by M. L. Rayner
Not in the mood to argue the point, Marcus sat impatiently waiting for a report.
“See anything?” Marcus whispered.
“One sec.”
“What…?”
“I said one sec –”
“What…?”
“Christ sake, Marcus! Will you give me a bloody second!”
Bran stretched tall. As he wrapped himself around a small tree for support, its trunk creaked and groaned. Although he expected it to fall, it held his weight while he shifted his focus.
He fell back, sliding down heavily to Marcus’s side.
“Well... see anything?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No. Not a soul.”
“Try and climb a little higher, then.”
“You fuckin’ try and climb a little higher! There’s nothing to see.”
A few moments passed, giving time for them to collect their thoughts and for a sharp screech of a passing bird to warn them both of danger.
“So… any ideas?” asked Marcus.
“Yeah. We get out of here.”
“But you have no clue which way. Don’t even begin to pretend that you do.”
“True,” replied Bran “But moving somewhere, anywhere, is surely better than staying here!”
“I dunno…”
“Look! We can’t stay. You know that! We’ll freeze to death… without question. Look at us. We’ve barely sat here an hour already… I can’t even feel my bollocks.”
“No… me neither.”
“So, get your arse up and move.”
Marcus stood, aided by a branch that gave way to his grasp and showered them with crisp, dry leaves which spun and came to rest in the water. They didn’t discuss a plan; there was none to discuss. Instead, they simply walked, single file, and no more than an arm length apart. Deeper and deeper through the fog.
*
The swamp was thick like day-old porridge. Night rolled over them like the flick of a switch, leaving little light to penetrate the ceiling of treetops. Every now and again overgrown brambles crept out, seemingly from nowhere, their razor thorns scraping like a wall of broken glass.
“Piss off, will ya!” Bran bit, turning to smack a bush clinging effortlessly to his shirt.
He tugged himself free, gaining an impressive new scratch that ran down the length of his arm.
“Well done.” Marcus pulled his foot from the muck that was trying to swallow him whole.
“For what?”
“I’m just saying… you sure showed that plant who’s boss.”
“Oh, get lost!”
“No, seriously, what you gonna do next, headbutt a squirrel? Drop kick an owl?”
“No” snapped Bran. “But I just might smack you in the f–”
“Quiet!”
They both froze. While their feet sank slowly in the sludge, they both heard a familiar sound. The same sound had forced them both to run and had caused the fears that left a man to perish.
“You hear that?” asked Marcus, looking to the obstructed sky.
“I ain’t deaf, 'course I hear it.”
The noise enshrouded them and reverberated off the fog like perfectly tuned acoustics in the grandest theatre.
“Leg it!” instructed Bran. His feet were already coursing through the mire.
Marcus followed immediately, half expecting to be left for bait, the white smoke grabbing and pulling him back. He readied himself to shout, to curse aloud the selfish sod he followed. Bran splashed nearby, his silhouette visible, water foaming in waves at his sides. He paused before continuing to assure himself that Marcus was still at his tail.
“Come on!” Bran yelled back. “Don’t stop for nothin!”
They ran hard despite the hindrance; the water slowing every single step. They got nowhere fast. Everything was a panic, everything. And soon, they no longer had the will to question the matter. Running was the only thing that made sense now, the direction was irrelevant.
The trees grew thicker ahead. Their shadows reminded Bran of a gathering crowd waiting for them to pass. Yet, all stayed still. Their forms were not like the other trees from the swampland: limp, rotting, and ready to fall. These trees were straight, tall, and strong and covered in a heavy padded moss from top to bottom. It was soft to the touch, crumbling in their hands as they grabbed and swung for leverage. The sound grew stronger, continually at their backs, like the chase of a mangy mutt, snarling and nipping at their feet.
Marcus looked back. What is that?
Something stirred just beyond his view. A faint dark shape swept creepily through the clouds with a swoosh. He didn’t have the time to think. In fact, he didn’t want to. The shape shifted from behind to his left, then right. swoosh… swoosh… swoosh. The movement was swift and faint but undeniably as visible as the mist he ran through.
Mind games. It’s just mind games, thought Marcus as he ran into Bran, who now stood still in the water.
The two smacked heads with a cringe-worthy thump, throwing them dizzily to the mud.
“You gone blind or something?” yelled Bran, covering one eye.
“Blind or something? Are you for real?” replied Marcus sarcastically. “I can’t see an inch in front of my pissin’ nose!”
A rumble shook the swamp, followed by a prolonged hiss through the waving branches above. Bran and Marcus cowered, finding themselves tucked away beneath the roots of a fallen tree. They drew a deep breath, their backs pressed tightly against the hanging roots.
“Is that why you stopped?” whispered Marcus.
“What? No, I stopped for that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing!”
Bran pointed over his shoulder as Marcus scuffled, clearing the curtain of roots aside. Bran joined him, and both watched the distant scene.
“Can you tell what it is?” asked Marcus.
“I dunno. At first I thought it was people.”
“No, it’s definitely not people.”
“Well, I can see that now, can’t I!”
The mist grew weaker as shadows towered up from what looked to be solid ground. The shadows solidified into large, tall stones.
“If that’s what I think it is, I could kiss it,” said Marcus, leaning himself back to rest.
“Kiss what?”
“Dry ground.”
“Oh,” replied Bran who was now on all fours with his head protruding from their hiding spot. A piece of paper dropped freely from his rear pocket. The paper was wet and fragile but was saved when Marcus swiped it from further harm. He shook away the droplets, delicately opening it out. Reading the text silently, his attention drifted when he observed the image of a young girl.
Blood drained from his face. Unable to budge he held his breath while his heart pounded in his chest. He could not divert his attention from the girl smiling back at him. He was mesmerised until the picture was snatched from his cold, wet hands.
“That’s mine,” said Bran with anger.
“Where did you get it?” asked Marcus.
“That dump of a cabin we stayed at. It was among all the clutter, that’s all.”
“Then why did you keep it?”
Bran grew speechless. “It’s personal.”
“Bran?”
“Ok! You remember that dream I told you about? The one with my mum?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, that little girl was a part of it. The same one, in this picture.” Bran continued to point at the picture.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. It’s strange, some part of me just couldn’t let it go. So I pocketed it. Funny really, I forgot all about it until now.”
“It’s anything but funny.” Marcus was now turning a subtle shade of white.
“Why?”
“I never told you.”
“Told me what?”
“On that day… the day we reached Sleathton, do you remember?”
Bran nodded his h
ead, intrigued. Of course, I do.
“Well, we were racing for the lead. You darted off in front as usual, leaving me and Jack to chase. I recall it so vividly. I saw a girl, this girl,” Marcus gestured to the paper, “watching us from the woods.”
Bran looked down at the crinkled image.
“Impossible. This girl has been missing for years!”
“I can see that! But I’m telling you, it was her.”
They both stared at the paper.
“It’s the same smile, the same eyes,” continued Marcus. “God, it’s all coming back to me. I remember thinking, what was a girl that small doing out in the middle of nowhere?”
Bran shivered. A cold sensation brushed the back of his neck, causing the paper in their hands to tremble like jelly.
“What happened? And why didn’t you bloody well mention it before?”
Marcus shrugged.
“Nothing happened. She was there, smiling at me. Then the world went black. I woke up on the ground, my bike turned over, and a hammer pounding at my head. The rest you know.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you kept it to yourself.”
“There wasn’t the chance.”
“Bullshit!”
“Look, by the time I knew what happened, she was gone. I kept my eyes peeled for days. You would have thought me crazy. Don’t deny it!”
Shaking his head, Bran leant back.
“If I’d have told you,” Marcus continued, “it would have ruined everything. You would have found any excuse not to proceed with the trip. I couldn’t risk it.”
“Exactly! And by doing that you helped Jack’s disappearance. We wouldn’t be hiding in this slop right now if it wasn’t for you.”
Marcus didn’t know how to respond, but anger stirred within his gut. He knew what Bran said was right. He could do or say nothing, he had to accept it.
The ground rumbled again and branches fell around them. They crouched down, edging out from their sinking refuge.
“Reckon we can make it to those rocks?” asked Bran.
Marcus looked to the stones, judging the distance.
“On the count of five?”
“Okay.”
Bran counted down, his voice loud yet distant while preparing himself for the sprint.
For Marcus, his world became dizzy, a feeling that everything was happening in slow motion as he tried to listen to Bran shouting at his side.
“Four!”
He tried to pull himself together. But nothing made a difference. The world slowed.
“Two!” Bran warned, grasping Marcus firmly by his sleeve.
Marcus readied himself.
I don’t know how much more of this I can handle.
“One!”
Bran tried to run, but Marcus was pulling him back.
“What are you playing at? Let go!” cried Bran without looking back.
Marcus didn’t answer. He could not. Shock took hold of him, making it impossible to speak. He felt something. Something cold, blunt, and unyielding pressing into his scalp. Turning slowly, the object slid from ear to temple. Beyond the cold, solid metal was an old man, his finger ready at the trigger.
*
Terrified, Marcus did not move a muscle. He was frozen in place, watching his life flash before his eyes as he stared up the barrel of the gun.
“You!” gasped Bran.
The old man tightened the gun to his shoulder, his glare hard and aim steady.
“I warned you not to run, boys. This could have been so much easier. I promise you; you wouldn’t have seen it coming.
“Seen what coming?”
The old man jolted. The rifle butt hit Marcus’s head with a crack.
It all happened so fast Bran didn’t have the time to react. He just stood there staring, mesmerised by his friend lying flat on his belly, air bubbles rising to his ears. The rifle’s aim was shifted to Bran.
“Turn him over,” said Gregory. “Unless you fancy him dead?”
Bran fell to the surface, turning Marcus over and exposing his front half which was now painted with mud. He put a hand on his chest and an ear to his lips.
“Still breathing?” asked Gregory.
Bran nodded, relieved.
“Hmm, good. I have a use for him.”
A piece of paper brushed against the old man’s ankle. He retrieved it, opening the fold with a flick of his hand.
“Ah, my darling girl. How beautiful you are.”
Gregory’s voice was soft and caring, his gaze sinking deep into the somewhat blurry print.
“Your girl?” asked Bran, still at Marcus’s side.
“Quiet!” spit Gregory, allowing the paper to fall and his aim to rise.
Bran was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Should he stay, he believed it likely he would die. If he ran, any means of escape involved the abandonment of his friend.
“So… what now?” Bran looked up at the old man. “I guess I’m getting the same treatment?”
Gregory let out a false chuckle.
“On the contrary, Mr Lampshire. Who would I have to haul this body if I was to be so generous?”
Bran didn’t answer but simply looked down and watched Marcus’s shallow breathing.
“Come, up you get now,” instructed the old man. “Don’t forget the baggage, too. I won’t risk anything being found.”
“Where are we going?”
Gregory swung his gun to a one-armed point.
“To the stones, my boy. To the stones.”
*
Marcus slid across the dirt. His body resembled a boy on the verge of death.
“Get a move on!” yelled Gregory.
Bran did as he was told without any questions, grasping Marcus’s slippery wrists and heaving backwards. He quickly looked behind him and judged the stone’s distance. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he could make it. Two rucksacks hung heavily on his back, swaying him off balance. Sweat poured from this hairline: his face blotchy with redness. He heaved back again. His grip on his friend's wrists was hampered by the wetness of Marcus's skin. He lost his hold and dropped into the grime.
“You’re slacking!” accused Gregory, swinging his rifle in an upward motion.
“I’m not! I swear!” Bran cried, overcome by his emotions.
“You are! I know you are!”
“The ground’s too slick… and there’s too much weight,” said Bran, wiping the cool mud on his forehead. “I could make two trips? I’ll carry Marcus first, then come back for the bags.”
Gregory shook his head without even a mild consideration of the suggestion.
“Nonsense,” said Gregory, directing a one-eyed stare. “Tell me, do you believe me a fool?”
Bran held his tongue, giving himself any opportunity to rest. The longer he kept the old goat talking the better.
No, I consider you a complete mental case!
“No…” replied Bran.
The old man gave a patronising grin that revealed black and yellow teeth hanging loosely from his gums.
“Then get to your feet and carry him.”
“I can’t!”
“You can, and you will,” the old man growled. “Heed my words, boy. If you should fall again, a bullet could make its way to your leg. Fall a second time, and one may just make it to your chest. Now… how’s that for an incentive?”
“You’re bluffing!” whispered Bran.
“Oh, am I?”
The old man stood straight and tall and turned towards Bran. His stature was intimidating, but Bran exchanged a hate filled stare. The rifle was tossed from one hand to the other before the tip of the barrel was pressed firmly to Bran's kneecap. The trigger pulled, followed by a loud and defining click.
“No, no, no! Wait… please wait!” Bran shrieked desperately. “I’ll walk, I’ll walk, I swear it. I’ll walk!”
Gregory twisted the end of the barrel, bending forward to torment him before he moved.
“Up… you… get!”
&nbs
p; Amongst the Mists
Chapter Forty-Eight
C ollapsing to hardened ground, Bran’s fingers cramped. A sense of invisible needles stabbed at his ligaments, as he quietly sobbed and loosened his grip from Marcus’s bruised flesh.
Exhausted, his head lay flat in the soil as he sighed in relief, his vision an unsettling blur. For now, Gregory had vanished, wandering aimlessly between the elements. Yet, Bran could still hear him, the sound of heavy boots never straying far.
Bran looked up; the weight of his head too heavy for his neck to handle. He was overcome by weakness when he tried to move. Now, he had no choice but to listen not only to the sounds of the forest but also to the crazed old man who hummed along with it.
“Your gun…” yelled Bran, still breathless and interrupting the old man’s song.
“Aye, what of it?” replied Gregory.
“All this time… the gun. It was never for the beast, was it?”
The old man said nothing but simply looked down at the vintage weapon.
“It was only ever for us, wasn’t it? We’ve been nothing but sitting ducks, waiting for you to take aim.”
The old man groaned as he knelt.
“Right you are, Bran,” replied Gregory, giving Bran a playful scuff on the head. “A little slow perhaps. But still, right you are all the same.”
Marcus uttered a dream like mumble beside them, delirious to what awaited. His words faded again to whispers, then to nothing.
Gregory regained his bearing, his attention focused intently on the fog, as though waiting.
“So, what now?” shouted Bran, pushing himself slowly from the ground, scooting himself back with a huff against the closest stump.
“We wait, boy. We wait and be patient.”
*
The old man paced from left to right, squirming under his collar and leaving a slimy trail in his path. Too much time had passed by the look of Gregory, who now appeared to grow increasingly agitated.
“Where is it!” He yelled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s supposed to be here! It’s always been here.”
“Why have you led us here, Gregory?” asked Bran, his voice dry with thirst, his body lifting up from the rock.
The old man clenched his fists in frustration and whimpered with emotion.