Bittersweet Memories

"Out! Hurry!" the man closest to the door barked.
Did you ever play that game at primary school where you clutch the bottom of the back of someone's jumper/jacket/shirt and play choo-choo! ? Well, that is precisely what my instincts led me to do as Ben and I sprinted out of our prison of so-many-months-I'd-given-up-counting. Incidentally, we had changed clothes every day, in case you were wondering. They'd given us plain, generic clothes to replace the ones we'd been wearing that day. As a consequence, I feared the Purple Shirt of sex was lost forever.
 Ben sensed my fear and grabbed my wrist, dragging me along by my forearm as we pelted through the open air we hadn't smelled properly since we'd been brought here. It smelled of freedom. The guys we were running behind had guns and occasionally stopped firing them at our ex-captors. God I loved being able to attach that 'ex'. The soldiers...I think they were soldiers handed us gargantuan riot shields which we held in one arm each. My other arm was about to pop from Ben's grip on it. Maybe I'd been wrong. Benedict Cumberbatch may not have been Sherlock, but he sure as Matt Smith's chin was protecting me...with the help of a riot shield.
 The forest we were in flashed by as we pounded through it towards the safe haven of a camouflage army vehicle. Leaves, leaves, roots, roots, ROOTS. OH MY GOD. I KNEW IT. I finally knew where we were. I had seen those roots before. I had seen those roots at very close quarters. It was autumn of twenty-twelve and I was on the Black Isle. There was this rope swing secured to - THERE IT WAS. It's this humongous, probably oak, tree with branches reaching many, many metres out from the trunk. On one of these branches hung a few thin but very, very, strong chords of blue rope, tied around a small log. You climb up the tree's roots like steps and grap the log. You then hold the log and swing out over the steep drop that the tree's at the top of. I once fell down this drop. It's not vertical, but it's close. It was very similar to falling down a steep flight of stairs head first, except I fell straight into dirt. My friend slowed me down by a few metres per second but still, I wasn't about to mistake that tree any time soon.
 So great, I thought, as I clambered into the Land Rover, I know where I am, yes and it's hundreds of miles from North Berwick. Ben and I were hurled into the tinted window back seat, at which point I forgot about purple shirts and adorable ginger curls. I sat on the seat next to Ben and blubbered into his shoulder.

 Eliza swung the beam of light left and right a few dozen times before finally perceiving what she was seeing. Peering back at her were the faces of roughly fifty people. Just people. Nothing special or different about them. All different from each other, with no obvious connection other than that they were very, very terrified.
 "Who are you all?" she whispered.
 One, a lean, average-heighted woman, with auburn hair that curled into her back just below her shoulders, stepped forward.
 "Just people. They brought us here. We'll probably all die."