He Runs (Part One)

by Owen Seth

  There are many sights that Man cannot un-see, many scenes of horror etched into his mind, some of which he was responsible for, but what he saw, what he can still see, stands alone at the top of a depraved mountain.

  Man looks through his rucksack, sorts the items that remain and lines them up on the grass. He has all the tools, all the equipment he needs to survive. But he has no food. The goat rotted quickly and the tinned goods perished long before that.

  He stands up on wobbly legs, the first time he has stood up in days, and looks over the village. He scratches his beard with long nails, feels the drying skin loosen and scatter like snowflakes. Everything in his being tells him to leave the village alone, to run far away and never come back. But there will be other villages like this one. And he is still being hunted by Smith and his remaining comrades. He looks at the village, the bridge and the barbed wire gate and the guards standing either side of it. He can't say for sure but they look clumsy and weak, novices to the art of commensurate combat. He knows he could kill them. Destroy their bodies in just a few moves but then what. He'd have a whole village descend upon him and before he knew it he'd be limbless, rolling around in his shit and blood, moaning and wheezing like the battery people he sees in the cage.

  A thought bursts into to his mind from of the darkness.

  'Why are they taking one limb at a time?' he says out loud. 'Surely they'd take a whole body. Or multiple bodies with a whole village to feed.' He sits down, removes the karambit from his waistband and runs his finger along the edge. 'Maybe there are other cells in the village. Maybe the prisoners I saw are being punished. Or maybe the village isn't full of life. It could be just a handful of cannibals, preying on the weak. I can't take them on and win by myself. That's out of the question. Unless I sneak in at night, work my way through each building. There could be children. And women. But I need to eat! And I could murder a fucking beer, if there are any.'

  Man laughs to himself, amused at the fact all he can think of is having beer. It's that urge inside him, the gene-deep addiction that he'll never escape from. His father had it, had it hard and used it as an excuse to distant himself from a child that he did not understand. Or did not want to. And Man saw this, understood it as the only behaviour to befall a father. A thirst that is never quenched; a mouth, desert dry with anything except for the booze.

  When it happened, Man was drunk. So drunk that he couldn't comprehend what was happening, where he was or how to make it all better. Darkness befell him in that intoxicated state. But he finds a tempered solace in knowing that in their own way, they all, each and every one of them, escaped from something that night. As if on cue the flashing images roll through Man's head like an 8mm projector, a reflection of an event so horrible that he cannot believe it ever happened. He's just glad he didn't see it. In his mind he sees a woman, lying on the floor, her frock hitched up over her thighs, her legs surprisingly hairless. A set of bright blue eyes glowing like fluorescent sapphires, burning with the passion of a fighter. Muddy brown hair flowing wildly over bare shoulders and pink lips pursed together. Her other lips emerge from beneath the frock and then he jumps on her, holds her to the muddy earth, hand clamped around her throat as he enters. He isn't gentle. And she doesn't want him. But his hips pump away like a dog on a mission to impregnate, her screams muffled by bloodied hands, her eyes meeting those of her little girl who doesn't understand what's happening. If she did she'd run far away and hide or go and get help but she can't. She's too young, her brain is creating an instinctual conflict and she doesn't know which way to go. So she stays, dumbfound and crying, the curved flashing of white buttocks pumping away on her screaming mother.

  Man slaps himself, hard and fast so that his nerves tingle with a searing venomous pain. He shakes his head, shakes off the images and his mind cuts to his surroundings. He hates that vision, that night and what it’s lead to. ‘I tried to save them,’ he whispers to the wind. ‘I tried.’

  He looks to the village once more, has another thought to sneak in, incapacitate a few people and steal what he needs. But with a town so large it would be blind luck if he was able to find what he wants. He knows he has to get in there, show strength and power, become accepted and preferably, not eaten. He wants a bed to sleep in, a roof over his head and beer and food in his belly.

  ************************

  The sun sits high in the afternoon sky, its cancerous rays blasting down to Earth at a speed unfathomable. Man removes his top, bundles it into the rucksack and pulls out the karambit. He rolls onto his belly, squints hard through one good eye, one bad, and looks at the cripples in their cage. Yesterday he counted sixteen. Now he sees fifteen. They took one yesterday and he heard the cries. Didn't care to look.

  Man looks up at the sun, then down at the cripples, wonders if they care about the sun burn. He wonders if the burned skin adds to the flavour, wonders if the sick cunts inside the cannibal village are roasting them slowly outside.

  He rolls onto his back, gets the karambit and opens up one of the scars on his arm. The skin splits easily and the redness begins to trickle from the wound. Man puts the blade down, smears blood on his index finger and draws a vertical line down his belly. Some more blood makes a horizontal line. Then four small ones, each protruding from the points of the longer lines. He looks down, admires his handy work. A swastika. A peace offering of sorts, his ticket into a village that he's not sure he wants to visit. But an urge he can't explain, a pugnacious throb in his mind and in his guts, pushes him forward. He's both scared and intrigued by the unknown, as most humans are unless they are psychopathic. And he's excited at the prospect of violence, especially against those who deserve it. He avoids it where and when he can but he receives a morbid enjoyment of punishing those who he deems are evil.

  ************************

  Man walks down the dirt track, each step sending an electric shock up his body, a glorious surge of adrenaline. He holds his arms out, rucksack in one hand, bone-axe in the other. He puffs his chest out so the newly painted symbol shines in the sunlight. The karambit is tucked neatly in his waistband.

  As he nears the bridge he gets a closer look at the cage and its inhabitants. A herd of butchered carcasses, alive but dead at the same time, rolling around, struggling to stand up. A few feet closer and he sees a trough, half filled with brown water.

  'Poor bastards!' he says to himself as the karambit digs into his back, makes him aware of the deadly curve of the blade, ignites the urge to kill the guards and attack the village. He breathes deeply, closes his eyes and opens them. The urge diminishes.

  The guards have already seen him approaching and they brandish machetes menacingly, a revolver style pistol stuffed into each of their trouser fronts. Man walks over the bridge and the guards approach.

  'Who the fuck are you?' says the guard to Man's left, a slim fellow with jerky movements and a weathered face, his beard jutting out as if protruding from a skull. He sports a thick scar on his left cheek that shines in the daylight.

  'I'm no-one important,' replies Man, 'just looking for a short stay. I need food and water and beer if you have it.'

  'Fuck what you need!' snarls the other guard, a bulky and short man, beardless but handsome in a roguish manner. His eyes are cold and cobalt blue and Man has seen ones like them before. Usually in the mirror.

  'I come with peaceful intentions,' says Man, calmly. 'I've even fashioned myself with your leader's emblem as an act of respect.'

  The guards look at Man's chest, look to one another and nod.

  'You have any other weapons?' says the burly guard.

  'I do,' says Man. 'A blade on my back. I tell you this in the hope that you will honour my right to keep it. Everything else I am happy to part with, but not that blade.'

  'You'll part with your fucking head if you don't give it up!' warns the slim guard. He looks at the burly one and together they move closer to Man.

  'I'm afraid that can't happen, my friends,' says Man, his chest expan
ding as he breathes in the air he needs to spark the fires of war.

  The guards get to within four feet of Man and then they stop.

  'Hand it over, or we'll kill you!' says the slim guard.

  'As you wish,' says Man. 'But let it be known that I am sorry for what is about to happen.'

  The guards look at each other but it is too late.

  Man drops his rucksack and swings the bone-axe in a looping hook until it meets the burly guard's hip, jams the knife tip in between the joint and separates the ligaments. The slim guard reacts quickly but not quick enough, and swings the machete wildly. Man ducks under each violent slash with ease, his body moving as though it is liberated from conscious thought. His spare hand whips the karambit out and the curved edge meets the machete mid-air, hooks it and it falls to the cobbled floor. A powerful right cross explodes from Man's shoulder, connecting with jaw bone and Man lunges down, hooks the blade around the back of the slim guard's ankle and pulls. The tendon splits with a bloody pop and the guard screams wildly. The burly guard aims a weak slash at Man as he stands but it misses and he receives a side kick above the knee, separating meat from bone and popping the patella like a lid top.

  A gunshot ceases the action as Man stands up, proud and tense, almost catatonic with adrenaline. Slowly he turns, the karambit hanging limp in his hand, his mind checking the body for any signs of pain that are strong enough to creep past the adrenaline’s veil. His eyes pass over the cage, a gathering of gaunt faces, eyes straining, jaws open at the scene they have just witnessed. Those faces fade to his periphery and some new faces take centre stage. He can hear the groaning of the guards he's just destroyed and a warming wind passes over him.

  'Excellent show! Excellent show!'

  A balding fat man is clapping his hands in a slow, rhythmic beat. Man stares at him, catchs his eyes and is shocked by their blackness; two olives sitting in a doughy ball. The bald man wears glasses and above his top lip sits a large moustache.

  'Excellent show, indeed! Now, if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you didn't kill my guards. Excellent work, but that’s not necessary.'.

  Man sees him, the real leader, not the one he presumed to be, the bald bruiser with the scarred horse. He has a hand gun raised high in the air, as if he's about to start a school egg and spoon race. Man sees the butcher and his skinny assistant and a gathering of others, bald men and haggard looking women, their faces beaten by their chosen life. Man had once heard that eating the same flesh over and over can cause the body to function improperly. He looks at the crowd before him and wonders if that's the case.

  'Who are you?' asks the leader.

  'A man,' replies Man. 'A hungry man. A weary man.'

  'And you don our sign. Let me guess, you've been watching us and thought it would create some, um, common ground.'

  Man nods.

  'Well, Man, with what I've just seen it looks as though you don't want to fit in in my town. Kevin here, can help you fit in.' He points a pudgy hand towards the battle-scarred brute.

  'Your town?' asks Man.

  'Yes, you heard correctly. My town. I am the mayor of this fine place.'

  'The mayor...' says Man as he grips the karambit a bit tighter.

  'Once again, great hearing. So why did you injure my men?'

  'They threatened me.'

  'Sounds about right,' says the mayor with a chuckle. He moves forward, opens the gate as Kevin follows him closely, the gun's barrel having shifted to Man. 'Barry, Jimmy, how on Earth did you let this skinny man get the better of you?'

  The injured guards mumble inaudible responses.

  Man drops to one knee under the pressure of the gun, places the karambit on the floor and slides it over.

  'They wanted me to give up my blade,' says Man.

  'Understandingly so, seeing how good you are with it. And they never thought to shoot you! It's a good job I'm not paying them. Pick the knife up, son.'

  'It's a karambit.'

  'Whatever it is, pick it up. But be warned, if you have decide to have a crack at me then Kevin will shoot you.'

  'I won't. Thank you, um...'

  'Michael. But Mick is what I get.'

  'Okay,' says Man in an amused tone. ‘I am afraid I have no name to offer. I cannot remember it.’

  'We’ll just call you, Man, then. I bet you've got some questions,' says Mick, motioning to the cage.

  'A few.' Man rises to his feet.

  'Well come on in. Just don't be rough. I could use a man like you. We'll just have to get you, shall we say, settled in.'

  'Okay,' says Man, as he gathers the ruck sack and bone-axe, his mind working hard to absorb all that is occurring around him. He has no trust for these people, for this deathly town and for the ways of the beasts of the New World. But he is starved and thirsty and needs to rest. Even if it means putting his life on the line.

  'Kevin, pick the lads up and take them to the doctor,' says Mick. And together he and Man walk, across the cobbled bridge and through the gate.

  In the distance Man can see the church and the heads on spikes. He sees people flying in and out of doors to get a look at the stranger as he's led up a past abandoned shop fronts and a moss covered water fountain, faces of men, women and children appearing randomly in dirty windows. The mayor walks behind him, his heavy feet pounding on the cobbles. Man knows he could turn and kill the fat slob easily. But he also knows that he would die. And that isn’t on his agenda just yet.

  As they near the church Man gets a closer look at the heads set on spikes. The one he thought was decaying isn’t. From what he can see it looks quite fresh and it belongs to a black man.

  ‘The darky tried to get one over on us,’ says Mick, as if he knows what’s going through Man’s mind. ‘Tried to steal from us. You’re not going to steal from us, are you, Man?’

  Man shakes his head from side to side, enough for Mick to see that he is playing along nicely.

  They walk past the church and up the street until they come to a fork in the road. To the left, appearing out of nowhere is a grassed area, tall blades trampled under the weight of many feet.

  ‘We had a party the other night,’ offers Mick. ‘A summer fete, of sorts. There was dancing and games. It was an excellent night.’

  Man stops, turns to face Mick and sees that they have acquired some followers.

  ‘A fucking summer fete?’ asks Man. ‘A summer fete?’

  ‘Yes, son, you heard me well, again. We can definitely assume that you’re not deaf.’

  A heat rises in Man’s stomach, a blackening mass of energy that follows anger closely, swimming in its slip stream like a pilot fish. He breathes slowly, calms the heart and stops the adrenaline from surging once again.

  ‘No,’ says Man, ‘I’m not.’ He turns and they walk on. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To the Dog and Pony.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s a pub. Just along the way, there. On your right.’

  ‘Do they have beer?’ Man cannot help himself.

  ‘That, they do, although it’s more of an ale. We brew it ourselves.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ says Man, his mouth wetting slightly.

  They pass the grassed area and Man sees something he was expecting to see, although not on such a grand scale. A larger area of grassland, fenced in and muddied by the scraping of boots. Two walls of Harris fencing, loaded with barbed wire and chained together. A number of bald men in shorts and vests and boots guard the fencing with guns and knives. Inside the pen are people, just like those on the outside except without weapons or clothes. They stand naked, men and women, white and black and Asian, congregating around water troughs and buckets of what Man takes to be food. He tries to count but the numbers are too many.

  ‘As you can see, there’s the livestock,’ says Mick. ‘Now before you go losing that temper of yours, and believe me, I see that fire behind your eyes, remember that I’ll answer all your questions soon. And yes, I agree, it was awful to hav
e our summer fete in their presence but we did leave them some food.’

  Man shudders to think what kind of morsels they were left.

  ‘Just over there, on your right. Do you see it?’

  Man looks and sees the pub. The Dog and Pony, a pub that he imagines would have been cheery in its day, the type that served homemade pies and beef dripping chips and was full to the gunwales with bank holiday tourists. A sign hangs over the pub, swaying slightly in the breeze, depicting a dog and pony drinking out of the same watering hole. Two different animals, united in thirst.

  'That's the one,' says Mick, 'push the door, it's open.'

  Man does as he is told, and it distresses him. Man isn't used to being told what to do. He never has been. But survival is key; he knows that he must play their game.

  The dark wooden door opens with an effortless push and Man is hit with an acrid pong, a scent of dirt and festering evil. He looks about, sees the windows caked in grime, the sunlight barely breaking through glass. He feels Mick walk in behind him, the air changing with the shift of a large, flabby mass.

  The pub is dingy, a hole full of assorted villainy; brutish, balding men sit around, their faces looking up at the stranger, their eyes vacant, souls lost to the abyss of the apocalypse. Among them he sees no humans, just empty vessels, devoid of empathy. They disgust him.

  And then he looks at the bar, a dismal sight of cracked mahogany, bereft of beer taps. Behind the bar he sees wooden barrels lined up, half expects them to be labelled with the word Grog. He plods slowly towards the bar and as he nears it the smell of home-brewed booze hits his nostrils, sends his taste buds into overdrive. His body is starving and needs to eat but all he can think of is the booze. The sweet, numbing booze.