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One place on one bed for one Child was left unattended, and for this child, the tale of the Forever New Dawn would tonight go unlearned, but it would not go unpractised.
Donal marched from the complex with a small clandestine team of White Hearts, all dressed in black and adorning the amorous iconic symbol of The Collective on their chests. Neither man uttered a word. The only sound to speak of their presence was the shuffling of their boots on loose gravel and the whistling of their weapons cutting the still night air.
Outside of The Nest they split into three groups. One of which branched off down a small alley way and disappeared into the night. The other two groups took an easterly and westerly direction through the now desolate downtown area.
They marched in groups of thirty, kicking their heels loudly and making no secret of their presence. Stray dogs that rested on the sidewalks and in the street quickly wakened and scattered from sight moving in whatever direction likened their instinct. The men walked through the darkness with silver in their hands and fire in their eyes, the force of their will and the ferociousness of their reason lit their path.
The Behemoth led the smaller group down the winding alleyway. The sound of clanging metal and turning keys echoed through the quiet in their ears. Where they were was not where anyone would want to be. Here the hungriest made their home.
This was the path of Famine, famed as the limit of depravity where desire and desperation made malodorous company of men. Only a certain type of human would have the absence to walk in these parts, for it is said that, ‘in the void, courage would serve no man.’
The group of three stopped near a bend in the alley. The Behemoth gestured with his fingers, a meaning of action and intention. One of the men, devoid of the white heart and with painted face crawled on his belly to the apex of the bend and waited. He had binoculars in hand and his eyes illuminated green. The invisible assassin scoured the scene while The Behemoth gestured to Donal who dressed into a grey hooded cloak. In his right hand, he carried a brown hesham bag, in his left, a long shiny hook.
The other teams commenced their searches and collection, kicking down barricaded doors one by one, announcing themselves in vocal assault.
Inside the dwellings, men feigned guard over cowering women whose emaciated bodies trembled violently in the turbulent dark. When an entrance couldn’t be breached, fire would be set upon it. The people inside would stay in the choking smoke until their breathing stopped. Those who did push through the barricades or throw themselves from a window were set upon and their Children collected in hesham bags.
It was a savage affair; the men with white hearts, in the mouth of madness, chewing on the fat of wickedness.
As fire lit the night and downtown burned, a tiny figure in grey entered through a rusted iron fence. His cloak trailed behind, dragging through filthy water and chemical residue, sloshing and slapping at the loose gravel as his momentum took him into an old apartment complex.
On the ground floor, he could hear panicked whispering. Whatever was keeping from him was not doing a good job of it. Donal walked through the darkness, his path lit by his auditory senses; his ears were his eyes and in his mind, the orange hue of the Forever New Dawn. The whispers quietened to dull slow but heavy breaths, but it was the beating of their hearts against their chests that lured Donal to their scent.
The cloaked figure swung the iron hook catching on something or someone. He thrashed wildly until the hook was free again. His face felt wet and warm for but a moment before he marched on through the darkness and up the stairwell. A hundred feet took to the concrete stairs slapping away at the solid ground for momentum. Their panting increased and with their presence blatantly known, they abandoned all secrecy and screamed into the black emptiness about them.
When the first man reached the top of the stairwell he froze. He reached for the handle but nothing doing, it wouldn’t turn.
“What now?” he thought holding out his left hand to the darkness feeling for nothing and gripping the door’s handle with his right.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, please,” he said, completely petrified, blood pouring from an open cut in his arm.
He kept swinging his right hand yanking at the handle willing the door to open. It was useless, the door wouldn’t budge. He was too high to jump so there was only one other way out of this.
He thought, “What side would I take? A right handed man will lean ta his left and secure wit his right, in teory.”
He took in a deep breath and slowly moved down the stairwell. He could hear the sound of others rushing upwards, but he kept completely silent and in the darkness, tip toed back down into the imminent threat.
“If I can just sneak past him or at least get close enough to rush him, den maybe,” he thought.
Halfway down the stairs he was passed by panting and screaming. Their exhausted legs carried them on pure adrenaline, fear their motivator. The group of maybe four or five stamped their way past the man until eventually they found themselves at a locked door.
“No!” they screamed.
They panicked and argued about what to do, the darkness seemingly endless and death so close at hand.
One panicked and pulled on another.
That one reacted and pushed the other over the edge. That one fell through the open void hitting their head and back on hand rails all the way to the cold concrete floor below.
The one that pushed back was overcome with disbelief and sat foetal in the darkness at the peak of the stairs, rocking back and forth. His disbelief echoed not for the friend he had killed, for remorse was no relative to his conscience, but for the realisation that there was only one way out of this; it started with a scream and ended with a thud. The others continued to beat and bat at the door frantically.
Acceptance eventually begot the madness as those above sat in negated silence while the first man continued his slow descent. He moved each leg starting with one toe, each muscle working together like an octopus to careen him forward. He heard nothing coming towards him and he kept his hands in a defensive position. If he were to run into that thing then he would at least try to fight his way out.
When he reached the bottom of the stairwell, a mixed wave of confusion and exhilaration washed over him like the onset of a drug. He felt his panic kick back in as his heart rate accelerated, rapidly pumping adrenaline and endorphins into his legs, once more urging him to run. He felt his stomach get heavy and he fell sick for a moment.
The lobby was pitch black and silent. As he moved forward he tripped on something that was lying across the doorway. He didn’t lose his balance completely, just enough to rattle his focus. He took another sharp breath. He thought of his daughter, in hiding not far from where he stood. He knew all he needed to do was to get out into the alley and he could find her. He took another strong breath and then a wave of certainty became him. With his girl in mind, he ran and when he ran, he rushed.
On he rushed, over the lifeless obstacle in his path.
On he rushed, through the vast empty hall, his hands clenched, and his feet light.
On he rushed, bursting through the swinging doors and into the cold night air.
On he rushed, forcing his aching body through a tear in the fence. The metal pulled at his skin and cool trickles ran down his arms and neck.
On he rushed, ignoring the fear in his consciousness and the growing ache in his feet.
On he rushed until something knocked him from his feet.
He tumbled over himself and rolled down an embankment. He twisted his arm painfully as he came to a stop. Silence was still about him. Whatever hounded his footprints had his scent but for now, it had not his freedom. He pulled another sharp breath.
“The girl,” he thought.
Strengthened again, he rushed on.
On he rushed, his left arm swinging on its own accord, hanging uselessly against his body, offering him only consistent bursts of intense pain. Yet on he rushed, focusing only on
the face of his daughter, feeling nothing but the need to protect her.
It was on that he rushed, on through a maze of alleys and improvised corridors, ducking, weaving, coughing and bleeding.
On he rushed, throwing one leg in front of the other, his feet pounding the pavement, his heart pounding his chest.
On he rushed, catching his arm on exposed nails, cutting his feet on broken glass.
On he rushed, away from whatever beast that haunted his direction.
On he rushed, on to the young girl sitting alone in the dark. On he rushed, on he rushed and on he rushed until his hand pulled on a rusted chain and he lay foetal on a cold floor in a large empty room.
“Which way did he go?” screamed a White Heart pacing through the night.
“Keep running. He can’t be much further” replied an exhausted voice somewhere close behind.
The gang of men stormed through the darkness, their white hearts piercing through the dead space. And there were hundreds of them now, such a sight to behold.
They followed the settling dust into a tight alleyway. The road was very thin and the buildings closed in further on the men as they steadied themselves and moved gradually down the road. As they passed each building they ran their instruments of iron against the structures, torturing whomever or whatever was inside. The men had no command of fear. What would be, would be a result of what is. Each man thought only of the orange hue of the Forever New dawn with each step bringing them closer to a better tomorrow.
The sound of murmurs and clanking metal thinned and weakened until once again only the sound of his own gasping breath occupied his ears. The man pondered for a second how long he could hold this state, whether he could fall back into the comfort of the night or whether he have to make haste and take flight. That thing on his trail would not stop until it found what it was looking for. They were coming back, this he knew for sure. The hunt would continue and as long as he was still, his scent grew stronger.
”Girl,” he said, “We have to go.”
From the silence came the creaking of rusted hinges turning and an old wooden frame pushing open. Little feet made light work of the distance between the closet and the man crouched in the centre of the room. Darkness played no obstacle to the sight of one’s heart.
The young girl ran to her father and embraced him.
“Dada,” she said, “You’re it.”
The girl exploded from the man’s arms and raced towards the roller door. The man ran after her and scooped her up. With his girl in one arm, he bit down on the rusted chain and pulled down with his teeth. The door lifted, the turning metal inviting the hounds to the chase.
On they rushed, the girl clinging to his right arm as the world on its side flashed past her eyes.
On they rushed, as she curled her legs around her father’s body to grip tighter.
On they rushed, as she giggled when her father tripped and fell on his left knee cursing into the night.
On they rushed, as she pulled on his beard with her left hand and she secured her pretty doll with the other.
On they rushed, as the world went upright and daddy fell.
On they rushed; on her feet now running by his side.
On they rushed; the voices behind getting closer.
On they rushed, their pace getting faster.
On they rushed; the air getting thinner.
On they rushed; her father pulling on her hand.
On they rushed; she; lifted in the air.
On they rushed; she flung around a bend.
On they rushed; the pretty doll dropped to the ground.
On they rushed; she looking behind.
On they rushed; the fire filled her eyes.
On they rushed and the great White Heart rushed behind.
The man collapsed in front of an immense wall.
“Ah fuck me, not again,” he thought over and over in his mind.
There was nowhere for them to run. Before them, an astounding tower of brickwork blocked their continued path and behind them, the voice of hatred grew more resplendent and the fire in its hand lit the sky.
The girl, still thinking in game, stood next to her father holding one hand. The man looked despondent. Tears filled his eyes as he slowly rose to one knee and held the girl tight.
“I love you so much,” he said holding her close and kissing her cheek.
The girl laughed and pushed him away.
“I’m bleedin sorry, I really am, I tried, I really did. Ya, remember da place I said? Ya go dere, your grandad’s waitin. I love ya, be bold, be exceptional, now go, run, and stop for no one” he said.
The little girl turned to the man and hugged around his neck squeezing as tight as she could.
“I love you too,” she said before kissing him on his left cheek, then on his right cheek, then on his nose and then on his chin.
The little girl smiled and dipped her head to his chest, but his chest was gone.
“Get the girl” spoke a voice from the orange hue that filled the night sky.
Fire was in the hands of many men and the heat that came off their torches warmed her skin. She didn’t like the sensation. A figure in white swept in and took the girl to her breast.
“You are with your Mother now. You are At Peace” the figure said.
The girl looked over the figure’s shoulder for her father. She could see only fire and White Hearts. Everywhere she looked, flames lit the sky and below the flames, great men stood shadowed, as one; arm to arm, with white hearts on their chests.
Just like in her dreams.
“Safrine” yelled a croaking voice from behind the light.
“Take the girl back to The Nest. Bring her to the scientists for cleaning” said The Behemoth, directing the chaos.
“Sir, what shall be done of this drunken trader?” asked one of the White Hearts holding the unconscious man by the scalp.
“Keep him alive” replied The Behemoth.
The White Hearts collected the man and made off into the night towards The Nest. The figure in white took the whimpering girl in her arms. The Behemoth stood alone with his massive hands on his hips scanning left and right.
“Donal” he shouted into the still air.
“Donal” he shouted again.
His voice deepened each time until a visceral growl rolled through the night.
“Donal”.
Nothing.
Not a sound.
Strangeness fell upon his face as an outlandish sensation became him; concern.
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A Rising Fall Page 20
