A gunshot cracks in the distance. It reverberates in the air. Birds fly up off the fields and trees. They squawk and flap and fly higher and higher. I drop down onto the ground, using the tall grass and wildflowers as cover. I lay down as flat as I can between two turrets of soil. I wait. I listen. I hold my breath. What to do? Shit. Why me? I lay perfectly still and wait and listen. I close my eyes to hear better. I can hear the faint breeze rustle through the grass and plants, like they are talking to me. I can hear bugs and insects talking to each other. I can feel the Sun beating down on me. I shake my head and listen further into the distance. There is nothing but the sound of the countryside. I push myself up and on to my hands and knees. I stay motionless for a few moments. I feel the fear draining from me, out of my body, out through my hands and into the soil. The danger is far away. I start crawling towards the hedge, keeping my body below the grass line. The hedge is still quite a way away yet. I hope that there is an easy way to get through it. I didn’t even think about that when I started crossing the field. I should have looked for a way out, but I didn’t, what an idiot. I think about looking above the grass line. I need to look. I want to look but I’m too scared to show myself. Stop it. Get to the hedge and worry about a way out then. First things first. In through the nose out through the mouth. I sigh and stare down at the dried out mud beneath me. There are patterns in the mud caused by intense rainfall. I stare at the patterns. It all seems so hopeless. I start to laugh. I really am in the unknown, in every sense of the word. I have no idea where I am, or where I am going. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I am no longer Isabel Blacksmith. I am just me, Izzy, a being, alive, alone. Surnames hold no relevance anymore. My old sense of self holds no purpose anymore. My direction is directionless, I am grasping at the slightest pull of normality, and in that very action I am becoming completely alien from myself. I am a nomad without the happiness, without the comfort of solitude. I am being changed irrevocably. I am finally living in the moment. I laugh to myself. I start to crawl again. What am I doing? What is going to become of me?
Ouch… my hand pushes down into a sharp stone. I stop myself from crying out in pain. I stop crawling. I lift my shaking and battered hand up for inspection. It’s not bleeding but there is a big purple indent in it. I wipe off all the mud and stones. I must pay attention to what I am doing. Focus Izzy, focus, focus, focus. I shake my head. I keep on going, inch by inch by inch. I keep my eyes on the soil before me, and I place my hands and knees down carefully. My progress is painfully slow. I have another peek over the grass. The field seems to be stretching out before me, like the space in the field is expanding out and out into infinity. This is going to take forever at this rate, but I keep on crawling. I keep on going. I must get to the other side. I must succeed. I must. I must. Failure is not an option. Crawl. Crawl, crawl. I peek up and over the grass line, again. The hedge is slowly growing closer. I duck back down and listen. Only animals. I peek back up and look around 360°. No one, nothing other than trees and fields and hedges and sky. All is quiet. Do it, do it, go on, be brave. I stand up and rest my hands on my hips. Sweat drips down my body. The day is starting to turn up the heat. I run my eyes over the hedge before me, looking for ways out. I notice that there is a small gap in it, a break in the hedgerow. Yay. I drop my hands down to my sides and look up into the blue.
“Thank you.”
I start making my way towards the gap. I almost run, but I don’t, I don’t want to fall and cut myself any more than I already have.
I make it to the hedge. Hurrah, I sigh, I breathe easier. Now to get to the other side. The gap is not as clean and straightforward as I would have liked, but it is possible to get through, I’m sure of it, I believe it, I want to believe it. I turn sideways and start to push on through the gap. As I do I have the image of Stephen and Olly in my mind, they are pulling me through, they have hold of my hand and are yanking me, pulling me to the other side, ‘come on Izzy’, I hear them say, ‘you can do it, you can do it’. I push and push. There are branches and twigs scratching me every inch of the way, until, finally, I fall through, stepping out and on to a narrow country lane. Phew. The flat tarmac is a joy for my feet. I look down at my muddy toes. I lift them and roll them onto the road a digit at a time. The Sun has been heating the road up all morning and now it is gently warming up my bare feet. It is like a massage, comforting the aches, soothing the pain from my cut.
I stand, close my eyes and tilt my head upwards towards the sky. I absorb the warmth. I listen to the quiet all around me. There is still good in the world, there are still things to look forward too. If I didn’t have this burdening fear in me, I could almost believe that this is peace. Is this how calm and tranquil it always was out here, even before the virus? Is this how the farmers and the villagers lived? Out of the hustle and bustle, out of the polluted air. I stare down at the most iconic feature of human civilisation, the veins of the country, of the world, the grey-black road, without which the country would have ground to a halt. I wonder how much land is covered by road, if all the roads were added together and stuck in one place, all England would be covered, no doubt. Maybe I’m just pessimistic. No I am pessimistic, I know that. They are like a scab, they need to be picked. How long will the tarmac remain unbroken like this? How long will it take before nature breaks it up, and turns it back to dust? How long will it take until trees cover the land again? How long until human civilisation is nothing more than a useless fossil waiting to be found in the deepest darkest pit? The change which is befalling me is hard to take. I have to adapt. I have to make my peace with it. I have to stop clinging on to the past. I have to understand that things will never be the same as they were before, never, ever again. I look at the hedgerow. I look at the border between nature and the manmade. At the edges of the road. The grass is already pushing back up and cracking the unnatural. Pieces of tarmac are breaking loose. They are individual stones now, they have an individual existence. They are no longer part of something bigger, they are stones, pebbles, rocks, purposeless, perfect. Our world was so fragile. I thought it was absolute, it wasn’t. Now I see how the inanimate changes just as much as the animate. Nothing is beyond the grasp of nature. The hedgerow is fighting back. It may be down but it is not out. Like me. I will keep on fighting. I have to. I look up. The clear sky is showing me the way. It is allowing me to see the positioning of the Sun. I now know which way south is, all thanks to Stephen and the few lessons he taught me before I got taken. Come on Izzy. Go girl. I follow the road.
I limp onwards, winding and threading deeper and deeper into the forgotten parts of England. I imagine that I am walking on an ancient pagan route. I envisage all the things those ancient peoples thought about as they journeyed, I hear the strange languages they spoke. I imagine I am them. I see them in my mind’s eye, all the people that have been here before me, before the modern era. I feel more connected to my roots, more connected to the past now. I am starting to remember. Olly has given me the key, and I have re-opened that part of my mind that I had all but closed off as a child. I am growing in ways I never knew. I imagine the people in ancient times out in the early morning, like I am, with their wicker baskets, collecting food and goods for the day ahead. I almost see their ghosts, they seem to linger before me, they are helping me, guiding me. Everything was fresh once. Everything was new. The day really begins to shine. I smile to myself.
twenty-four
A deep maroon light greets me. I am back in the womb. I am warm. I am content. I can hear an ocean in the distance. I can hear seagulls. I can hear Olly laughing. I am on a magical desert island. I am on a beach. I am in a cocoon. I yawn widely and roll on to my back. Shooting pains travel from my foot and up my leg. I cry out. The illusion is destroyed. I am lost and alone once more, too scared to move, too scared to look. My foot feels like it’s about to explode. Why is this happening to me? I lay staring up at a strangers ceiling. I don’t want this life anymore. I don’t want to go on. But I have no choice. In through th
e nose and out through the mouth. Be strong. Be brave. Fight.
I gingerly slide myself up, an inch at a time. Every time I move daggers bite into me. Fight it, fight the pain, fight. I grit my teeth. I hold my breath. I keep on sliding, despite the biting. Somehow I find myself sitting up. I relax. I breathe. This is it. I have to see the damage. I have to know. But in a minute. I lean back against the bed rest. I concentrate. My foot is throbbing. It has its own heat source. It has its own heartbeat. I begin swaying to the beat, over and over. This is not good. It is much worse than it was yesterday. It’s not really a part of me anymore. It is all of me. Broken. Oh, God. I can’t look. I have to. I have to. I really should have done this last night. I should have done a lot of things. I have to look. I have to. I hold my breath and run my hand down my leg towards my injured foot. I gently wrap my fingers around it. I accidentally run my fingers over the wound, my hand flies away. I grit my teeth. I have to hold my foot around the heel. It is the only part that isn’t killing me. I slowly lift my foot up on to my lap. I close my eyes and pull the covers down.
Five, four, three, two, one, my eyes spring open. Gross. It’s horrible. My foot is black from walking on all that crap yesterday. I can see a scabby redness mixed in there too. It is definitely worse than yesterday. I bite my tongue. I sigh. Do it, do it. I slowly edge my fingers towards it. I touch the wound. I scream out in pain. My hand flies backwards. I hyperventilate. It hurts… a lot. It must be infected. It has to be infected. Oh no. What am I going to do? A hot flush spirals within me. Shit. Acid rises from my stomach and up my throat. Shit, shit. I am almost sick. I hold it back. I need to clean it. I must clean it. I have to clean it. I could lose it if I don’t. Shit, shit, shit. I gently lower my foot back down and check over my other foot. Thank God. It seems fine. I lay back down. I need to think, but my mind is whirling, it is trying to find a medium, somewhere between panic and calm. Cold ice rushes through me in waves of intense alarm. I try to quell it. I must quell it. Focus. My foot. There has got to be something in this house to help. There has to be. I close my eyes and listen to the house. Everything appears to be quiet, as it should be. I listen beyond the walls, to outside. I can’t hear anything, no talking, no fussing, no human activity. That’s one less thing to worry about then. Now is the time. For God’s sake do something.
I slide myself across the bed and around the side. I sit for a moment. Feet gently placed on the peach carpet. It feels soft against my one good foot. The other is too hot and throbbing to feel anything as subtle as carpet right now. Here goes. I force myself to a stand. I fall back down immediately crying out in agony. Shit. My foot is about to fall off. I lay on the bed. Tears form in my eyes. This is horrible. There is no way I can put pressure on it. What am I going to do? Realisation crashes through me like I’ve been pushed off a cliff. I am falling faster and faster towards the turbulent and icy sea. I hit it. I freeze. I am fucking stuck here until I get better. Aren’t I? Oh my God. If I get better. If? Oh God. Oh no! Don’t think like that Izzy. But I can’t help it. My mind quickly flows straight to the worse possible scenario. Me ending up here dead and alone forever, after a long painful death from septicaemia and dehydration and gangrene. Oh God. I drop my face into my hands and shake my head. I try not fall into despair. It is worse than I thought. Images of having to cauterise the wound with a hot poker stab through me. My foot tingles as if I am actually doing it. No, no, no. I won’t have to do that. Will I? Will I? Oh my God. I can’t. It won’t come to that. Will it? How the Hell am I supposed to make a fire to heat the poker if I’m an invalid? I won’t be able to forage for wood. Oh my God. My heart rate is rising and rising. I see a phone next to the bed. How I wish I could lift it and call for help. How easy our lives were before. I didn’t know. I am going numb. I heat up. I flush. A cold sweat sweeps across me. I feel like I am drowning. Stop it, I tell myself. Stop it, stop it, stop it. I close my eyes and try to imagine the lake and the cottage. I try to imagine Olly and Stephen. They are out fishing in their little boat on the tranquil waters. They wave at me. I smile and wave back. All is good. All is calm. I remember the peace, it seeps into me. I remember lying down on the long green grass, staring up at the wispy white clouds, the wind changing their shape, meaning being transmitted. In through the nose and out through the mouth. All is calm. All is good. I’m going to be OK. I am. I am.
I sit back up. The blood flows into the foot. It heats again. It beats, whoomph, whoomph, whoomph, over and over. It will not stop. What am I going to do? My foot. My foot. My foot. I can’t not think about it. In through the nose out through the mouth. I could end up being crippled, a one-legged wonder. Oh God. No, no, no, there will be something in this house to help me. There has to be. I don’t want to get an infection. I don’t want to die like this. This is not how I imagined it. Oh no. What to do? I force my mind back into the bunker. I am in there reading the survivor books. I need to clean the wound and dress it. That much, I guess, is obvious. There has to be something in this house to help me. TCP, alcohol, something helpful, surely. Surely? There will be something. I know it. There will be. There has to be. Yes, there has to be. I know there will be. I just know it. I suddenly realise how thirsty and hungry I am. That’s my problem right there, I’m not thinking straight, that’s what’s wrong with me. I need food and water, and I need it now. I breathe deeply and close my eyes. I must be strong. I must be strong. I have no other choice.
Take two. I push myself up and on to my one good foot. I lean forwards, arms outstretched in front of me until I fall on to all fours. I crawl to the top of the stairs. I spin around and sit down on the top step. I use my one good foot and my arms to flop me down each step in turn. I pivot and drop, pivot and drop, on to my bum, until I reach the floor. I crawl into the kitchen and look for food and drink. I find a bottle of water in the kitchen larder. I swig greedily. I am even thirstier than I realised. I am so thirsty some of the precious liquid spills out and down the side of my face. I must be more careful. I re-screw the lid and sit there leaning against the larder door. I allow my body the time to absorb the water. I am closer to nature this way. I am closer to myself. Everything begins feeling better. My body, my brain, my cells, I can feel them talking to each other, ‘how can we fix this?’ they are saying, ‘we can do this’, ‘we will rebuild and remake’. That’s more like it. I will survive, I will overcome this. The pressure on my chest is subsiding. I drink more. It is like manna from Heaven. All I need now is food. My body is craving nourishment, vitamins and minerals, my brain is craving it. I find a tin of soup. I rip off the lid and lift the can to my lips. The smell hits my nose, it is fresh and wholesome, beautiful. I smile to myself. There are still good things in the world. I pour some of the soup into my mouth. Nothing has ever tasted so good. I never actually realised how sweet and refreshing cold soup was before. But it is. I can’t get enough of it. Things are getting better. Things are going to be OK. I am going to survive. I will make it through.
But how am I going to fix my stupid foot? I sit on the cool kitchen floor, leaning against the cupboard. A warm breeze is coming in through the window I had to smash in order to enter this house. The breeze is caressing my face. It is helping me think. There will be something in here to help me. Come on Izzy, move. I push myself up and hop over to the drawers in the kitchen. Hopping is bad. It makes blood flow down into my foot. It is about to explode. I have to stop. I lean on the counter. I breathe and try to block out the sensation. Focus. I pull open a drawer and insert my hand. Success I find some scissors. They are big, heavy, silver things. I slide my thumb and forefinger into the metal egg-shaped hoops. They feel cool against my skin. I listen to the cutting sound. They are good, sharp, decent. They will do fine. I place them on the counter. I rip open all the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen. Nothing useful. I hop into the living room. I stop dead as I come up behind the sofa. I lean onto the back of it. I squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for the throbbing to subside. I shake my head. Focus.
I stare down at my han
ds and into the gap between the cushion and the backrest. This is a leather sofa. It is new. I can smell the leather rising up. I glance around the room. It has only recently been done up to modern specs, along with the rest of the house. I hope the owners had the time to enjoy it before the virus. Everyone thinks they’re going to last forever, that illusion is gone. It is hard not to lose faith in everything and anything. Yet, I do have faith. I have a connection to something greater. Something I may have never known if the illness had not come along. The connection I have with Olly. The abilities I am on the cusp of coming to understand. Abilities modern civilisation hid from us with its forced anxieties and mass hysteria. I came this way for a reason. I came to this house for a reason. I know I will be OK. I feel the knowledge seeping into me. I have courage.
Tears of Blood Page 15