Up ahead, the green neon sign shines on the small building like a beacon. It's more of a clinic than a hospital but it's all Surobi has.

The hospital. The river. The highway.

I don't know what to do.

All I know is that they are coming, they are gaining on me, all homing in on my position and soon, they will be here and that will be it. I have limited time left now. I don't even know for sure what they will do with me, but I think I might end up with the back of my skull shot out, just like she did. I don't want to end up bleeding out on the dirty ground, my lifless eyes staring up at the stars and, if they catch me, I think that's what will happen.

Because I'm not like them. Not really. I'm not even like the Devil.

I'm... I'm a threat.

I'm a hair-line fracture.

I'm the end of them all.

The side door of the building opens, and an elderly man walks out, wrapping his scarf around his neck to ward off the sting of the night's chill. He carries a brown leather bag as he walks towards a car parked in the lot. In front of the car, painted on the wall, is one word. MEDIC.

I run towards him, and the world seems to flip. My body hurts so much.

No. It aches. Yearns.

I reach him before he barely has time to register my presence, and grab his coat, clutching onto the collars. The bag drops to the ground, spilling out half the contents and he stumbles against the side of the car.

'Help me,' I plead, not letting go. 'Help me.'

'What is it?' he says. 'What is wrong?' The Doctor's eyes widen as he looks into mine. 'Wait, you are not...'

He knows I'm not what I appear to be.

I can't stop it now. Whatever this thing is.

I take him down to the ground, his heels hammering against the gravel, his screams muffled, and I do what my body demands of me. What it yearns for. What it needs above all else.

This Devil needs a saviour and he is mine.