Forgotten Liberty

by Alessio Cala

  Max came to him. The dog's cold wet nose pressed against him and blew spouts of cold air into his face. The blood began to flow quicker now. He pulled the rag from his mouth and unbuckled his jeans to reveal the jagged puncture in his thigh, clotting it with a fistful of snow. The feeling was lost, frozen without sensation. He wrapped the rag around the wound and weaved it into a tight knot. Using the tree for support, he rose to his feet and tugged the knapsack from the supple branch. It buckled up and he tugged it once more, this time harder. The branch flung up and the bag released along with a white mist of snow. Frank crashed onto his right side. He felt the roaring sensation, as though his thigh had been struck with a hammer.

  He cried out but there was no one there, no one to hear him. More of the bag's contents had spilled out. Shotgun shells, an empty bottle of antiseptic and a roll on bandages left from Barry's supply. The antiseptic had soaked into the damp bandages. He took the bandage roll and squeezed it above his eye. The sting engulfed the entirety of his left eye socket. His voice box rumbled under the pressure of his strenuous cry. He unravelled the drenched bandage and wrapped it diagonally around his head to cover his eye. The stinging didn't stop.

  His attention returned to the puncture in his leg. The blood continued to soak through his jeans. He had just removed four inches of a six inch blade from the inside of his leg. He knew that a pile of snow wasn't going to cut it. His eye drew to the vibrant red of the shotgun casings. He untied the rag, the snow now an icy pile of cherry slush. He reached for the knife in one hand and took a shotgun shell in the other. Sitting up against the tree, he cut a surgical incision into the shotgun casing, careful to keep as far away from the primer as possible. The last thing he needed was a lethal blast of lead erupting in his hands. He dropped the blade; poured the contents of the cartridge into his bloody palm and separated the pellets and wad from the gunpowder. The gunpowder was all he needed, and more of it. He did the same with two more shells. He poured water over the wound and dabbed it dry with the rag. He took the gunpowder and pressed it into the burning wound. He needed to hurry. The blood was already pouring out between his fingertips. He could feel his body weaken from the loss of blood. He struck a match from the pack, igniting the phosphorous. The flame juddered in his shaking hands. Ever so slowly, he edged the flame closer to the abrasion. A bright spark flashed from the side of his leg. The match fell from his grasp, extinguishing in the snow below. His throat and eyes tightened. The spark's pallid sapphire outline flashed across the black canvas of his closed eyelid. Max's panicked call became distant and faded. The shock took hold of his body. It seized up, shoulders hunched. Possessed. He had no control. No control.

  Night had fallen. Frank's battered body lay rigid in the snow. He lifted his head and the bristles of his eyelashes flickered to shake the cluster of snow. He saw her standing over him. Strands of her long hair fluttered out from the hood of her waterproof in the wind. Her warm moonlit smile filled him with life. He tried to get up but his legs wouldn't permit him; and when he looked back up to see her, she was gone.

  "Annie?" he called. He took in his surroundings and saw the moon, round and full. Its light reflected rhombus waves off the face of the water. She wasn't there. His mind had deceived him once again, but it had been so clear, so vivid. He pleaded with himself to believe it wasn't true. Max sat beside him, covered in a layer of snow. Frank brushed the snow away, eyes drifting up to where the stream curved out of sight. It was a start. He thought it might lead him on a path at least. He needed shelter and warmth, but most of all, he needed to find Annie. If she made it out– no. She had made it out. She had to. She must have been ahead of him. He prayed the others were there to watch over her and the boy. Sam. He realised now that his decisions were selfish. He wanted to make amends for his cruel words. The last remnants of his dying embers re-lit and struck the fire inside him. The wound had stopped bleeding but movement could change that and without proper treatment, it was exposed to the risk of infection. He tied the rag around it and wrapped the blanket around his freezing body. He shuddered. Frosty breath caused him to squint against the cold. Max was up, watching him stuff the rest of his equipment back into the knapsack before placing his arms through the loops.

  Frank began to crawl.

  His shuffling body created a metric percussion that blended with the forest's fervent nightlife. He heard the distant screams of wildlife; an orchestra of foxes, jackals, deer and the chilling howl of a wolf pack in the distance. He worried they would pick up his scent, especially with all the blood, but he couldn't let that stop him. If anything, it pushed him on farther. Max stopped every few feet and stared into the darkness. Frank continued on upwards and slowly made his way round to a clear opening layered with untouched snow. He found himself lost to the darkness. He was beyond the stream now. It had drifted off into the cracks of a large boulder formation. There was nothing left to follow. He crossed the open plain, leaving behind a single sluggish trail. He saw a gap separating the tree line ahead and decided to go through it. The trees cast strong prickly shadows in the snow. He noticed Max’s pace quicken. The dog moved briskly into the shadows to investigate.

  Max came to him bearing a gift. He settled it down by Frank and brushed it closer to him with his nose. Frank picked it up for a closer look. It was a brass bullet casing. He didn't know what size. He had no knowledge of ballistics. It was larger still, perhaps for a rifle. He took it as a sign to keep going. He was on the right track.

  The moonlight shone through the branches and bounced off the tangled pile in his way. He crawled closer. The thick blanket of snow concealed whatever was beneath. He brushed it away with his pale rigid fingers and felt the cracked frozen leather on the other side. Something heavy lay before him; the entire pile had stiffened in the cold. He lit a match to gain a better view. The flame revealed an arm, then a torso. Piece by piece the image came together through the dim orange flame. He used the pile of bodies to lift himself onto one knee. He didn't recognise the young boy on top, or the woman on the other side. He nudged the frozen corpse aside and it rolled over in one solid block onto the deceased woman. When he brought the match back over he saw the face of the body beneath.

  John's deadpan stare penetrated his soul. The man gawked with dry, dilated pupils. Beneath that magnificent moustache, his mouth gaped open with cracked lips. His wrinkled skin had surpassed the most colourless of tones. A painful expression. Frank's skin began to crawl. Spurted breaths struggled to escape him. His lungs felt tight across his ribcage and the fading flame drew inward to the dying match. A tiny puff of smoke rose up and vanished into the shadows.

  Frank knelt over John's body in the dark. He continued to stare; the lit image in his head came to the forefront of his mind through the darkness. He wiped his face with rattling fingers and took the renowned revolver from John's holster and stuffed it into his belt. He moved round to the other side and leaned back across the other two bodies. Rummaging through the belongings of the dead, he discovered a single satchel that held few items. He tossed the useless belongings aside and found a small, shrivelled apple; brown with wrinkled skin. Beside it was a scrunched piece of paper. It was stained with dirt and folded into quarters. He opened it up and discovered handwritten words. It was a letter. He rested the note onto his lap and struck another match, biting into the tasteless fruit as he read. His eyes panned across each line. He frowned at the scorned words, eyes darting back quickly with every new line. He read faster and faster. The note consumed him. Dread and anger. Each word resembled a stabbing dagger in his back that dug deeper and deeper as he read on. The bottom of the letter was torn but his eyes carried on in disbelief, pleading for more. There must have been more.

  Frank scrunched the letter into a crumpled ball and tossed it aside. He looked up and spotted a faint blinking light in the distance. A red glow flickered on and off. It called to him like a beacon of hope. He knew that wherever he was, the signal would guide him and lead him back to where he needed to be. He u
sed the support of the bodies to lift himself to his feet and he began limping. One foot dragged behind the other, abandoning the pile of frozen corpses in the bitter cold night. The decayed apple core barely protruded the snow. The top of the note was still visible. A gust of wind flapped the paper's rigid corner and bloody fingerprints stained the first line.

  Carlos...

  SIXTEEN

  The mountains of Autark fell silent under the fall of night. Derek marched with high knees up the steep incline. An ungodly amount of snow had fallen over the past week. It settled up to his shins. Every step took twice the effort of the one before it and the snow stuck to his clothes like clumps of icing sugar. He carried the .38 tight in one hand and gazed at the intermittent glow of red light up ahead. As he got closer, vertical and diagonal pillars of grey formed a dim structure against the black sky. A haze of dreary clouds glided overhead. He moved toward it and soon realised it was the structure of a watchtower. He began ascending the steel steps that wrapped its pillars. His boots thumped with every step. A droning clatter of metal. When he reached the top, he noticed the busted padlock and chain lying at the base of the door. He peered through the double-glazed windows but it was too dark and masked with snow to make out any detail. He thought about wiping the frost away but the element of surprise was still in his favour.

  Derek clamped down on the door handle and barged through with his shoulder. He stormed inside, the .38 up at the ready. A petrified face turned from the radio terminal against the far wall of the boxed room. Barry stared back. His beady eyes quivered behind his round spectacles.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Derek barked. His tone was impatient, desperate for a response. Barry's stutter droned for a lifetime. He stared down the barrel of the gun pointed directly at him. He stood up with hands raised, either side of his chest and backed away from the terminal.

  "I-I-I was j-j-just trying to g-get a signal."

  "Oh yeah? What you panicking for?"

  "...Y-you're pointing a gun at me."

  "No. Don't even go there. Feels like I've caught you in the act, caught you doing something you shouldn't be doing."

  "Wh-what are you talking about?" Barry replied. Derek paused, as did everything else inside the cramped watchtower. The only movement was that of the snow fluttering across the window like tiny grains of sand. Derek shot Barry a quizzical frown. He tilted his head to one side, calculating and back-tracking the entire journey from Elkford in his mind. It felt like it had been months, years even. Then he stopped. His head tilted back up with piercing eyes that clocked onto Barry and nothing else. It was a specific expression, something rarely seen. It was as though he'd cracked an impossible code, or the world’s most unsolvable of riddles. "Oh my God," he hushed. "It's been you all along, hasn't it?"

  Barry's eyes widened. He shook his head in confusion. He wasn't up to speed in the slightest.

  "You've been working with them all along," Derek concluded. "You slimy fucker."

  "Wh-what?"

  "Admit it. It all makes sense. Who better to work for raiders than the bastard who was in a deal with them in the first place."

  "That w-wasn’t up to me. They threatened to k-k-kill me."

  "Enough shit. You tell the truth right fucking now or I put a bullet through your skull." Derek slammed back on the hammer. Now that is was primed to fire, the gun felt heavier in his hands. He held it straight out in front of him, aimed at Barry who stood only four metres away. Barry continued to shake and blabber. He leaned back and flinched at the clicking mechanics of the revolver.

  "Tell the truth!" Derek barked.

  "I-I didn't do anything," Barry shouted back. Derek turned away and sighed heavily through his nose. He looked back. His finger slowly twitching the trigger. A sudden force drove him away, a raw strength of flesh and bone that gored him from the side. His hip jerked first and the rest of his body followed suit. He felt the gun go off in his hand but by that point it was way off target. A bright flash of light filled the room and the deafening gunshot reverberated off the four walls.

  Mike tackled Derek to the ground. He clamped his grip on the hand with the gun and pinned it out of harm’s way. Derek thrashed back in a tumbling mess. They scuffled and swung for one another in a battle for restraint. Barry fumbled for his rifle leaning up against the wall. Mike ripped the pistol from Derek’s hand and pushed himself away from the oaf. “Don’t get up,” he demanded. He held the sights of the .38 trained on Derek who laid flat on his stomach. Barry snatched his rifle with shaky hands and spun back round to face the frantic skirmish. Before he could even raise it, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread devour his actions. The mechanical slide of a bolt action rifle cocking into place turned everybody’s attention to the door. Carlos took one step inside, his rifle immediately aimed at Mike. Barry panicked. He lifted the rifle with pathetic delay and chose to hold the weapon’s attention on Carlos.

  The four men froze in the confined space of the watchtower in the fashion of a Mexican standoff. Each man sealed with intense pressure, the fate of another at their reign. All it took was the slightest pull of the trigger. Barry was the only one without a weapon aimed at him, yet he seemed the most nervous. His body shook so much that his spectacles danced down the bridge of his nose. He thought about pushing them back up but didn’t want to risk taking his finger away from the trigger, not even for a second.

  “Let’s all just take it down a notch,” said Carlos. His voice was gruff and sinister. “Now. Barry,” he continued. “First thing I want you to do is turn off that beacon.”

  “B-but what about the others?”

  “I said switch it off,” he demanded. Barry didn’t rebel.

  “The others with you?” asked Derek, still lying on the floor below.

  “No, haven’t seen them,” Carlos replied, calmer this time.

  Barry backed up to the terminal. He flicked a switch on a separate circuit panel and the red intermittent glow was extinguished at once. Carlos saw him do so in the corner of his eye and let out a sigh of content. “Good.” His eyes returned to Mike. “Now, may I ask why you’re pointing that thing at Derek?”

  “He was gonna shoot him,” Mike replied, gesturing over to Barry.

  “He’s a traitor. He’s working with the raiders,” Derek called out from the floor.

  “Nobody is a traitor,” said Mike.

  “What about you?” Carlos interrupted. “We don’t know you. I mean we don’t really know you.”

  “I’ve put my life on the line for you people more than once.”

  “It certainly seems that way. Would be a good way to get us to put our guard down though.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Maybe you’re not working with the raiders. Maybe you’re working for yourself. I mean what do the LPA really want? Why would a man from another nation put his life on the line for a newfound country that he has no ties to.”

  “I have my own reasons, those that are my own on a personal level.”

  “Sounds pretty suspicious to me. What do you think, Derek?”

  “Sounds like a load of horse shit.”

  “Stop,” Barry cried. He held the rifle even tighter. “Just stop this, p-please.”

  “There’s no need to get upset, Barry,” said Carlos. “We’re only humouring the man. After all, we all know you were the one who made a deal with those men in the first place.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Sorry Barry.” Carlos swung the rifle round to Barry.

  Clank.Clank.Clank.

  He stopped. They all did. The robotic footsteps echoed outside. They clambered up the steps of the watchtower, growing louder with every step. All eyes were on the door, their weapons still aimed at each other. Nobody dared to make any sudden movements. The footsteps grew more frequent, overlapping one another in an unorganized fashion and then they realised, there were multiple footsteps. Mike and Barry stared at Carlos; a man whose intention to take the life of another was
interrupted by an oncoming party of strangers. Even though they stood in sub-zero temperatures, droplets of sweat glided down the sides of their heads in a hot flush. The footsteps had now reached the top landing. The three men glanced out of the window but could only make out faded figures through frosted glass. Clank. Clank. The figures made their way around the landing ever so slowly. The one in front turned and stood in the doorway unarmed and lifted her head. It was Kara. The moonlight glistened off the roots of her crimson hair. She held an ominous stare; her face and clothes doused in trickled trails of blood, blood that wasn't her own. Carlos stared back over his shoulder. “What happened to you?”

  She didn’t reply. Her eyes dropped to the floor in exhaustion. Tracy peered inside and noticed the standoff. She shoved between Kara and the doorframe and placed herself directly in front of Barry. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  “That bastard behind you is working with the raiders,” said Derek.

  “What?” she repeated.

  “The man is a traitor,” Carlos agreed. The ladies’ presence caused him to become nervous and agitated. He was now the centre of attention. Barry was still in shock. He lowered the rifle and struggled to make eye contact. “Y-y-you were going to shoot me.”

  “You what?!” cried Tracy. Her eyes shot Carlos piercing daggers, her fists clenched tight.

  “Nobody’s a traitor,” said Mike. “Let’s all just calm down.”

  “He’s right,” Annie called out from behind Kara with Sam in her arms. “This storms been messing with our heads.”

  Kara stepped inside and caught Carlos off guard. She lunged forward and forced Carlos’ shooting arm down with a swift chop. She grabbed hold of the rifle and disarmed him, tugging the rifle back. She jammed the stock into his chest and knocked him back against the wall. She held the rifle from the barrel to appear as no threat and proceeded to hold out her hand for the .38 revolver. Mike stood in silence, stunned by her rapid actions. He handed over the weapon immediately. She moved the guns into one corner of the room and did the same with Barry who put up no effort to hold onto his own. She turned to face the group and began unloading the weapons as she spoke.