Forgotten Liberty

by Alessio Cala

  “Want t-t-to join me?" asked Barry. He offered Frank a helping hand up to his feet which Frank gratefully accepted.

  "Carlos is already out there, isn't he?"

  "I was s-s-supposed to go with him."

  "What about the others?"

  "They'll catch up."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah, they'll be alright. We'll be back before they know it."

  "Alright."

  They needed food. There was no question about it. He knew a measly rabbit to feed just under a dozen people would not suffice. The discomfort from the previous night's events was enough to encourage him to accompany Barry on his scavenge. Annie was with her sister. He trusted Tracy with Annie's life and knew they would do anything for each other. He just hoped that in time, sooner rather than later, he could find the courage to apologise for the things he had said.

  TWELVE

  A thin layer of snow settled over the deserted road. It appeared more tranquil in the early hours than it had the night before. Frank and Barry followed it in search of food. The gigantic concrete wall became clearer with every step. Crows taunted them from above. They cackled like witches on either side of the road. Max dug his nose into the snow as they moved, sniffing vigorously for anything out of the ordinary.

  "You think c-c-Carlos is around?" Barry asked hesitantly.

  "Maybe, he might already be inside for all we know."

  Max let off a low growl. It was barely audible. He stared dead ahead. Frank followed the dog's eye-line toward the distant front gates of Wolvendale. Rustling bushes caught hold of their attention. They raised their weapons at the ready, only to discover a flock of pigeons burst out from the concealment of wilting pines. They scattered up into the air and flew back west.

  Frank sighed. Sweat dripped down the side of his temple and intertwined the hairs of his beard. As he studied the dog, he noticed the stains in the trail below. He knelt down for closer examination and dipped his fingers into the material. It was blood. A metallic rattling echoed off by the gates. Their attention snapped up. Max's growl grew louder and more menacing. Frank gently placed his hand on the back of the agitated dog. He peered ahead and spotted thin vertical objects sticking out of the ground outside the gate. A thick metal chain that was just too long to hold it shut rattled in the wind. It slammed hard and reverberated back open as far as the chain would let it. It was only then that Frank detected what the objects were. They were spikes. There were at least eight of them embedded into the ground at offset angles, stained in dry blood and dirt. Pinned to the top of their sharp tips were the heads of the dead. It was frieze of deterrence. Some of the skulls had eroded, others still decaying, flesh dangling from their gaping necks. They sat lifeless atop the spikes with taut grins and gaping sockets. The sparseness of remaining hairs tangled around their fragile skulls, split ends blowing out to the wind. He observed a single raven flap its wings and perch itself upon one of the impaled heads. Its monotonous caw lingered along the enclosed trail and resonated deep within him. It cawed again, louder this time, as if to deter them from this ghastly place. Frank looked back at Barry over his shoulder.

  "We need to get off the road."

  "Sh-sh-should we get the others?"

  "Yeah. Whatever food that might be behind those walls can't be worth the risk," he replied. "I thought you said you've been here before."

  "I-I-I have. It was never like this."

  "When was the last time you were here?"

  "I-I... I don't remember," Barry stammered.

  “Barry…”

  Barry hung his head in embarrassment. “Three years ago.” He then caught sight of something. His eyes instantly transcended to a wider, more shocking realisation.

  "M-m-max!"

  Frank spun around. Max had darted off up the road. The dog hollered wildly. He sprinted past the spikes and slotted himself through the gap between the towering iron gates.

  "Shit!" Frank exploded back up to his feet in pursuit.

  Barry trailed behind, doing all he could to keep up. Frank felt the adrenaline pump through his veins. His legs drove forward in a burst of adrenaline. Shit... Shit... Shit... He sprinted through the clearing, no regard for what may have been lying in wait. He heard Barry calling out from behind but all he could do was run after Max. He shoved passed the menacing deterrents, accidentally knocking down one of the wooden spikes in the process. The skull slammed to the ground and tumbled away into the dirt. Frank reached the gate and desperately tried to heave his body through but the gap proved narrower than he anticipated. He tugged hard on the thick metal chain in a burst of frustration.

  "Hold it open!" he ordered Barry who was close on his tail. Barry slung his rifle over his shoulder and held the doors as wide apart as they would let him. Frank knelt beneath the chain again and forced his body through. He felt his chest scrape past the rusty metal and heard the harsh tear of his poncho. He staggered through and caught a glimpse of Max dashing around a corner up the street. Frank pushed the gate as wide as possible but there was no way Barry was going to fit. Barry stepped back, staring Frank directly in the eye.

  "You go on ahead, I'll find another way."

  "Barry, wait!" He reached through the gap and snatched for him but he was already gone. For a second he truly believed Barry would return. "Barry?" he whispered through the gap. No response. He quickly turned and was greeted by the overwhelming construction that was Wolvendale.

  His eyes scanned every window for any signs of movement. He broke away from the centre of the T-junction and took cover behind a spilling dumpster on the street corner. He peered out from behind the dumpster. His mind flooded with endless outcomes and none of them were positive. The buildings on either side of the road were four stories high; mostly industrial warehouses with large iron shutters, some open, others bolted shut. The windows were smashed to pieces and the rusting metal left stains of mouldy orange and brown across their exterior. Waste and other material flowed freely in the street along with boxes, shoes, glass and one thing that stood out in particular, an overturned cargo truck.

  The truck itself had burnt to a charred crisp. Its once white metallic sheen had now deteriorated to a flaky matte finish. Frank cautiously stepped out from behind the dumpster and stalked through the central strip. He reached the toppled cargo carrier laying flat on its side in the middle of the road and leaned against it. He shimmied along the cargo towards the rear, his back hugging the wall. He felt an intense vibration against his back and quickly backed off.

  The cargo came alive.

  Rumbling steel echoed out through the street. He moved outward, side-stepping closer to the rear of the cargo, the shotgun firmly in his grasp. Like a mirage or illusion, a wave of black matter poured from the rear hatch. At first Frank thought it was oil, tons of it spilling out onto the streets, but the flowing movement soon split into multiple pieces. He looked closer and trained his sight on the disgusting reality. It was rats, hundreds and hundreds of rats. Masses of large black sewer rats poured out into the street, scurrying in all directions, toppling and climbing over one another. They dispersed and scampered away, squeezing their damp disease ridden bodies into every gaping crevice of the rubble. One whiff was enough to make him puke. He stood legs apart, dry heaving what little contents he contained in his empty stomach. A diminutive portion of vomit splashed to the ground.

  Franked snatched the rag from his back pocket and held it in front of his face. It smelt of his own sweat and the clammy forest but he didn't care. It was better than the reeking stench from within the cargo. He leaned inside and peered into the shadows. A swarm of buzzing flies circled the interior. He leant the shotgun against the side of the crate. With his free hand, he took out a match and struck it against the box and held it up to the darkness, the flame dancing in his grasp. With every baby step the smell grew more pungent. He took one more step and felt a wet, slippery material squish beneath his boot. Moving his foot away, he lowered the match to reveal what was underneath.
>
  Rotten flesh. He panned the flame along and discovered a heaped pile of shredded pig carcasses. The meat was slimy, pale and bunched together. Thousands of wriggling maggots burrowed deep into the decomposed pork. He gagged at the thought of eating the rancid flesh. He felt empty. There was so much meat, enough to feed everyone, yet it was all wasted.

  A distant bark muffled from outside and the match singed the tips of his fingers. His hand instinctively jerked back in a spasm and he cursed bitterly beneath his breath. He snatched the shotgun, leaped back outside and ran in the direction he’d thought he heard Max's call. Up ahead on the top of the mound was a squared off farming area. On the opposite side of the road was what appeared to be an abandoned hardware depot. Frank took in his surroundings. He leaned against the wooden fence and observed the bales of hay stacked beside rows of wooden coops fenced off by chicken wire. Listening closely, he could hear the clucking of hens, alive and nesting. Someone must be tending to them. He knelt down and brushed away the earth below. It was tough and compact like wet clay. Even the weeds struggled to grow here.

  Another faint bark startled him from behind. The depot's front entrance was bolted shut. The doors were tight and sturdy, chains latched tight in loops around them. God only knew what was being kept sealed on the other side. There was a reason it was locked.

  Frank hesitated. He knew Max was inside but feared what else might potentially reside from within. For Max to act in such an unpredictable way was unheard of. Frank felt light-headed. The pressure and conditions were now getting to him. He had seen and done things that he knew he would never do given other circumstances. He had eaten very little in the past three days, and what he had eaten he had just regurgitated. He felt weak. Tired. He moved to the side of the depot and discovered the emergency fire door, propped open ever so slightly by a brushless broom handle.

  "Max?" he whispered through the shady hallway. On one side of the isle were rows of offices. Papers and other assorted stationary sprawled the floors. The once pristine brass plaques on the doors were now faded and chiselled away. More parchment spilled out into the hallway. On the other side from the waist up, was a transparent acrylic window looking out into the depot. The tall isles had been cast aside to make room for this internal allotment. Heat lamps hung low from beams and down lit tables filled with potted herbs and vegetables. Their harsh exposure juxtaposed the pitch black shadows around them.

  Frank could hear the jangling of chains. He peered through the scratched dusty window and scanned the depot. There was no sign of Max. Just as he was about to move on, he saw some movement. A pair of hands emerged into the light. Dirty fingernails dragged through the soil of a tray on a nearby table. A disturbed groan echoed through the tall structure.

  He was not alone.

  He tried to see beyond the light but it was too intense. He moved away from the window and continued round into the open. Silhouetted figures shuffled and clanked across the concave strips of light. The lack of windows and harsh lighting caused a musky heat to circulate the room. Frank moved in closer, scurrying silently through the darkness. The humidity was unbearable, the smell of sweat foul. He felt the air stick to his sweating body. More chains rattled and rumbled in unison. The prehistoric grunts echoed nearby. He squinted into the light. Glimpses of a figure emerged from the darkness and into the work station of a tomato patch. His skin was filthy — a sickly shade of grey — and he wore little clothes to shelter his body. The meat on his bones was scarce. His posture hunched over, a permanent hurt expression plastered across his face. In an instant the man slapped the side of his head with an open palm and barked vocals of a gibberish tongue.

  Christ...

  Light shimmered off the thick chain-link shackles binding his ankles. They were thick, heavy chains, similar to that of those at the front gate. Frank stared in utter disbelief. The man's sanity in submission, a forfeit to the darkness.

  What the hell is this place?

  The light reflected off the tables and illuminated the steel cross grid catwalks above. The sounds of heavy boots marched overhead, the outline of a man watched over the workers. Frank couldn't understand. He didn't want to understand. A stir of commotion snatched his attention. The skinny man screamed in a panicked frenzy. His arms flailed wildly. Frank spotted black and white fur track past the light. The border collie whimpered in the shadows.

  Frank broke away from the cover of stacked crates. He ran forward and leaped over the work station. He could hear the emerging cries of others drawing in. The rustling of chains clanked viciously and more rapidly, louder and louder with every passing second. Frank pulled Max away from the man who was now in full perspective. The man leaned back, his eyes bugged wide and shelves of bags hung beneath his eyelids. The cruel light reflected off the top of his bald, wrinkled scalp. His mouth gaped open to reveal rotten loose teeth. He cried out inconceivable words.

  He lunged forward. Frank held the shotgun up horizontally as a barrier. The man latched on. His bony hands felt cold against Frank's knuckles. A hot flush of sweat overwhelmed his senses. He struggled against the man's surprising hold on the weapon. The shotgun shook in his hands, pivoting from left to right with every ounce of relentless strength. The man bellowed sinisterly into his face. Strands of saliva flew from the man's mouth and elasticised back into his filthy beard. Frank knocked the shotgun up into his jaw. The man's grip released. His lower back slammed into the table. He jerked back, teeth gritting as he cried out in pain.

  "Max!" Frank hollered. Together they dashed back out from the isle. The tormented cries and jangling chains were all too close. Within seconds more deranged bodies emerged from the gloom of the depot.

  Frank backed away, a bubbling sickness set in the pit of his stomach. Men and women stared back, their bare bodies closing in from all directions. They looked starved, malnourished, the bare minimum. He could just about make out the slightest of utterances.

  "Help us..."

  They shambled toward him in rattling shackles, arms raised in a semblance of revenants. They groaned, screamed, voices cracking under the strain on their throats. A bright torch flickered from side to side on the catwalk above. The man called out but Frank could not hear over the cries of those around him. One of the men lunged for him. The shackles buckled from the overstretched strain. The man fell at Frank's feet, his scrawny palms clutching at his ankles. A sea of hands clasped out for him from all sides. He waved them off frantically and used the shotgun to shove their feeble bodies aside. He tripped over his feet through the masses and made a break for the fire door.

  The light shone through the gap in the open door. The rattling chains and bare feet slapped against the floor behind him. Bated breaths on the back of his neck. Max dove through the fire escape and completely wiped out the broom handle. Frank reached out but the door slammed shut in his face. The light faded along with it. The bodies shoved into him from behind and pushed his body into the release bar. All at once they ruptured out from the depot and into the light.

  Frank slammed hard into the rubble outside. The gritty scraps of tarmac daggered speckled imprints into the palms of his hands. He turned over and shuffled back. Their grazed hands reached out for him. They clutched his jeans and pulled themselves closer, caving in on him. Their eyes squinted, deprived of natural light for so long. Frank struggled, he could feel clenched fists bashing down against his thighs. Max bit down on one of their ankles. The slave thrashed back like a fish out of water. His foot caught Max in the collarbone and the dog squealed back into the rubble. All at once they stopped. Their eyes opened wide, staring beyond. Frank listened. A single engine revved fiercely in the distance. Together the slaved bodies shot up and scampered out into the open; their legs straight, pumping like a steam locomotive. Frank looked up, dazed and confused. They ignored his presence. He scooped the shotgun back up into his arms and ran across the hilltop.

  Frank burst through the wooden gate head over heels. He managed to regain his balance just in time. He ran
through the spacious open plain that diverged from the rest of Wolvendale. Hundreds of crows flocked up from the land and cawed wickedly as they flew away. He looked down to check Max was still by his side and felt something snatch a handful of his jacket. The force of the grip yanked him back down into the dirt. Frank rolled over onto his side and caught sight of the opposing force. A ragged woman stood over him. She had long black hair and wore tattered clothes. Frank’s hands shot up in surrender. He noticed her faintly tanned skin and gleaming green eyes.

  "Hide," she said. Max growled ferociously and stood between Frank and the woman. Her glance darted back and forth between Frank and the depot. Frank turned back to where he had just come from.

  On the other side of the road, a raider stormed out from the depot with an assault rifle at the ready. He snatched up the first fleeing slave he could lay his hands on and shoved him headfirst into the dirt. The crack of the rifle boomed the desolate streets of Wolvendale. A single shot into the back of the head. Nearby slaves stopped running. They fell to the ground in surrender while others tried their luck for a shot at freedom. The raider fired in bursts at the feet of those fleeing.

  The ragged woman ushered Frank and Max back into a narrow gap between two of the chicken coops. He could see the woman wasn't a threat and called for Max to stand down.

  "Get back here!" a booming voice hollered from the open road. More gunshots. Frank stared through the narrow slit in the coop's wooden panels. There were chickens inside, alive and nesting. He held the dog close to him and felt his paw throb meticulously. He shushed silently over Max's wheezing, eyes back on the ragged woman who stood out in wait.

  The revving engine sounded up toward the hilltop. It was a black motorcycle. A second, shorter raider dismounted the bike, sub-machine gun in hand. The brutish raider rounded up the runaways and lined them up by the wooden fence. The woman stood completely still, frightened that if she moved she too would suffer the ultimate price. Like the others, she also was bound with shackles, but unlike the others; hers were bound on one ankle only. It was a longer chain, the other end latched to the concrete wall of the grocery store next door. The shorter raider kicked open the gate and marched toward the ragged woman.