Weeping Season

by Seán O'Connor

  ∆∆∆

  Snow filtered through the trees as he jogged and walked, keeping within his physical limits, only stopping to drink from the stream. He watched all around him, convinced he was being followed, but never spotting anyone to confirm his paranoia, apart from the cameras, which he was positive tracked his every move.

  All he could do was press on. He still hadn’t figured out how he was going to disappear from sight. When he reached the treeline, he waited for the gunfire, but none came, so he sat and watched, looking for something – a weakness that would give him a way out. The watchtowers were distant and appeared unmanned.

  Hours passed, though he had no real way of telling the time. Sometimes he felt as if he was all alone, then it was like they were breathing down his neck. Even so, he continued to survey the land in front of him. Snow and ice ran for what seemed like miles from the treeline to the far off mountains. Could he do it? How many steps had they taken into the snow before the gunfire rained down on them last time? No, making a run for it was out of the question. Although, what other choice did he have? Maybe he could crawl through it, staying low enough to blend in? It might work if he ran zigzag – he’d be a harder target to hit and would cut the distance to the other side. But even if he got that far, how would he get over the fence? Dammit, it was now or never. If he stayed, he would die anyway.

  He took a deep breath and stood, then leaped into the snow.

  “Richard, wait!” someone called from behind him.

  He knew that voice. Fuck! The snow was deep enough – midway up his calf, with nothing beneath but frozen grass. And cold. Freezing cold. It was a bad idea. He didn’t have to think hard about that to know it. Instead, he turned to search for Ian, easily spotting him at the treeline, holding his mutilated hand to his chest.

  “What are you doing here, kid?”

  “Come back here. Hurry. I’ve to tell you something.”

  Richard obliged, his feet already numb. He stepped between the trees and stamped snow off. “Go on then. What’s the big secret?”

  Ian’s eyes were wide with worry, or was it fear. Not surprising considering the shit they’d been through.

  “Nabil…” he began, but choked up and couldn’t get another word out.

  “Go on, lad, out with it. What about him?”

  Ian went on to report that The Host had informed them that Nabil had left this world and the campmates were reduced to stale soup as a result of his failure. They’d discussed the situation among themselves and he’d been delegated to follow and ask him to return.

  “I’m sorry about Nabil, Ian, but there’s nothing back there for me. Don’t you get it? These objectives, whatever the fuck they’re called, are all rigged. Pointless. This is the work of some sick bastard using us for his own twisted entertainment. And he’s broadcasting it across the internet. Has to be. Probably making a killing from it. Can’t you see that?”

  Ian stood in silence, chewing his bottom lip, tears streaming down his face.

  “Look, lad, we’ve two choices here: go back and wait to be called off somewhere to die, or take our chances out there.” He gestured to the vast tundra beyond the treeline. “All we can hope is that we don’t catch a bullet.”

  “What about the electric fence?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “But I don’t want to die.”

  Richard sensed the dread dragging him down, but refused to start mentoring him now. Whatever hope he had that someone would help him was long dead.

  He wrapped an arm around Ian’s thin shoulders. “We’ll wait until dark, then make a run for it.”

  WATCHERS IN THE DARK

  SIXTEEN

  Richard and Ian gazed across the cold land as darkness fell. The sky beyond the canopy was clear and a tapestry of stars glinted against the expansive black backdrop. Both of them were freezing from the wait, but at the same time prepared to make the potentially perilous journey in the hope of finding freedom on the other side.

  “What you think?” Richard whispered. “Now?”

  Ian was shaking, and not just from the cold. He pulled himself to his feet. “I don't think I can make it that far, Richie. My toes are numb, and turning black, and I just don't have the energy.”

  “Listen, Ian, if we don't do this now, we are going to die in these woods. Whoever is running this show is not fucking around. Okay? You understand me? This is serious.” He ordered the lad to count backward from ten to help compose himself.

  “You can do this. Just keep your head low and follow me.”

  “Okay, Richie, let’s do it.”

  They took one last deep breath and glanced at each other. Then they were off. Both sprinted forward, the fresh snow crunching with every footstep. Richard’s heartbeat thundered through his ears as he fought to keep the pace up.

  “Keep going, lad. Keep at it, you're doing great.”

  They didn’t look back until forced to a slow jog by sheer lack of energy and deepening snow. When they stopped, they hunkered down so they wouldn’t stand out. As each struggled to catch his breath, they looked back at the dark mass of trees and saw they’d travelled quite a distance. So far, no gunshots or alarms – all they could hear was their own raspy breathing.

  “We can’t stay here,” Richard said. “Sitting ducks. Let’s get going.”

  “Which way? Everything’s dark, even the snow. Can’t even see those watchtowers anymore.”

  “I know, but all we can do is work our way towards the horizon, as much as we can see it.”

  They took off again, running at a steadier pace, but it wasn’t long before they had to stop, gasping for breath and lost in the sense of not knowing which way to go.

  Ian shook his head. “It’s crazy. It’s like we’re inside a… a snow globe.”

  Richard let out a long sigh. Fuck. The lad was right. Now that the forest was out of sight, it was impossible to tell which direction they were going. Everything looked the same. Dark snow stretched into the night beneath the canopy of stars. If only he knew enough about the constellations to navigate. Should’ve paid more attention in the scouts. A misty wall of nothingness in every direction with that intoxicating smell of charred death in the air.

  Ian nudged him.

  “What?”

  “Listen…”

  All he could hear was his heartbeat in his ears.

  “I think it’s coming from that direction.” Ian pointed off to his left.

  Richard indulged him, squinting into the distance. The misty veil presented an object but he couldn’t make out what it was.

  “Fuck it, let’s take a look.”

  They crouched and made their way towards it, their progress slow, but as they got closer it came into focus – one of the watchtowers, right there in front of them. If that wasn’t bad enough, running alongside it was fencing with more fried bodies stuck to it.

  Ian, however, had his attention elsewhere – voices from the path that ran alongside the tower.

  Richard couldn’t believe his eyes. What looked to be participants, he assumed from other blocks – easily forty or fifty of them, and all in a single row – were being processed by guards.

  He pulled Ian down into the snow in a desperate attempt not to be seen. They watched the guards strip the prisoners down, blast them with water from a hose, before herding them into the back of a truck like cattle on the way to an abattoir.

  “We’ve seen enough,” Richard whispered, “time to go.”

  They made their retreat from the compound, staying low, when someone shouted from behind them. Fuck, were they spotted?

  He looked up to see one of the participants had wrangled free from the group and taken off in their direction.

  “Fuck, the bastard will lead them straight to us.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Ian cried, leaning against Richard and shaking as the escapee was chased down and engulfed in a steam of flames from what had to be a flamethrower held by one of the guards.


  Richard listened to the poor man’s screams, but they didn’t last long. At least he’s free. Which way to go now? “Come on, we have to keep moving. We have to lose them.”

  When he turned right, he thought he caught a murmuring, but it wasn’t distinctive enough to make out. Then it came to him: More voices – men shouting.

  Ian gripped his forearm and his heart leapt at the unmistakable sound of barking.

  “Dogs! They know we’re here.” He pulled the lad after him. “Run!”

  They took off back in the direction of the misty fog they hoped would take them towards the mountains. Richard didn’t want to leave Ian behind, but he also didn’t want to be mauled by an animal trained to attack. With almost every step, the barking and howling grew louder.

  “Ahh! Richard!”

  Richard looked behind to see Ian flat in the snow. Black shadows were coming their way.

  “Come on, boy, get up. Come on!”

  He dragged the groaning Ian to his feet and pushed him forward, but the lad coughed and wheezed as he stumbled ahead.

  “Which way?”

  “Forward! Just go!”

  But it was too late, the dogs were bearing down on them at unbelievable speed, their snarls filling the night. Before he knew it, he was on his back with a heavy German Shepherd’s jaws around his forearm. If he moved, he knew the beast would rip it to shreds.

  A few feet away, Ian was facedown, a massive Shepherd standing over him, growling like something from the scariest horror movie you could imagine.

  Shouts came from a short distance away and he thought he’d make a run for it himself if he could get the dog off, but the bastard must have read his mind, its grip on his arm strengthening. He cried out at the increased pressure, each tooth like a burning iron shooting up his arm.

  Seconds later the night was lit by torchlight, and men in silhouette fixed their weapons on them. Richard expected the dog to be ordered off and the scorching tongue of the flamethrower to be his last memory. But it didn’t come.

  When they spoke, their tone was hostile and angry – possibly Russian, but he couldn’t be sure. A terse command was given and the dogs released their hold and stepped back. Then he was flipped face down in the snow, his arms pulled back and his wrists bound with zip-ties – the plastic biting into his skin.

  Ian cried out to him, and he looked just in time to see the lad take the butt end of a rifle to his temple. The boy didn’t move after it.

  “Bastards!” he roared, but his protest was met with a crunching boot to the face, rocking his head back and knocking him out.

  ∆∆∆

  Visuals came at him out of the darkness – some like snapshots, others like scenes from a film. He was with his son. The time this particular memory happened wasn’t clear, but he was sure of the emotions he experienced that particular day. As the scene progressed, details filled his head. His wife was out with friends – a common occurrence since the move to London – and his son, Daniel, was alone in his bedroom.

  Daniel. My dear boy, how could I have let you slip from my memory? He offered to bring the boy to a football match and the delight in the child's eyes was something he would never forget. It was a night of simple things making the biggest impacts: fast food from street vendors, an excited crowd, and a cold night full of personal warmth in Upton Park. Daniel adored the beautiful game, and that night they became confirmed fans of the club in the East End of London. They watched the claret and blue home team play well and win three points. As the players applauded their fans at the end of the game, Daniel said something Richard would never forget: “I love you, Dad.” Overcome with happiness, he remembered the beauty of the floodlights on the pitch as they left the old stadium. Soft flurries of rain caught in the beam, drawing his gaze to the source, the visual blurring in the glare as he tried to regain focus.

  Then he realised he was squinting into a bare amber bulb. He was on his back, not in a football stadium, and not with his son, but being transported in the rear of a truck. Beside him lay Ian, unconscious, his body jerking with every bump in the road. Tendrils of memory connected him with his son, but all vanished when the truck kicked over a particularly hard bump, sending him crashing into the sideboards. Fuck!

  His hands were still bound. He rolled onto his side, pulled his knees up, and struggled into a sitting position. The heavy smell of death invaded his nostrils and, to his horror, he realised they were not the only ones in the back of the truck. Around them, burnt bodies lined the floor, the sight forcing him to gag and splutter, coughing bile up to clear his throat.

  “Ian? Ian!”

  No joy, his words fell on comatose ears. A corner of the tarp at the side flapped, and he saw through the gloom that they were heading towards what looked like a watchtower. He shifted closer, manoeuvring between the bodies, groaning at the pain in his jaw as he gasped for fresh air from beyond the opening. Ahead, a building, red brick and weather-beaten, had a spotlight on top that lit up the dirt road. Through a window in the back of the cab, he saw their captors and dogs, facing forward for now.

  He made his way back and nudged Ian several times, then kicked his knee. “Ian,” he whispered. “Ian, for fuck’s sake, wake up.” But the lad didn’t budge. A trail of dried blood ran from the side of his head, caking his ragged clothing.

  “Hey,” he called towards the cab. “This man needs help. He’s bleeding to death back here.”

  A small hatch in the window was drawn open and a man in a balaclava pointed a handgun at him and shouted something he didn’t understand, though he assumed he was being told to shut the fuck up, or something similar in whatever language it was.

  When the truck came to a stop, he looked out through the tarp and saw a dark-clad man pull a chain-link gate open.

  He went to the back and saw that the compound was closed in by a tall chain-link fence, with coils of razor wire and what he guessed to be electric cables running along the top. The spotlight, with snow drifting through its beam, never took its focus off the truck.

  The Host, he assumed, was inside that building, expecting his arrival. Who else would be running the show?

  Men appeared at the back of the truck, all wearing black combat trousers, jackets and balaclavas. They dropped the vehicle’s tailgate and pulled both of them out, slamming them onto the freezing concrete surface. Richard had no opportunity to get up or protest as he and the unconscious Ian were dragged by their ankles into the tower. As if the forest wasn’t bad enough, he quivered at the thought of the horrors that waited inside.

  SEVENTEEN

  They dragged Richard down into the basement, its walls red brick, cold and unforgiving. One of the guards acted like a tour guide, pointing to doors along the way, explaining what lay beyond in broken English. A room on his right was used to house the new-born babies of female participants – where they’d be left for the rats. Another room, he referred to as the sauna, was used for carefully selected participants to smell wonderful things before being transported to the burning fields.

  Burning fields? Richard screamed for help, but the guard mocked him with an equally wild scream in return. As he was dragged along, he couldn’t help looking into the rooms they passed. It was like they’d left the doors open so he’d see what was going on. One was used to shave the heads of the participants. A malevolent barber furiously running a cut-throat razor over the prisoner’s scalp, and thoroughly enjoying it by the gleeful look on his face.

  In another room, an electronic needle buzzed as it carved numbers into skulls, the harsh sound accompanied by cries of terror. This combination of sights and sounds horrified Richard and had the corridor swirling in a gut-wrenching maelstrom. The place was a compound of evil, where evil men did evil things to humans. A monstrous environment used to fulfil the sick and twisted pleasures of those who paid to watch from the safety of their computers and smart phones.

  The guards kicked the door open at the end of the corridor and, without saying a word, dragged him in and sat h
im onto a steel chair bolted to the floor in the centre of the room. Then they strapped his wrists and ankles down with thick leather restraints.

  The hooded men then left and locked the steel door behind them.

  Richard cried out and struggled against his bonds, but to no avail – this chair was built for purpose and would not fail. The walls were filthy, covered in a weeping grime – probably never cleaned since their construction. The ceiling, made of mouldy old oak, no doubt a witness to more atrocities than he could imagine, had one light in the middle and a dank mustiness from years of damp. The floor, grey concrete, was cold and miserable. He raised his feet back onto his heels, but his toes still ached from the bitter chill.

  Sweat stung his eyes and he had to shake it away to ensure he had a clear view of the door. What have they got planned for me? His chest tightened as hysteria threatened to overcome him, and he had to blow quick breaths in an effort to regain control. He hated the feeling of the walls looming over him like a fucking nightmare, as if his reality wasn’t bad enough.

  Then it got worse when the door shot open and a man ran in holding a bucket. What the…? He just about had time to focus on the guy’s dark eyes behind the balaclava when freezing water smashed into his face, with icy shards clattering against his teeth and eyes, evoking howls in shocked reaction.

  The man ran outside and Richard managed to shake the excesses off when the brute raced back in and repeated the ice beating, sprinting out and in three more times before leaving him shattered and shocked to his core.

  Strapped onto the chair, he had no way of moving or creating enough dynamic to fight off the bone-numbing cold. It ate right into his marrow, or that’s how it felt, his muscles shrivelling and his heart straining as every part of him shook in mind-bending convulsions. A nightmare – one he wished he had the power to wake himself from.

  The door swung open again and he braced himself for another icy onslaught, but this time the masked man brought in what looked like an old transistor radio, which he placed in front of him before leaving the room.