by Glynn James
But the two groups spoke, and one of them even laughed.
The women and children that worked in the facility had been made to walk then, and it seemed that it was a walk that took days, because they slept in different shelters along the way, guarded by either the Junkers or the troops from the facility.
And not once had he seen anyone being hurt or even pushed.
As he sat there, in the darkness, waiting for FirstMan and the other to be finished at the shack, he smiled, thinking of how little he had known back then. He smiled and stared at the shack perched on the shore of the great swamp.
And then he noticed the figure moving through the junk below. He stopped smiling and sat perfectly still, not moving, not making a sound. He altered his breathing, remembering everything he had been taught in an instant. Slow and shallow. Slow and shallow.
The figure was moving quickly, dodging along the winding path between the great piles of junk, and whoever it was, they were limping.
Then it dawned on him exactly who it was.
The intruder.
“They’re over here!” Finder shouted. “Over here!”
Hunted
The voice, so close by, made Jack jump. But it was clear who the caller was shouting about. He paused only for a moment, glancing up the trash mound and seeing a small figure dart back into the darkness and into hiding.
Even if he wanted to silence whoever was up there, he wouldn’t be able to. His leg was screaming at him to stop moving, and the climb up there would be too much. It was the best he could do to double his efforts and press on, following the path and hoping to spot a hiding place along the way.
Except now he knew he wouldn’t have very long to do it. In the distance, back in the direction of the shack at the edge of the swamp, he heard voices calling out to each other, and the rattle of junk falling away as the group of men who had gone to the shack in search of him started taking chase. They would be much faster than he on this terrain.
He pushed on, stumbling along the path that was anything but straight. It wound around large, dark shapes that he couldn’t identify, and they slowed his progress. He was at a huge disadvantage out here.
They will know where they are, and they will know the territory. Every last bit of it, probably. You’re a fool to even think that you can outrun them or hide from them. Hell, you could be running right over the top of a hidden base for all you know.
But what if they catch you? What will they do? Eat you? The old guy from the shack, the one that took you in, seemed harmless enough, though you can’t really know that.
Had he turned you in? No. He hadn’t. The conversation outside the shack wasn’t a welcoming one. They knew each other, all of them, but the old man hadn’t been enthusiastic about letting them into his house and finding you. He’d even been sarcastic about it.
He didn’t turn you in. He just gave in because he had to. No choice.
Jack stumbled and nearly went down. The voices had stopped behind him but he could hear them coming. A dozen of them at least, mostly following the same path he was on but closing much faster than he could move.
They’ll be here soon, he thought as he rounded a corner and came to a large clearing in the junk. Across from him was a gaping hole in the darkness, a spot much darker than everywhere else. A tunnel of some kind?
He had no choice. He laboured across the clearing, stumbled up the small slope of trash at the foot of the hole, and started to climb, grimacing as his leg twinged with pain. He rolled further into the darkness, relieved that it seemed to slope away from him.
And then he lay there, about ten feet inside, in almost utter darkness, and waited for them to come, hoping that if he stayed still and quiet they would pass him by. It was by no means the best place he’d found to hide over the years, but it wasn’t too bad.
He lay there and listened, hearing boots trudging over the ground outside – some of them passing by the hole and heading further along the path. But others, he thought, had stopped not far away. He could tell that less pursuers were moving around outside.
He held his breath for a second and then started slow breathing. Slow and shallow.
Even if you’re standing just a few feet away you can still hide.
It had worked on the man who came into the shack, like it had with others, dozens of times before. The man came into the shack and walked right by you. Three steps into the opposite corner and he’d walked right by you again as he came out. No movement. No sound, and he hadn’t spotted you. The darkness inside the shack had helped, but to stay perfectly still and blend in, that was the trick. And then out the front, right behind him, just feet away. No noise. Careful steps. Three figures outside, all facing the glare of the old man’s lantern. But they were far enough away, over near the edge of the walkway. And they were slightly blinded, and not able to see you slip away, as the man who had searched for you blocked the view of you stepping out behind him.
When they didn’t think you were there, it was easy.
But now, as he lay there in the darkness, he wondered how long it would be before they found him.
It was all very well moving quietly and making a quick escape when they didn’t think you were there, but when they were hunting a moving escapee on their home ground it was an entirely different thing.
And that voice. That bothered him.
The one who had called out. The voice was so familiar, but yet he couldn’t place it.
In the silence he played back the voice in his mind, stepping back a few minutes to hear it more clearly.
And then he was back in the Outer Zone, searching through the ruins of the cinema. The boy had wanted Jack to show him it after he’d told him all about how people would gather there to watch some vast moving picture. He’d explained how they all sat in rows of seats and watched the lit-up wall with images on it, and the boy had marvelled at how such a thing could even exist.
“Can you show me?” Ryan had asked him, and even though it was three, maybe four, long days of travel from where they were, he’d still taken the boy and stood outside with him as Ryan looked up at the crumbling remains of the vast building. Most of it still stood, even though the inside of the building was almost completely gutted and stripped.
It was still an impressive sight, hundreds of years after the magazine photos had been taken.
Jack had shown Ryan the pictures in the magazine of the exact same building. He thought it had to be the same one. The details were so similar, even if most of the gleam and shine and the bright lights were missing.
And, of course, the boy had found another magazine in one of the rooms at the back as they both scoured around the building, Ryan looking avidly for some new find but Jack only wandering around, knowing that he had searched the place thoroughly already.
It had been the magazine that Ryan had drawn the stickmen in. The one he gave to Jack and the one they boy was so pleased at finding for him. Now lost.
“Over here!” Ryan had called. “I’ve got something! Over here.”
Over here.
That voice.
It was older, but not much different.
Not much different at all.
The hidden stranger on top of the mound of trash, the one that had given him away and called down his pursuers, was Ryan.
It was him.
Jack lay there for a moment, in the darkness of the hole, playing back the voice over and over, knowing that he was right.
Then he crawled to the edge of the hole and dropped down onto the ground, raising his hands as the four men standing the other side of the clearing raised their guns.
And then it occurred to Jack that Junkers weren’t supposed to own guns, let alone the assault rifles that all four of these men carried. And the armour. It was Hunter armour, wasn’t it?
One of the men stepped forward and a light shone in Jack’s face.
“Who are you? What are doing you here?” asked the man, and Jack recognised the voice of the man who had
spoken at length to the old man in the shack.
“I’m looking for someone,” Jack said.
“I asked who you are,” said FirstMan. “Are you from the Recycling Facility? You a trooper? Spec Ops?”
Jack was confused. They thought he was military? One of the Hunters or facility guard. He didn’t know what a Spec Op was.
“I was a salvager,” he said. “I don’t work for…I mean, I’m not from the Inner Zone.”
“Then why are you out here in our territory?” asked FirstMan.
“I’m looking for someone. A boy. Ryan.”
Another figure moved into the dim glow of light behind the spotlight, a smaller figure maybe shoulder height to the men, but Jack couldn’t make out who it was.
“Ryan, you say,” said FirstMan. “And you’re definitely not from RAD or TSO?”
Jack shook his head. “No. I don’t know what those are, or who they are, I was just…I had to get out and find—”
“Jack?” asked a young voice. The person behind the men. “Is that you?”
Jack’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest and he took a step forward, only to step back again when the four men raised their guns higher, aiming at him now.
“Is that you, Ryan?”
The figure behind the men moved forward.
“Yes, it’s me,” said Finder. “It’s Ryan.”
To be continued in part 5...
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About the Author
GLYNN JAMES, born in Wellingborough, England in 1972, is a bestselling author of dark sci-fi novels.
He has an obsession with anything to do with zombies, Cthulhu mythos, and post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction and films, all of which began when he started reading HP Lovecraft and Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend back when he was eight years old.
In addition to co-authoring the bestselling ARISEN books (over 175,000 copies sold), he is the author of the bestselling DIARY OF THE DISPLACED series. More info on his writing and projects can be found at www.glynnjames.co.uk.
Copyright
First published 2015 by Glynn James
Copyright © Glynn James
The right of Glynn James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
