The Birdman Project: Book One

by E. L. Giles

  Stephen was standing in front of me when the explosion occurred. He’d acted as a human shield for me. And now he’s dead. Isn’t he? I hear voices in the distance through the crackling of the scattered fires that burn pieces of the bus and its occupants. The voices seem to come from the woods farther up the road, probably the patrol.

  “Run,” his breathing labored. “The fences…tell O’Hare…it’s…happening.”

  “What? Who? Stephen? Stephen…”

  His mouth freezes half-open, and his eyes turn dull and lifeless. He dies in my arms, and I can’t do anything for him. It’s not the first time someone has died in my arms, but given the circumstances, it feels like it is, and never before have I felt this helpless. Chaos surrounds me, chaos that I’m responsible for. Why did they think they had to help me? Without them here, everyone would be still alive. Guilt twists my stomach with a force I can’t fight.

  “Inspect the remains. Kill everyone left!” a voice shouts in the distance.

  The patrol is coming. Ten, maybe fifteen soldiers I heard them say before the explosion. I stand absolutely no chance. Stephen urged me to run, and that’s what I’m going to do.

  Part Two

  Chapter Ten

  The fence. That is where Stephen told me to run. It isn’t that far. Maybe ten yards at most. And halfway there, there’s the brick cabin. And between them all, rocks and dust and bushes.

  I place my hands on the ground and push myself to a kneeling position. I feel weak at first, but I must get up and run. A new energy starts filling my body, adrenaline that flows through my muscles, dulling the pain in my arm. I am alert, my senses sharper. I get to my feet and stumble to the brick building. The distance is short, but the effort to make it there is tremendous. When I get to it, I lean my back against the wall of the building, out of breath. I hear the yelling of soldiers in the distance. I must calm down.

  Breathe in—breathe out—breathe in—breathe out.

  I step sideways along the wall, using its surface as a support so I can remain standing. I stop when I reach the corner of the wall and crane my neck around it. Nobody is hiding there, and the fence stands beyond it, no more than five yards. I can make it in ten long strides.

  But I can’t, I realize with horror. How will I make it to the other side of the fence with a wounded arm? Sure, I can move it, but every time the muscles of my arm tighten, pain clutches me and threatens to make me faint. And there’s another problem, a bigger one: that warning sign on the fence that reads: High Voltage.

  The voices grow closer. Every second I lose thinking of a way to cross the fence is a step closer to certain death. I look around frantically, my head spinning fast and making me feel lightheaded. What’s around me? It’s all foliage and bushes with untrimmed grass. And there’s a tall tree with its trunk split in half, one half overhangs the electrified fence.

  I look over my shoulder, and all I see is smoke and fire. There are still no guards in sight, though I hear their voices ever closer. It’s now or never.

  One…two…three. I propel myself forward into a sprint and get to the tree in less than three breaths.

  There, I reach for the first available branch, which is at chest height, and jump up to pull myself onto it. I wait until I get my balance and then reach for the second branch I need to crawl along to make my way across the maze of greenery and leaves. My skin burns where the bark scratches me, but I keep moving.

  The last branch is the most challenging. I’m exposed to the wind, which pushes me off balance. The wood under me cracks beneath my weight. I move faster until I get to the place the branch stretches over the fence. I’m nearly there. Only a few more steps along the barky surface and I’ll be out of danger—I hope. I stop just over the metallic barbs of the fence. The hum of the electrical current is strong here, and I’m glad I saw the sign before I touched it.

  A quick look down reveals I stand about eight to ten feet above the ground. The branch sways more intensely as the wind grows stronger. The sound of crackling wood is chilling. I can’t think anymore. I must jump down without caring if I get hurt from the fall. I lean over and let go of my worries. I jump.

  Pain is all I feel when I hit the mushy ground. It’s jarring, like electric shocks shooting through my legs. I bite back a scream as I sit, feeling for the damage. I’ve twisted my left ankle, it’s swollen and painful to move, but no bones seem broken. Things aren’t looking good, but at least I’m on the right side of the fence…I think. I don’t have any more time left to inspect my ankle further. I must go. I must walk on it no matter what. But where to go? It all looks the same to me—rows of trees, no clear paths, and dozens of groves and brushes. Fog wraps the landscape in shades of gray. I’m in the Wild Territory. I’m not sure anymore if this was a good idea.

  After having contemplated my surroundings, I decide to head straight; it’s the simplest choice. I loosen the shoelace around my weak foot and pick up a long sturdy branch that lies beside me on the ground. I can use it as a walking stick. I get up and start to walk-limp away from the electric fence.

  The woods have a ghost-like appearance through the fog. Silhouettes of trees and brush outlined eerily, swaying like they’re alive. Wind rustles through the leaves, sending chills that creep under my skin. The storm we left in Kamcala comes back to me. I experience a flashback of Stephen and the burning convoy as I make my way across the myriad of obstacles in my path. I stumble, the spongy ground being of no help to ease the brunt of my fall. I must not let my emotions drown me, not now. I must keep my focus until I find myself far enough, safe enough—if such a thing does exist here—and out of the reach of the soldiers. Only then will I mourn their death and Anna’s death. Not now.

  The sky darkens, rumbling and growling with thunder above me. I’m wounded and soon to be trapped in a storm, running through the Wild Territory, leaving behind a field of dead bodies and probably being hunted by soldiers. I’m sure things couldn’t be worse.

  I hear gunshots in the distance, echoing strangely across the trees. The thought that they may be killing someone sends shivers down my spine. Or is it me who’s being shot at? I quicken my pace, pain shortening my breaths. I try to ignore the throbbing aches as I keep moving. I quickly get used to the fog. It provides great cover against those who might be trying to find me. Each time I stop to catch my breath, I crouch behind rocks or lean behind a tree, but never in sight of anyone who might be hunting me.

  After having climbed slopes, passing tall trees, and walking along a stream, I finally get to a lake where a tall oak tree stands. Never, in the whole time I ran—which feels like hours—did I hear another gunshot, footsteps behind me, or any voices. It’s only me, the cawing of the crows, the rumbling of the thunder, the raindrops that splatter on the treetops, and the leaves rustling in the wind. There’s also my own breathing and the crackling of dead leaves beneath my feet. I think I’m finally safe from the soldiers and decide to rest here.

  I sit beneath the oak, leaning my back against its trunk, legs stretched out. I struggle to catch my breath, the stale smell of rot and damp air saturating my lungs. My heart pounds in my chest, my pulse filling my ears. Slowly, I feel the adrenaline evaporate from my system, and I realize my body aches everywhere.

  I look at my wounded arm first. The bandage is soaked with blood. I dig a finger into a hole in the material of what remains of my sleeve and tear it until I have a long strip of fabric. I reach for the soiled bandage that covers my wound and carefully unwrap it until I get to the last layer, which is glued to my arm with dried blood. I grit my teeth, hold my breath, and pull it straight off. Tears instantly fill my eyes.

  Focus to forget the pain. You can do it.

  I suck in a deep breath and get up, climbing down a small slope to the lake. I kneel and lean over the water, scooping some over the wound. I take the strip of cloth and clean it all until I have a clear view of the damage to my arm. I probably need stitches, I fear, but now isn’t the time to think about that. Now is the
time to rest a bit and keep moving deeper into the woods. Death still lingers behind me, I’m sure. I feel it.

  “Just a scratch,” I say with a snort as I bandage the wound on my arm with the new piece of cloth.

  The moment I rest my head onto the wet, earthy ground, it starts to spin nauseatingly. Heat rushes into my cheeks and my neck like a fever. I can’t stop the world from swaying around me. Slumber feels so close, and I’m not sure anymore that resting here is a good idea. What if they find me while I’m asleep?

  I feel a sudden dryness in my throat, which screams for water. There is plenty right here in front of me. I sit up, bend over, and scoop more water into my hands. The water is clear and free of any smell. I bring it to my lips and sip. I drink again and again until my hands are empty, and then I scoop for more. The more I drink, the more I want, like I can’t satiate the burning in my throat, but I finally stop when I can’t swallow any more. The burning finally eases but doesn’t disappear entirely. My stomach growls. What’s the matter with me right now? Is my body that messed up? Like, I’ve been hurt and it doesn’t work properly now? How can I be hungry when I just witnessed the massacre of a whole group of people right in front of my eyes?

  I don’t know, but I do feel like I must eat something.

  I look around and notice about ten feet behind the tall oak is a row of short bushy trees with little round, purple balls that look like berries scattered over them. I get up and walk-limp to them. I pick some of the berries and walk back to the oak, where I sit and chew a mouthful of them. I don’t taste them at first—all I want is to satisfy the hunger pangs—but once the aftertaste kicks in, I know I’ve been wrong to eat them. My stomach and my throat burn as if someone is holding a flame to them. And then the burning brings nausea that sends shudders through my entire body.

  What is going on?

  I lean my head back on the tree trunk. I focus on a certain point above me, a green leaf, and try to forget how the world around me sways. I hope I can get rid of this feeling.

  But no.

  That’s when I hear footsteps and voices. They’re distant and faint, unless my head is tricking me? I get up and limp-walk back to the underbrush. It’s getting more and more difficult to move, and my balance is off. Black slowly blurs my sight from the corner of my eyes. The pressure in my head intensifies, and I stumble on something. My knees crumble beneath me, and I know in this very moment I won’t get back to my feet again.

  I slump to the damp ground. The footsteps are getting closer, moving quickly. I must not give up. I stretch an arm out to dig my fingers deep into the earth. I scratch at the soil, pulling my body forward. The trembling worsens, intensifying to violent tremors. I can’t give up. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

  But soon I can’t move anymore. I want to scream, I want to run, and I desperately want to save myself. But I can’t. The sound of footsteps fills my ears in muffled echoes. They seem distant. They stop, and I hear voices again. I can’t discern what they’re saying. I can’t see anything but the rotten leaves and the insects crawling in front of my eyes. A hand grabs my wounded arm, and it’s like someone turns off a switch. Everything goes black.

  Chapter Eleven

  All I see is blackness, and then thousands of bright, miniscule spheres appear, moving around like dancing shapes, colors tangling with one another. A sudden, oppressive sense of fear grips me. My heart beats in my ears. I feel pain. And then I can see again, but the fear and pain remain. I stand in the middle of a vast empty field, and there, right in front of me, is an immense bonfire that burns in the distance, setting the skyline ablaze. Cries of torment come from the heart of its flames.

  “Run. Run,” I hear them crying.

  And then there is a soft voice that murmurs in my ears, “It’s happening. It’s happening.”

  “What’s happening?” I ask, but the voice says nothing else.

  There is only me, and I realize I can’t do anything to help those screaming within the fire; I can’t do anything to lessen their torture. I can’t save them. Every part of my body stiffens. I’m paralyzed.

  Ashes fly off the burning city. A new storm rages over me. Nothing calms the fire there. It’s inextinguishable.

  Slowly, I feel something wrap tightly around my neck, and my body is lifted off the ground. Breathing becomes hard, then impossible, and I find myself suffocating, gasping for air.

  I see through my blurred sight as shadows materialize in front of me like dark mirrors through which I can contemplate my reflection. My body dangles by a rope on a tree branch, my feet inches from the ground and my swollen face turning deep-red. I raise my eyes to see the skyline merging into a single crimson background, and the silhouette of a city appears: Kamcala.

  Slowly the shadows morph into human shapes—men and women, boys and girls standing and staring at me—spectators of my execution.

  Tremors shake my whole body. I can’t control them.

  My execution.

  I panic, struggling to free myself or loosen the knot around my neck. Nothing works, and the knot only tightens. The hooded hangman smiles beside me. The show amuses him. My fingers scratch the skin of my neck. I try to dig my fingers under the noose, between it and my skin. I need to loosen the loop, but I can’t. It’s too tight. The lack of air burns through my chest, and my cheeks tingle and then go numb from lack of circulation. My entire body prickles with pain. It’s just a matter of seconds before I die. Or am I already dead? I don’t know. All I hear is the applause from the spectators, muffled, distant.

  +++

  I wake up, startled, and as I reach up to my face, I realize I’m all sweaty, my hair sticking to my skin. Breathing is difficult, my throat is sore, and I gulp for air. I reach for my throat, feeling for the rope that doesn’t exist. There is only my soft skin and some scratches under my fingers. It was a nightmare, just a nightmare…

  It takes a moment to calm down and gather myself together with my eyes closed, trying to breathe deeply through the headache that pounds behind my eyes. My heart slowly calms. I feel dizzy, lightheaded. My stomach burns, which puzzles me. Am I sick, or something else? What happened? I’m afraid to open my eyes. There’s a smell I don’t recognize. Where am I? Is it a bed I feel beneath me? What is going on?

  I delve into my memory, to the last thing I remember. I hear people crying. I hear gunshots. I see myself running in the woods, then slumping to the ground, unable to move. I remember footsteps, but were they real, or was it a dream?

  I suck in a deep breath for courage and open my eyes.

  The first sight makes me close them instantly as fear clutches me. I don’t know where I am. Not at all. I open my eyes again and peer around the room. The walls are made out of wood logs, the ceiling covered with wooden planks. I lean over the edge of the bed and see that the floor is also made from the same wood planks. There is a soft mattress beneath me, a pillow under my head, and a blanket over my body. It definitely isn’t my apartment. My apartment is white plaster and small in size, without an inch of wood in it. It felt cold and uninviting, while here it’s warm and cozy. This is not a place I know, nor one I’ve ever even heard of.

  Some official’s mansion maybe? I hope not.

  I recall running in the woods, falling, and then hearing footsteps. I remember the panic I’d felt. I abruptly notice the throbbing in my left arm, and I wince at the pain. Checking myself over, I see a cloth that feels bumpy under my exploring fingers. It feels excruciatingly painful when I touch it, and I immediately pull my fingers away. I inspect the bandage. A green leaf-like substance is seeping from the edges. I carefully unroll the cloth, groaning quietly at the discomfort, and place it aside before lifting the strange mound of shredded greens. There are three sutures closing the wound.

  For a moment, I play around the stiches with the tips of my fingers absentmindedly. More glimpses of memory come back. Gunshots, the stench of rot and greenery that tickles my nose. A sudden anguish squeezes my chest, and I recall the need to run, to es
cape. I remember people coming for me in the woods.

  I had escaped, and they’d followed me. Soldiers.

  I turn around and notice a dusty window to my left. It appears to be evening. I can see the contours of wide, conical shapes that must be trees. Am I a captive then? Captive in Kamcala, in an official’s mansion? I must leave. I must escape. This need overwhelms the curiosity for inspecting my surroundings or analyzing what’s going on. I must go. That’s it.

  I pull the thick blanket down to my feet and move my legs over the side of the bed until I’m sitting on the edge with my feet on the floor. This simple effort leaves me dizzy, and I have to wait until the world stops spinning. I notice, as my hand reaches for the top of a nightstand to support myself when I stand, that there’s a mug full of water and a wet cloth, folded into a square. Beside these things is a bouquet of blue, yellow and purple summer flowers—the same flowers we had in the park in Kamcala. They were Anna’s favorite. This memory of her pulls at my heartstrings and is quickly followed by the image of the hangman. The rope, the execution. Too many things rush into my head, threatening to overwhelm me. This is no time for weakness. It’s no time to mourn, unless I want to mourn my impending death.

  A thought comes to mind as I glimpse a chair beside the bed. Has someone been caring for me? Someone must have. I couldn’t have bandaged myself like that, much less have stitched a wound without having any memory of it, and without any tools to do it. And the mug, the cloth, and the chair... But why? Why would someone take care of a fugitive like me? I should have been executed publicly long ago. Are there darker plans for me?

  I shake these thoughts out of my head and stand up. The moment my feet hit the hardwood surface, bearing my full weight, pain like electrical shocks burn their way up my left leg. I clench my teeth hard, suppressing a scream. Images of the electrical fence come to mind. I bend to massage the throbbing in my ankle for a moment.