Forgotten Liberty

by Alessio Cala

  “These were LPA."

  "How can you tell?" asked Carlos.

  "Same uniform." He gently tilted the head of the driver up into the light. "Don't recognise him though, must be with another company.”

  “Poor bastard,” muttered John.

  "Where do you think the other one got to?" asked Frank.

  Mike followed the trail of blood with his eyes. They were faint and scattered but the dark shade of red was distinctive upon close inspection.

  "Barry, how far is the nearest settlement?"

  "Um, I-I'd say about three miles."

  "Which way?"

  "Up that way," he said, pointing in the direction of the blood stained trail.

  They followed the trail up the hillside and discovered a narrow dirt trail. The blood had coagulated in the mud and overlapped the thick tyre tracks that veered off the road into the direction they had just come from.

  "We shouldn't be on the roads," Derek grumbled.

  "N-n-nobody comes around these parts anymore."

  "Well somebody did," said Frank.

  Tracking the blood became more difficult as time went on. The distance and frequency in the occurrence of blood droplets decreased over time and they were veering further and further from the river's path. Barry insisted that the river slithered back round to the direction they were heading but they had yet to find out.

  The trail had gone cold fast. The blood stopped abruptly and so did the footprints. There were no signs of disturbances to suggest the person had collapsed or fallen from loss of blood. The tracks just vanished. Carlos stared down into the vacant muddy road.

  "How is that even possible?"

  "Look," said Annie, pointing far ahead into the distance.

  The group peered through the misty atmosphere. Frank was taken aback by the masked structure up ahead. Its dull grey outlining was camouflaged against the dreary sky. He would have probably never even noticed it had she not pointed it out. Situated on the horizon, far off down the road was the towering composition of a concrete wall.

  ‘It can't be,’ he thought. ‘Wolvendale?’

  ELEVEN

  The initiation of winter's first snowfall interrupted the night sky. The group had set up camp up a mound away from the road that was mostly concealed by the forest. Tracy and Kara had built more sound traps with the leftover twine and some of the men dug through the earth with their bare hands to prepare a pit fire to conceal the flames. Finding dry wood to burn was near impossible. The relentless rainfall over the past month had smothered the island, leaving a damp residue that would soon freeze as the temperature dropped. Frank had chopped branches to size with his machete. He compressed the limbs and stuffed them down into the pit. Carlos took the flint from his satchel and struck the serrated jaw of his knife against it. Chipped sparks bounced across the shallow pit but nothing followed.

  “We should have collected some of that gas.”

  “We didn’t have anything to put it in. Try again.”

  Frank used his hands to shelter the branches from the wind and Carlos struck the flint once more. The snap of the spreading embers crackled to life and gave birth to a small fire. Frank snatched more branches he had already severed and pitched them up against the burning wood. The dampness of the kindling sent heaps of smoke up into the air. It rose high up above the trees and into the murky sky. John piled rocks and stones around the edge of the pit to further conceal the flames.

  The group sat huddled in a circle around the fire. They were less than a mile from what they believed to be the abandoned town of Wolvendale. Frank saw that everybody was agitated. Eyes darted off into the pitch black darkness at the faintest of sounds. Even if there was no sound, their minds played tricks on them that sent them all into a state of paranoia.

  A single rabbit was not enough to go around ten people and a dog. They shared the miniscule scraps of meat with wild asparagus that they had found along the way to accompany it. Eating such small portions only made Frank’s hunger worsen. He craved for more but it was enough to get him through the night. They had also collected a bunch of nettles which Annie brewed in a pot of boiling water. Lacking the luxury of cups, she let the pot cool and passed it around the camp for everyone to share.

  Carlos and Mike took first watch. The camp was a lot smaller than their previous locations. They had set up beyond the grassy knoll of the roadside and burrowed deeper into the forest for the night. It wasn’t the most secure of locations but they didn’t want to be any closer to a potential settlement than they already were.

  “We going through there?” Derek asked the others.

  “Where?” John replied. He seemed irritated and short tempered by the lack of description.

  “Wolvendale.”

  “I thought it was abandoned?” Tracy asked.

  “It is. Has been f-f-for nearly three years now," said Barry.

  “Three years?"

  “I heard the stories,” said John. “Just never believed them.”

  Frank sat up curiously. He felt an irritating itch at the crown of his scalp and scratched it with his filthy nails. “How is that even possible? Isn't Wolvendale the most populated place in Autark?”

  “It was. N-nobody really knows what happened to the p-p-people there. Some say raiders took them, others say they just vanished.”

  “What a load of shit,” said Derek. “Raiders probably got it and people are just blowing the whole thing up.”

  "What about the arrow?" Annie asked.

  "So they got a couple sticks with string, who gives a shit?"

  "We really ought to know more before staggering in there," said John. "Carlos will no doubt want to scout it out at first light. We need to get past it to get round the base of the mountains.”

  Barry’s head shot up. “Mountains? Oh, no. Y-y-you don’t wanna go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s Beothuk territory. ‘Grey Wolves.’ We should head north.”

  “Can’t go north, its swarming with raiders,” said John.

  “Wait– grey wolves?” Tracy asked.

  “Yeah.”

  The others remained silent, confused as to what Barry was babbling on about, but he continued anyway.

  “You mean you d-d-don’t know? That’s where that arrow came from. Not from the r-r-raiders, it’s the grey wolves. They say they went e-e-extinct back in 1829 or something. I know a frontiersman d-d-down south, said he lost his hunting party up there; said they were attacked by men and women in caribou furs with wolves. He says the wolves ripped the calves of his group and the t-t-tribe folk finished them off with harpoons and bows.”

  “They tamed the wolves?” Tracy asked, leaning in with curiosity.

  Barry nodded. “Not just any wolves. N-n-newfoundland wolves.”

  “So?”

  “They’re also s-said to be extinct.”

  The camp fell silent once again; unsure of how to respond to Barry’s tall tales of entire species resurrecting from extinction. Kara quickly shifted the conversation to food. Frank was passed the pot of nettle tea and brought the rim up to his dry, cracked lips. He tilted the pot and sipped its contents. The taste was bitter but he took pleasure in the warmth of the liquid flowing down his throat. He savoured each sip of the tea and let the hot air flow up into his freezing face. He passed it on to Tracy and caught sight of Annie feeding the boy.

  Sam sat on her lap and she fed him the tiny shreds of rabbit meat. He had caught a fever the night before. His skin was pale against the reflection of the fire and his scrawny body withered behind the fraying rags. The people of Elkford had been kind enough to spare a small fur garment for him but it was drying by the fire. While Annie was engrossed in the activity, Frank worried about her. He noticed the bags under her eyes. She was slouched over the boy. It irritated him. Her caring nature had become an obsession. She began tending to him so much that she forgot to care for herself. The boy was more than capable of feeding himself but she insisted on helping him anyway.
She took pity on him. Frank approached Annie and discreetly asked to speak with her in private.

  “Hang on, just got these last bits,” she replied, referring to the finely cut scraps of meat in her hand.

  “Kara, can you watch Sam for a minute?” Frank asked.

  His eyes never strayed from his wife and she was surprised by his persistence. Annie let the boy down to his feet and placed the rest of the scraps into his tiny hands.

  “Go on, I won’t be long.”

  The boy wandered over to Kara and sat by her side. Frank helped Annie up to her feet and guided her off to one side, far enough away from the others so that they could speak in private.

  Frank and Annie stood together in absolute darkness. They were just out of earshot from the others. He glanced back to check nobody was listening and caught glimpses of the group minding their own business between the trees.

  “What is it, Frank?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re exhausted.”

  “We’re all exhausted.”

  “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re solely responsible for Sam. The others can take care of him just as much as you can.”

  “He’s more comfortable around me.”

  “I don’t care. He’s just going to have to get used to the others.”

  “Why is this bothering you so much?”

  “Because–” he paused unexpectedly, his feelings stifled his words. He stopped for a moment and leaned his hand against the rough bark of a nearby tree. Disregarding the indecision, he just came out and said what was on his mind. “I think you’re getting too attached to him.”

  Annie stared back then looked off to one side. She shook her head and glanced out into the night.

  “I can see it in your eyes,” he continued. “It’s the same look you have whenever you hand him over to me or Tracy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look, I get it.”

  “What?”

  “I know we tried for a lot of years after we got married but–”

  “Frank,” she stopped him firmly. Her attention snapped back immediately, her beaming eyes cold and vulnerable.

  “Don’t even go there.”

  “He doesn’t belong to us.”

  “He said it himself, he doesn’t know where his parents are.”

  “That doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. Our plan was to find someplace safe for him to stay.”

  “Look around us, Frank. There are no safe places. For

  God’s sake, we’re sitting in our own filth out here. He’s safe with us. You said it yourself, ‘as long as we’re together, everything will be okay.”

  He felt the tension rile up inside of him. They argued back and forth, every defying response added another layer to his burning emotions. “You know we can’t keep him.”

  “We can take care of him.”

  “No. Annie–”

  “He needs us.”

  Frank smashed his balled fist into the tree. “He’s not our son!”

  Annie jerked back at the sound of his booming voice. The adrenaline coursed through his body. He was shaking. A cool sweat formed in the pores of his face and bonded the hairs of his brow. He glared over to the camp and noticed the turning heads but chose to ignore them. Annie stared back at him, eyes glazed with fear. She stood distanced, her posture frail. She turned her back on him and walked with haste back over to the camp.

  He tried to call out to her but his voice was besieged by the overdose of raw adrenaline. “Annie...” he choked. It was all that he could muster.

  Frank rested on his side in the still of the night. He stared across at the burnt out pit that had withered, cold and bare. The last remnants of smoke wafted out and were snatched up by the passing wind. The snow drifted down slowly and settled on the forest floor. A vacant patch was left by the pit where the ground was still somewhat warmer. He tucked his knees up into his torso and huddled to stop the heat from escaping the encased bedroll.

  He was shattered, but he could not sleep. All he could think about was Annie. He was overwhelmed with regret; the way he reacted, the things he said. The image of her staring back at him in fear permanently stamped across his mind. He felt embarrassed. He had never acted that way in all the years they had been together. He was starting to become terrified of himself. Terrified of the things he had done since they left the gates of Elkford.

  What am I becoming?

  Hours passed and Frank was still lying in the freezing cold. He looked up at the sky through the wilting branches and listened to the nightlife around him. He found himself constantly lifting his head to the faintest of sounds. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he found it a lot easier to see further now that the fire was extinguished. A harsh snap caused him to turn over. It was close by, not too far out of the camp. It sounded like a branch or twig snapping in the darkness. He sat up and listened. His heart pounded in his chest. He thought about waking the others but he struggled to move. He heard the faltered shuffling of leaves draw nearer. It was the rhythmic pattern of footsteps. He was sure of it. He peered out into the shade of the forest and caught sight of something. It was blacked out, a disfigured silhouette that approached ever so slowly. Frank felt the pins and needles engulf his entire body. He could not move no matter how hard he tried. He fell onto his back and could only manage to lift his head enough to see the approaching figure. The crunching of undergrowth grew louder with each hobbling step. The shadow stepped out of the tree line and into the moonlight.

  It was a person. A man smothered in wretched blood. He limped slowly. One foot dragged behind the other, moving closer and closer to Frank. He tried to call out but his lungs tightened up and seized his vocal chords. He caught sight of the man's face. Thick, fresh blood drained from his eyes. A gaping hole centred his forehead. His neck leaned to one side and divulged the exposed wound blown out at the back of his skull. Strands of brain and flesh dangled to the side. The man reached Frank's feet. He reached out, staring directly into Frank's eyes. Frank stared in horror. The figure’s skin began to melt — oozing over him in a tar-like substance — and leaving only flesh and bone to remain. He wanted to close his eyes, to turn away, but his body would not let him. The monster mounted Frank slowly. The fleshy remains of the figure wrapped its cold bony hands around his throat. Icy fingertips surfaced the back of his neck. They brushed against each individual hair that stood up straight. It began to squeeze, choking him. Putrid bile rushed out from its gullet. Frank felt the acidic liquid smother his face. It reeked of rotting flesh and the damp forest. The skeleton slowly released its grip on Frank's throat and glided its hands down his back. A tingling sensation shivered down his spine. The creature's deadly eye sockets moved in towards his face. The tingling stopped all at once. It paused, its face inches away from his own, staring. A rupturing pain pierced Frank. He felt the razor-sharp dagger plunder into his spine.

  Frank's eyes burst open. He jerked up. His back arched at the intense stinging that inflamed his spine. He gritted his teeth through the pain, emitting as little sound as possible. He fell back and rolled the small of his back in a circular motion against the skin of his bedroll in an attempt to erase the pain. The figure was nowhere to be seen. He could hear his fluffy companion rushing to his aid. Max pushed his head into Frank's neck and brushed it up against his face. He placed his arm around the dog and took a handful of Max’s hair between his fingers. He felt it clumped in his hand before gently releasing and stroking it neatly back into place. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and blew a lengthy gust of breath up into the air.

  Dawn was approaching but the darkness had not faded just yet. Frank stood up and scanned the surroundings of the camp and imagined the demon in his nightmare spying on him behind every tree he laid eyes on. He shook his head and the absurd notion away and noticed a white arrow on a nearby tree drawn in chalk. It was Carlos' signal. He had l
eft one each morning to indicate the direction he was travelling when scouting ahead. The group would erase it upon departure to leave no clues behind for any pursuing raiders. Frank dug his hand into his jacket pocket. He rummaged around its contents and pulled out the antique box of cigarillos.

  First light was usually the purest sight of each day. Normally Frank could admire such a sight, but the tender pastel shades of the morning sky could not be appreciated. Instead, they were replaced with nothing but the trepidation and melancholy of his endeavour. He sat beside Max under the branches of a tall pine on the edge of the hilltop. It overlooked the nearby settlement and was now clearer without the haze of the previous day. He placed one of the remaining cigarillos between his lips and struck a match across the piece of flint. The small flame illuminated his face. He glared hypnotically at its intensity before touching it to the end of the cigarillo. He watched the tip burn red with every puff. The flame crawled down the matchstick, its tip blackened and melted into a scrunched, deoxidised clump of ash. Frank blew out the flame before it touched his fingertips and held the smoke between his cheeks for some time before blowing it away. The cigarillo sat loosely between his fingers. Max curiously sniffed around the hill and eagerly lifted his leg to mark his territory on a nearby tree. Frank tossed the match down and watched its smoky outline fade amidst the undergrowth.

  He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he was greeted by Max's tongue scraping up the side of his face. The sky was mildly lighter. He had fallen asleep again, this time only for a shorter period of time. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and noticed the cigarillo still sitting between his fingers, shrivelled to an inch and cold as stone. It dropped from his grip and rolled gently to a halt. He stretched outward, arching his back and groaned in relief. The pink sky glazed over the valleys and the very top of the sun peered over the distant walls of Wolvendale.

  "Morning," said Barry from behind. Frank turned to greet him and noticed the hunting rifle in his hands. A sharp metallic clank indicated the bolt securing a round into the chamber.