by Luke Kondor
As the old man spoke, Veronica nodded along.
“Those poor children out there without their parents. The mothers without sons. Fathers without daughters and the unlucky ones who are completely alone, rubbing twigs together to make their shelters for the nights, foraging for scraps of food from a supply fast running out. I feel for them, I really do.”
As if by routine, Chef began placing brown plastic bottles onto each table, making little effort not to thump loudly and disturb Henry.
“Yes, thank you, Chef. Too kind. Y’see I feel sorry for them because they are alone. I feel sorry for them because they do not have community. I feel sorry for them because they have been bestowed with a sad life, a lonely life. I feel sorry for them because they…” he grabbed the brown plastic bottle and poured a finger into his cup before passing it down to the Veronica, who filled her own and passed the bottle along to Joanna, then over to Colin. He poured at least two fingers for himself, the thick smell of the moonshine already triggering his rising gorge. “I feel sorry for them,” Henry lifted his glass, “because they do not have what we have. Love, family, community. Hope.”
With that, a hush fell over the room as they all drank and swallowed their moonshine. There was a chorus of gags and coughs from those who had still to get used to the unique flavours of Hope’s moonshine. Colin’s throat burned as it made its way down, feeling the warm liquid as it fizzed at his fingertips and toes. He closed his eyes until the urge to vomit died.
Whatever was in that stuff, after his second serving, Colin found himself beginning to relax. His shoulders dropped, his head felt light. He soon found himself smiling, first at Henry, then to Anton, then the rest of the table. A true, honest, smile. The first he’d had for a long time.
“Cheers.”
“Another!” Henry bellowed, and the musicians started up again. The kids got up and started dancing, with even Anton getting involved, taking Veronica by the hand and playfully twirling in circles. It wasn’t long before Henry reached for Joanna’s hand, whose smile and wet eyes suddenly struck Colin as overwhelmingly beautiful. He watched as she stood and danced with Henry, doing the same hand holding and swirling. Her dress rising in a delicate hoop around her to reveal slender legs. Before long most everyone was up, swaying and smiling, laughing and tapping, hugging and loving. For a moment Colin allowed himself to get lost in it all.
The dented man began to sing.
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
down a down, hay down, hay down,
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
with a down,
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be,
With a down, derrie, derrie, derrie, down, down,
The one of them said to his mate,
Where shall we our breakfast take?
Down in yonder green field,
There lies a Knight slain under his shield,
His hounds they lie down at his feet,
So well they can their Master keep,
His Hawkes they fly so eagerly,
There's no fowl dare him come nigh,
down there comes a fallow Doe,
As great with yong as she might go,
She lifted up his bloody head,
And kist his wounds that were so red,
She got him up upon her back,
And carried him to earthen lake,
She buried him before the prime,
She was dead her self ere euen-song time,
God send every gentleman,
Such hawks, such hounds, and such a Leman.
The moonshine was strong and bubbled away in Colin’s brain, rising and falling, popping and exploding, turning his cheeks and nose a warm red. He watched from his seat, taking note of all the warm, welcoming faces of the Hopefuls. He turned to see Chef, still sat by his cauldron of beans, watching the dancers and ghoulishly licking his lips. A little ways from him, sat Ria, alone, pouring more moonshine from the brown bottle. She seemed sad, as though defeat weighed heavily on her. Then, a little further on, Colin found Sunny.
The kid’s eyes were on his own, watching him in a way that reminded him of the dog in Byron’s kennels. The angry mutt with the attitude problem.
Colin fought a cocktail of emotions as he tried to pin what he was feeling for the boy in that moment. He didn’t hate him. No, definitely not. But he certainly didn’t like him. Because either way might presume that there was something about the boy to like or hate, which there wasn’t. And maybe that’s what it was. The boy was a void. A shape of a child with a vast emptiness within. His green eyes were windows into an empty cavern where a soul should be.
Fletcher, Colin thought. Why won’t you tell me how you came to call Flecther’s name?
With that Colin stood up, gulped down the remainder of his water, and wandered out of the bowling alley, leaving the music and dancing behind him. No one seemed to notice his exit.
The chill air braced him as he stepped outside and walked towards the old wishing well in the centre of the town’s courtyard. He’d felt fine back in the bowling alley but, now outside, the air acted as a catalyst for his drunkenness and he found himself stumbling. He thought about how little he’d drunk in the past few years. At one point in time he could neck five pints of craft ale and wake with a smile and a skip the next morning but here he was, three drinks down, and his head grew heavier by the second, his focus blurred. Peering into the well he could see the grimy bottom, littered with copper and silver. He wondered what the former owners of each coin must have dreamed before tossing them into the pit.
Without much conscious thought, his legs began to cart him home. The sounds from within the alley began to shrink to nothing more than a low murmur as Colin reached the red bridge and began to cross. He stopped and turned around when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.
That unmistakeable yellow coat and that strange Amish-looking dress.
“Colin?”
Colin swayed gently, finding no words come. He simply stared into Joanna’s eyes, glistening in the light cast from the torches.
“Where are you going?” Joanna asked. “Why don’t you stay?”
Colin broke Joanna’s gaze and looked out over the water. The gentle current of the lake rippling with its own quiet melodies. The stars, the moon, and what was left of the burning stakes danced on its oily surface.
“I have to go,” he said. “I’m just not feeling too good.”
Joanna followed his gaze to the lake and then back, before taking a small step forwards. The sound of her shoes on the wood had Colin’s heart in flutters. He was surprised she couldn’t hear it thumping loudly. His hands shook, though whether from the cold or the nerves which suddenly filled his stomach, he didn’t know. He hid them in his coat pockets for the second time that evening.
“It’s strange, right? This place?” she said, stepping closer until Colin caught her scent in his nose. He turned to the waters on the lake and did his best to focus.
Don’t. The command flashed across his mind. Rachel’s voice. Just don’t.
And yet he found himself drawn back to the deep wells of her eyes. He willed himself to take a step back, to turn and walk back home. To just get into the bed and get away from it.
“They’re nice people. They’re just…”
“Weird?”
Colin smiled and she took another step forward. Her alabaster skin was almost radiant in this darkness. Her cheeks blushing in the chill. He could feel the heat from her body, inches from his own. His head spinning and woozy.
Don’t.
“I think I better go back,” he said.
“Okay, sure.”
But he didn’t. A moment later and her eyes blazed. She grasped his hand and he felt an uncontrollable thrill shudder through him.
Don’t.
But he did. His fingers locked with hers as he stared into her eyes. She rose on her toes to meet his face, pressing her cheek t
o his. Wrapping her arms around his neck. His own arms leading themselves around her, finding the arch of her back beneath the coat. Her breath softly on his ear, whispering something about the cold but not really saying anything at all, simply making words happen, filling him with heaviness, with heat. Her scent encompassing him. She hugged tightly and he could feel her lips moving towards his own. Suddenly his chest felt too tight for his heart, like in that moment it couldn’t beat hard enough.
Don’t.
Light footsteps on the bridge. For a fleeting second, Colin looked up to see Rachel standing there, shaking her head disapprovingly. Fletcher by her side. Colin felt Joanna’s hand on his face, gently nudging him back to the moment, but it was gone. The shadowed shapes of Rachel and Fletcher morphed together into a boy. A strange-looking boy with dark hair and emerald eyes.
Joanna took a little longer to notice Sunny standing behind them. She looked at Colin longingly, then turned and crouched down.
“Sunny? What are doing out here? I told you to stay inside with Uncle Anton.”
No reply. Just a curious stare at the pair on the bridge. Colin couldn’t help but feel that every time Sunny’s eyes connected with his own, that he was being studied. That somehow the boy could see deep within his soul. Were the effects of Henry’s moonshine not within his system, he felt maybe he’d be angry at that. Perhaps he’d grab the boy and shake him for the emotional turmoil he seems to bestow upon him with every moment. Ever since they had come across each other at the old factory, he had been nothing but trouble. It was as if the boy existed only halfway in this world, and halfway in some other universe, different and distant from our own.
His brain sizzled with alcohol and a phrase came to his mind. He didn’t say it out loud, but for a second he thought he might’ve done.
He who…
He who walks among dreams.
He shook his head, wiped his hand over his nose, and pulled himself back to the present, away from that nonsense. It was simple. Colin couldn’t even be allowed a moment to stop thinking and let his body just react. He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever thought of Joanna in that way before. He’d certainly thought she was attractive, from an objective viewpoint. But now it was all he could think about. To bring her back to his little cabin on the outer perimeter and to let themselves get lost in each other. Kissing and playing and spending time in the best way. The best value for dollar anyway.
Now, thanks to the boy, that option was off the cards.
“I have to go,” Colin said, feeling his faculties returning somewhat.
And with that, he walked away. Joanna turned and watched Colin once again fade into the shadows, her face falling with every step. Colin forced himself not to turn and look at her. Despite everything, he was feeling something strange that he hadn’t felt for a long while, something that was forcing a smile on his face.
He pictured Joanna standing on the bridge, remembered her lips so tantalisingly close to his own. Was it all just a result of the booze? Had Joanna had a little too much of the moonshine too?
He didn’t think so.
The butterflies returned, but not the ones that had attacked as he walked to the dinner hall and stood in front of the Hopefuls. These butterflies were gentle monarchs, caressing his insides.
Could he have a normal life here? Could this be the start of what ‘normal’ feels like again? What was this? This alien feeling? This odd little tree spirit dancing on his heart.
And then he realised.
Hope. He was feeling hope.
~ 6 ~
The tall man couldn’t lie. As much as he tried to keep a brave face, he was feeling the chill now. The cold of the winds had gnawed away at his bones and found its way inside the very marrow. It didn’t matter how much boiled water the tall man drank or how many layers of rags he wrapped around himself, he just couldn’t get warm.
His entire body spasmed as if the movement of his muscles might produce some heat. He’d already given the speech to his companion before and he couldn’t cry about it now. They were here, stationed at Picnic Hill, for a reason. He didn’t feel he could turn to the small radio man and tell him that he’d changed his mind.
Yeah, remember all that talk about tools, and us having a purpose? Well, ignore all that bollocks. I’m a little chilly now, so why don’t we call it a day and head to the spa. That’ll be better for us both, right? Right?!
Rubbing the numbness out of his fingers he looked through the scope of the rifle to see the peppered lights of Hope. Nothing like the old days of large pink arcs of light pollution, but definitely there. Small pockets of glowing warmth hiding in the woods. The tall man looked longingly at the little fires of Hope before shifting his sight to the abandoned building site of Burham. That cold graveyard just as dead as the rest of the world.
What movements he saw in the dark of night were little more than the gunk that floated on the surface of his eyeballs. The tall man lifted his head from the rifle and turned to look at the small man again. His back pressed into the corner of the shed and the radio deadly silent. After over an hour of no luck finding a signal, they decided it best to switch it off and conserve generator power. The man’s eyes were baggy, dark, and shut so tightly he looked like he might never open them again.
A deep breath and the tall man returned to the scope. Scanning, readjusting.
A noise carried over the wind. Some distant bird cawing as it flew overhead. He could smell the cold now, the earthy smell of frozen dirt and mouldering wooden beams.
His nostrils wrinkled as he continued to scan the empty fields, stopping only as he caught a glimpse of something by the stone wall separating two of the fields down the bottom of the Picnic Hill. A twinkling white light dancing. As if a star had fallen from the sky and had taken up home on the grassy knolls of Earth. His eye settled there for a moment, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.
Must be getting tired, he thought, rubbing his eyes. He hoped it wasn’t the beginnings of a migraine.
It had been a long few days. His brain ached from the cold. His thoughts drifted to those far off days of military skirmishes. Remembering the countless tours in which he served as a longstanding citizen of duty for her Majesty the Queen. Of lifelong friendships he’d made with his brothers in arms. Sergeant Rickshaw. Lieutenant Andi. His closest friend and best man at his wedding, Private Philip Johns. A man who would spend half of his time reading when he should have been sleeping. A way to pass the time in the barracks. Johns would read from his little stash of comic books, doing different voices for each hero he read – much to the delight of his fellow comrades.
How many of his brothers had the tall man lost? Before the rot, and after it. How damn many?
What he wouldn’t give to—
The bird cawed again, closer this time. The tall man climbed to his feet, feeling the numbness of his knees and legs fizzling out of him. Maybe he’d just take a quick look around, stretch his legs, empty his bladder.
“Wake up,” he said, tapping his short man’s shoulder.
The man didn’t shift.
Leaving the rifle on its stand in position, the tall man reached into his jacket and grabbed hold of his knife. A simple carving knife with a yellow handle, like you might use to cut an onion in the kitchen. It was small, but sharp enough to do some damage.
Keeping his eyes on the outside world through the open window the tall man moved to the door, unlatched it, and stepped outside.
Instantly the winds teased his teeth into a chatter and threatened to blow him over and down the hill. He clenched his jaw as he stepped out and followed the cawing down the stone pathway, taking in as much of the vista around him as he could. He passed a familiar stone sign planted deep into the ground that read, PICNIC HILL, and stopped when the shed became little more than the size of a peanut behind him.
He found shelter from the wind behind the trunk of a large sycamore tree. The tall man unzipped his flies, and let it all out. The sound of piss on grass wa
s lost in the hushing of the wind through the leaves. He closed his eyes, feeling the satisfaction as his body emptied.
A whistle. The tall man’s eyes snapped open.
It was quick, it was sharp. A short tweet of birdsong, followed by a swift thunk.
There was no pain initially. The tall man felt his body thrown back against the tree. Already he could feel the impossibly warm liquid begin to pour from his stomach, could smell it too. He allowed himself to look down, seeing the arrow now embedded deep within his chest cavity, its feathers still quivering. He reached down and touched it, feeling the shaft as if he were reading a braille description off its steel side.
Three tours of Iraq. Brothers in battle losing their legs, arms, and lives and yet somehow he had survived. The ‘lucky’ minority. The tall man had arrived back in his country – a decorated war vet – relishing the kisses and comforts from his loved ones. Glad to finally be home.
But that was all short-lived. The world-ending shit that people called ‘The Rot’ arrived. Against all odds, he had survived that too. And now, here he was, legs quickly losing their ability to hold the weight of his body, blood seeping down his front, the arrow splitting and tearing into vital organs inside. Even his penis still exposed to the chill.
He would’ve tucked himself back in, but the bird sang him another song as another arrow thunked into his middle again, hitting something solid, reverberating against his spine.
Three tours. The streets. The rot.
As the lights began to bloom in his vision, a warm rusty taste filling his mouth, he saw the shadow of a face appear above him, looking down. A bow in their hand, a quiver on their back.
The face moved closer, inspecting. A blade reflected moonlight. As quick as a flash it sawed into the gristle of his neck. He opened his mouth to call for help, but it was far too late. He couldn’t if he tried.