by Kolin Wood
It is just you. There is nobody else here, he told himself.
With a stiff arm, John reached up to cup his jaw with his cold hand. Pain registered in his mouth. The coppery taste of blood hung at the back of his throat and he swallowed it down with a grimace. He checked his teeth, running a dirty finger along the top and then the bottom, pleased to find none missing.
Slowly, he sat up.
The moonlight coloured a stark smear across the land, painting in both directions so that the leaves on the trees looked sharp and clean. Along with the cold brightness came clarity; not just to the forest around him but to his brain as well. He felt weak and hungry but he no longer felt afraid. Instead he felt foolish. He had fainted at the dark. Fainted at nothing but the fear in his mind when there had not even been anybody there.
With an internal mocking voice chiding him, John stood up, stretching to keep the stiffness of his cold muscles at bay. His throat still ached with thirst and his feet throbbed in his boots. He needed to find some supplies, and soon; otherwise, he knew that he would perish out here in the woods. He wondered how much farther the Refuge was.
Coward, the voice chimed in, unchecked. What about Becca, huh? Murph? Your friends? What were you thinking, leaving them there with those psychos? Who knows what has become of them?
Regret weighed in heavy then, hitting him like a stone fist to his gut. The voice inside of him was right. In his cowardice, he had walked away without even looking back, leaving his dog and his friend behind. What sort of a man would do that? Who knew what had happened to them… or what was happening to them right now.
Everybody has a role, everybody a purpose. Len’s words rang through his mind.
What was Becca’s purpose? What was Murphy’s? Len had even threatened to eat him, for god’s sake!
Suddenly, John felt more alone than ever before in his life. It was as though his conscience had disappeared for a while but had now returned and switched the lights back on. Everyone was gone. Ryan, Murphy, Becca—all of them. And for what? Sure, Becca had been angry at him for his suspicions of her uncle—if that was even who he was—but there was no denying that she must have felt something for him. Perhaps friendship, perhaps more, but something; he’d felt it, and yet he’d just walked away and left them there. No perseverance, no fight—nothing. He felt angry at the situation but also at himself. Becca had been right; if he didn’t grow up and take some responsibility, the world in its new form would just keep on taking from him—and there was not much left to be stripped away; he was bare bones already.
He felt the clench of his jaw and tasted blood once again. He would not to succumb to his demons. As soon as it was light, he would retrace his steps and go back to the farm, talk it out with Len. Surely they could work something out. He figured that turning up there in the middle of the night would not be the best idea; it would likely reward him with a bullet to his gut, and besides, he still did not know which way was back. He hoped to be able to find some sign of his original path in the morning.
As soon as it was light: he had to survive the night first, and the first thing he needed was a fire.
A few feet in, underneath the overhanging canopy, the forest floor changed to a thick carpet of pine needles. Tiny spikes poked and prodded as his fingers searched for small twigs and dried moss to act as kindling. Once he had procured enough of both, he moved back into the clearing and roughly smoothed a small patch with his boot before dumping his modest collection in the middle. Finally, he searched through the lower hanging boughs, snapping off any of the dry, dying branches to act as fuel.
His stomach rumbled loudly and his wet body shivered as he diligently set about constructing a small fire mound in the middle of the path. There would be no food tonight but that did not mean that he couldn’t create some warmth for himself, maybe ward off a few of the dark spirits lurking in the forest, or at least give them pause to approach him.
The steel stick flashed in the darkness, bringing dots which marred his sight. Again and again he tried until he was red in the face, sending showers of sparks to the earth, but nothing would ignite. Just at the point of quitting, he remembered the bottle of cleaning fluid that Saul had given them at the start of their journey. He rummaged through the pack in the dark, his vision still incomplete, until he found the crumpled plastic bottle.
Worth a try, he thought, adding a liberal splash to the pile of kindling.
The next spark of the steel sent the whole thing alight with a puff and a whoosh and John found himself leaning backwards as invisible flames licked his face, singeing his eyebrows in the process.
The foliage crackled and John quickly added more twigs, stoking the mini-inferno until the infantile flames could stand up and breathe on their own. Warmth from the fire stroked him gently, it’s’ light creating a small halo, anything not within the sphere now forgotten. John fed it still further, nurturing it gently and curling into the circle of its warmth. The heat held him like a blanket, and soon he felt like a man of two halves as the chill clung on, strapped to his back, clawing for a purchase that the fire would not allow.
Now, with the heat of the fire on his face and the night held at bay by the light, the idea of his panic attack seemed utterly ridiculous. He chuckled, and the infectiousness of the action spread to the depths of his gut until he was laughing out loud, his head turned toward the sky. He had fainted at the dark!
Only once his sides had begun to ache did John stop, pulling shuddering staccato breaths in while rubbing the tears from his eyes. It had not even been that funny, but the endorphins—combined with the latent adrenaline—had built into a need for his body to release; to show the forest that he was not scared.
Tomorrow he would attempt to backtrack to the farm. There would be signs, broken grasses and bracken to show him the way, and he was a good enough tracker to be able to retrace his own footsteps. He rolled over onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows in an attempt to share the limited warmth with his colder half. The track stretched away from him in a slight decline and the brilliant moonlight allowed him to see for a distance.
The early morning brought with it a weak curtain of mist. The lower down the incline the thicker the mist became until, at the limit of his vision, it completely disappeared from sight.
John smiled, contentedly.
It was then that something moved in the fog.
Disarmed, he sat up and blinked his eyes, unwilling to be tricked so easily again. Only this time, it was still there. No, it was closer; a small pale disc, bouncing up and down. To the side of it there came another, bouncing out of time and growing bigger by the second.
John stopped smiling and straightened fully, straining his eyes and ears against the dark whilst trying to listen above the crackle of the fire. There was now a dull thudding too, and he could feel it in the dirt at his fingers.
Something was coming, and it was running at him from the mist.
17
John started to run. The first few steps were hard; the overload of adrenaline hit him so strongly that he struggled to find his legs. They felt heavy and rubbery, and their apparent lack of control made him want to vomit, but he pushed on regardless, pumping them against the solid, uneven ground with increasing intensity until he felt the blood return and his muscles strengthen their resolve.
The cold night wind rushed in his ears and his hair blew back off of his face as he darted along the moonlit track, dodging the fallen trunks of trees and jumping any dips and trenches as they presented themselves. Brambles tore at his shins as he ploughed through the small thickets.
He did not once look back. He did not want to know who was running toward him in the dark.
The pack weighed on his arm, threatening to send him off balance and John flung it aside, uncaring of the loss as his fear returned in spades. He ran and ran until his feet felt as though they were on fire and the breath in his lungs burned like a toxic cloud of gas. He knew that if he chanced a look back, he would undoubt
edly fall, such was the harshness of the dirt and terrain, so he kept his eyes straight ahead on the ground before him, desperately searching his way. Flies and insects flew into his face. The thudding of his boots on the sun-baked soil filled his ears. John strained hard to hear beyond himself, trying to gauge the sound of what was thundering behind, but the clamour of his own commotion prevented it. Yet, he could still feel them gaining on him. He could imagine one of them, one of the crazies, deranged on poisoned rat meat, mouth foaming like a rabid dog, their filthy fingers outstretched, clasping for the trailing locks of his hair, desperate for his blood. The thought drove him on harder, bringing on a fresh burst of speed which surprised him.
Onward he ran, ducking and jumping, until his breath laboured and the sweat dripped from his brow. He knew that he did not have much left to give. His muscles burned brightly, sending pain along his thighs and up his calves. Just when he thought that he was done for, he noticed something shining through the trees—a bright and unnatural light—and John realised with a cry of relief that it was the spotlights from the farm. Their distance was hard to determine given the speed that he was running at, but he guessed that it was perhaps a mile, maybe two.
He realised then that could still make it. He had to.
Yet still hotter his legs burned, still more tired his arms became until his shoulders felt like rusted bevels spinning in dry, un-oiled hinges. Closer the bright lights became until John was sure that they were casting a reflection from his pale skin, making him a beacon in the darkness.
With his focus now on the lights of the farm and not looking where he was going, the toecap on John’s boot caught the top of a mound of hardened earth, upsetting his balance and sent him stumbling forward. His arms wind-milled in the air as his legs fought to correct their fluidity, each jarring step agony on his feet. But he was travelling too fast, and they lost their stride. With a horrified yelp, John realised that he was falling. He threw himself sideways, drawing on the very last of his energy, pitching his body as far towards the shadows at the side of the track as he could manage. Stones cut into his palms and pain jarred up his wrists as he thrust out his hands to break the fall. The momentum carried him to the edge but upon landing there, John rolled farther still, not stopping until he felt stiff bracken stalks against his back.
For a few moments, nothing happened. John lay still, his hands smarting.
Then he heard it, a faint sound pounding over the booming in his head. It sounded like the chaffing of clothing accompanied by the thud of feet.
John held his breath and covered his head with his hands.
They were right on him now, only metres away, so close that he could hear the almost rabid panting of their breathing. There must be two or three of them; maybe even more.
He closed his eyes and tightened himself into a ball, so scared that it felt as though his heart might explode in his chest. But nothing happened.
The sound began to diminish as the steps thundered away. A cool breeze rushed across him, teasing his uncovered flesh. Soon he was unsure if he could hear anything.
He remained still and tried to control his breathing. One… Two… Three… Every breath hurt deep in his lungs.
Slowly, his body began to calm. One… Two… Three… The pulsating in his head lessened.
Only when he was confident that there were no more following behind did John roll over to his knees and stand up. Cautiously, he took a few steps out into the brightness of the night. The track stretched away from him, empty in both directions. Around him, the forest lay as still and as quiet as the dead. In the distance, the lights from the farm building continued to blink on and off through the thick curtain of moving trees. Given the serenity of the place, it was suddenly hard to believe that anybody had been chasing him. For a few moments he stood confused; surely, he had not imagined it again?
Almost in answer to his doubt, a gunshot cracked in the distance. The shock and noise caused him to jump as the boom ricocheted around the trees. The shot was followed by another, and then another four more in quick succession. Automatically, John stepped backward into the shadow of the surrounding forest on the side of the track.
The loud cry of the worn gate hinges followed, along with voices too faint to understand. Somebody shouted and there was another, final gunshot, and laughing.
John shuddered. Whoever it was that had been chasing him was just shot at the gate, no questions asked. Had he not snagged his foot and stumbled, those bullets would have almost certainly wound up in him instead.
Silence reigned once more as the natural balance of the forest slowly returned.
John walked back out into the middle of the track for the second time. Suddenly, all was not lost. His narrow escape from his pursuers had brought him back to the farm and answered one question for him—there would be no going in through the front gate; that was for sure.
It took ten minutes of warily retracing his steps to locate his discarded pack. It lay camouflaged in some foliage, but John caught sight of the two reflective strips on the back pocket, which held the moonlight like a lantern. He checked it over quickly and lifted it onto his back, groaning as the familiar weight pulled on the ever-familiar knot between his shoulders.
He considered his options.
The strong likelihood was that if he should attempt to enter the farm tonight, then he too would end up being shot and left to rot in the forest. Not only was it dark, but Len and the others had taken an instant dislike to him. Whether it was his relationship with Becca or something more personal, he didn’t know, but there was no disputing the fact that tensions were present. Frank, the loyal guard dog, also seemed to be somewhat short of being a fan; although, John had taken a shot at his face and only narrowly missed, so it stood to reason that there might be some fallout from that.
He thought about the house that he had seen through the trees.
It must be where they were keeping the women, if indeed there were any women left. On his tour with ‘Uncle’ Len, he had managed to gather a good idea of the internal layout of the converted barn building. Unless they had a basement, or the women and kids were kept up on the Mezzanine, John was fairly certain that they did not reside inside. That only left the other house—the original farm residence. He figured that if he could approach it from the side to avoid the farm guards altogether then maybe he could get in close enough to formulate a plan and find a way in. That unclimbable, high, steel fence ran the entire circumference of the field with occasional guard towers dotted along its length, but John had the cover of night on his side. The forest was thick and dark. If he were to remain hidden within its congested confines, far enough away from the encampment that his footsteps might not be heard, then he might be able to use the light source to his advantage and follow it around to the side of the house.
He gazed into the woodland nervously.
If the women were there, and if he managed to break inside to see Becca, then perhaps he could persuade her to come with him. In truth, after her reaction to him at breakfast, he had no idea whether she would be happy to see him or not, but something in the pit of his stomach told him that he had to go and find out. Something told him that she was in trouble and, if nothing else, he needed to try to rescue Murphy.
If, if, if… The plan sounded suicidal, but for the first time in his life, John no longer cared. Becca was his friend. He would try to help her, regardless of the danger. It was time to step up and be a man.
In the distance, he heard the sound of barking, followed by more shouting.
Murphy! John’s heart lifted in his chest. Perhaps he had telepathically heard of the plan.
He had no idea where the dogs were kept. He could only hope—at the very least—that they were lodged over on the same side of the compound as the house. But one thing was for damn sure: he would not be leaving without his dog either.
18
Compared to the barn, the defences surrounding the main farmhouse building surprised him. The property wa
s set back on the edge of a dense patch of almost impenetrable woodland, where the trees were positioned so closely together that they blocked out the light from the sun. Tiny, sharp twigs wove a complex and dangerous web, meaning that the trunks were only accessible by way of a wet and tiring stomach crawl in the three foot of space at the bottom of their reach. A flimsy, home built fence, comprising of six-foot wooden panels, ran a ring around the dilapidated residence, tightly pushed against the tree line, each panel roughly adorned at the top with loosely-coiled barbed wire. Many of the panels were wonky and misaligned, and it was clear straight away that they posed far less of a problem than the twenty-foot industrial sheeting that enclosed the front of the complex and the field containing the solar panels.
The sweat on John’s face stung him as he shifted for comfort in the tree. Such was the clamour that he had made scaling the thick trunk, he was almost surprised when he managed to climb high enough without drawing any attention. From his newly elevated and concealed position, he had a clear view into the front garden, and immediately, the reason for the lacklustre defences became clear. The tall steel fencing from the solar field continued around the barn, effectively cutting the house off from the rest. Whoever was housed within clearly did not garner the same level of importance as the men held for their own safety.
A small, loose rock wall covered in moss and lichen surrounded the heavily overgrown lawn at the front. Beyond the wall, the remains of a pond poked through the throng of excessive plant life encroaching its edge. The constricting ring of trees at the front and back left the space feeling dark, bleak, and damp. Aside from the obvious decrepitude, the house itself was an imposing affair; angular and uncharacteristic with red brick walls and a sloping, red tile roof. The sash windows visible on the front were dull and heavy with rot. Several of the glass panes on the top and bottom appeared to be cracked and, in some cases, broken altogether.
Unlike the almost over-generous level of luminance afforded for the barn, there appeared to be no lights on in the house, and the darkness inside left every window pane like a mirror when contrasted against the bright sky above. John scoured them anyway one by one, desperate for any sign of Becca or anyone else that might be inside. But after a few minutes of intense spying, he had seen nobody. The house looked empty and lifeless, forgotten like the headstone of an unloved relative and left to hide in the reclamation of the land.
