Forgotten Liberty

by Alessio Cala

  "This sneaking up on each other has got to stop."

  "Apologies," said Carlos. "What happened?"

  "Frank and John are missing. Place has been looted."

  "Damn."

  Tracy came to Annie's aid. She put her hands on either shoulder and sat her down on the trunk of a fallen pine. Bent splinters of wood snapped at the base of the trunk, still partially connected to the stump. Annie caught sight of Frank's double barrel shotgun left deserted up against his bedroll. She began to hyperventilate, her lungs kicked into overdrive.

  "Somebody get her some water," Carlos ordered. Kara picked an enamel mug off the ground. She washed it out with a splash of water from her canteen then filled it and handed it to Annie. The mug shook in Annie's hands as she guided it up to her lips.

  A chilling undertone froze every member of the group in the camp. The whispers of another language reverberated off the enfolding pines. They could have been no more than fifty metres away down the ridge's drained basin. There were multiple voices, each calling out to one another on their approach up to the camp. Max's attention broke away from the meat. He stared through the trees, completely focused. Derek and Carlos grabbed what they could from the ground. Kara snatched Sam up into her arms and Tracy pulled Annie up to her feet. The mug dropped from her grasp and clanked against the fallen tree.

  "Go. Go," Carlos hissed.

  Mike stood closest to the approaching party and peered down through the snow-glazed branches. There was no visual but he could still hear them, their voices raised in response to the clanging mug. The others scrambled together. Mike shuffled back, the AK at the ready. The voices closed in, riled and bloodthirsty. He turned at the camp's edge and darted through the pines.

  They pushed up and over the ridge, aching chests and blurry sight. All they could hear was the low tenor of the environment around them and the rhythm of their boots crunching through the snow. It could have been raiders, or the grey wolves, but whoever it was, they weren't sticking around to find out. They didn't stop moving. They just kept running.

  The fog thickened with every step. The first signs of a blizzard brewed in the high altitude of Autark's eastern mountains. Annie held Tracy's hand tightly. She would never let go. Together they followed Kara through the mist and didn't look back. The wind flushed in from the side and swept Annie's hair in front of her face. She scratched it away with her fingertips. Her eyes squinted through the wind. She could see the vapour from her dry mouth thrive with every breath. Tracy looked around her, her head shot back and forth in a panicked flurry. She stopped dead in her tracks. "Barry?"

  Annie's arm locked straight and jerked back to a halt.

  "We need to keep moving," said Kara.

  "But where's Barry? He was right behind me."

  "They'll catch up, come on."

  "Barry!" she yelled through the mist. Kara dived back and clamped her free hand over Tracy's mouth. "Be quiet."

  Tracy pulled herself away. Her eye's scanned the area around them. The wind grew more aggressive with every passing second. They could barely see further than ten feet in front of them. There was nobody there. Not Carlos, not Derek, nobody. They stood in the middle of the storm, panting heavily to catch their breath.

  "We have to go," said Annie. She herself was desperate to find Frank. It was all she could think about. She needed to see him, to be with him. She looked down. Max was no longer by her side.

  Hollering voices returned. Their followers were fast approaching, closing in like a pack of starving hounds. Tracy panicked. They were gaining on them. The dreary contour of faded figures came into view further behind them. Her eyes caught sight of the orange grip sticking out from the back of Kara's waistband. That was it. It was her answer to everything. Tunnel vision consumed her, finding Barry was her only intention. In that moment nothing else mattered. She lunged forward and snatched the flare gun from Kara's belt. Annie's jaw dropped, her eyes widened. "Tracy, no!"

  The course of the blizzard was now in full effect. Frank held John's arm over his shoulder for support. They held their hands up in front of their faces to shield their eyes from the snow. They struggled to even place one foot in front of the other against the merciless winds.

  "We have to find the others," yelled Frank.

  "What?" John's croaked voice muffled back through the blistering gales.

  "We have to find the others," he repeated, much louder this time.

  They had reached the edge of a mound. Frank stood and looked down at the sloped white canvas. The snow thickened in the air. Clumps of white materialised against his jacket. The wind rammed into him at incredible speed. He could feel the cold press through his clothes and wrap around his thinning body. A burst of air muffled from behind. They both heard it and together they turned to face it. It sizzled like the ignition of a firework fuse. A stream of orange light shot vertically up in the distance. Its vibrant glow illuminated through the mist and intensified once it reached its peak. It remained motionless in the air for a moment. The cracking of gunfire in the distance dampened through the storm.

  "What the hell is that?" asked John.

  They stood still, side by side, awestruck by the flickering orange light that burned a hole in the sky. Frank was drawn like a moth to a flame. The roaring screams faded through the storm. He saw them sprint through the fog, at least three of them and one charged straight toward him. There was no time to react. He tightened his body and absorbed the oncoming blow. The man gored Frank's gut. It knocked him straight off his feet and sent the pair of them tumbling down the sloped mound. Frank's vision blurred into streaks of horizontal stripes. His body tightened up even more, the raider's arms wrapped firmly around his torso. Their combined weight caused them to fall faster. Frank's body flipped up, his left shoulder slammed into the trunk of a bare pine and flung them further down the slope. He could hear the raider's heaving breaths of hostility puffing through the haze of motion. Their bodies crashed against the snow-padded rock and gunshots echoed from above.

  The tangled pair plunged down into a stone crevice that backed onto a narrow stream. The raider pushed Frank's tangled body aside. He raised the rusty dagger high in the air and drove it down into the flesh of Frank's outer thigh. Frank's spine coiled back. He lifted his jaw, his teeth gritting in agony. The muscles in his leg seized up, a pulsing cramp. He flung his arms, swinging at anything in reach. The man absorbed the feeble hits and brushed them aside as though they were nothing. Frank's arms jolted back. The raider towered over him and was on him in seconds. Frank thrashed his body to shake him off but the man was much stronger. Their bodies lashed out in an inelegant burst of desperation. He felt the raider's filth ridden fingernails rake repeatedly across his face and eyes. Frank nabbed him by the wrist, digging his claws into the man's skin. The raider's other hand clamped down on Frank's face, his thumb plummeting down into the socket of his left eye. His eyeball pulsated under the suffocating pressure and he could feel the tearing of his corneal. He imagined the horror of the man's thumb wriggling around inside of his head. He felt the sting of fresh grazes across his eye. Frank's fist balled tight. He swung up, crashing against the raider's temple and knocking him into the shallow stream.

  The vision on his left side had disappeared and the skin around his eye had swollen and grazed along the surface. He felt the blood drip down his face; the throbbing pain in his eye. His right leg went numb from the waist down, and when he looked over he saw the rusty blade still protruding from his thigh. His hand brushed limply across his waist and the machete filled his grasp. The raider lifted his groggy head and slowly rose back to his feet. With every ounce of strength left in his body, Frank unhitched the machete and drew it from its sheath. He stabbed the blade into the earth below and used it to lift himself to one knee. The raider swung around, only metres away. His eyes burned with absolute rage. He lunged back for more. Frank yanked the machete up and felt the weight of the raider plunge into him. The raider shoved him back onto his shoulders and landed
right on top of him. He heard steel tear through flesh. The raider's body stiffened, his pale eyes staring only inches away from Frank. The entire weight of the man rested in Frank's grasp. The thick red substance trickled down the machete over his taut fist. More blood gurgled in the raider's mouth and poured down his chin. Frank watched intensely, his eyes focused on nothing but the man's suffering. The raider gasped for breath and choked on his own blood. Frank stared until the man's suffering had ended. He shoved the lifeless body aside and ripped the machete from the man's spilling guts.

  He lay still; half of his body in the snow, the other half in the stream. The stream's sub-zero waters brushed up against his jeans and soaked through to his legs. Pebbled stones dug into his back. Everything in his left eye had softened to black. His body squirmed at the squelching of his eyeball. All he could see was the swirl of grey and white whirlwinds above. Nature's relentless storm encapsulated his body. He closed his eye — the other now permanently shut — and listened to the droning current of the stream. Although the furious blizzard perpetuated his fear, the continuous humming of the wind filled him with a sense of tranquillity like no other. He knew he had to do something or else he would surely die, if not to the storm, then to the hands of the raiders. He tried to fight it, tried to lift himself, but there was nothing left in him. He just laid there, still. He didn't move.

  Carlos peered directly down through the branches of the dead tree. He was perched high. The arches of his feet gripped the branch like the claws of an eagle. He held the bolt action rifle in his hands and leaned against the trunk by his shoulder. All he could see was white through the hairs dangling in front of his face. The group had been pushed further up into the mountains than they had planned, losing one another to the storm. He thought he saw something pass below, a moving shape that faded up ahead. He heard muffled cries followed by two faint rounds popping off. Two sharp flashes of amber. He waited for a moment. Nothing. Branch by branch, he descended the tree and made his way out from the cover of the pines. He lowered his posture, bent at the knees. He lifted the bolt on his rifle and cocked it back. Five rounds. He cocked it back into place and held it up. The wind's current rattled against the barrel, his aim swaying through the blizzard. He tightened his muscles to keep it under control, his heart racing. The faded shape returned to view. He could not make out any details, a matte grey silhouette flat against the wild snow. He stopped and stared down the barrel of the rifle, sights lining up to the tall shape ten feet ahead of him. He exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. The gunpowder ignited and sparked a jagged burst of smoke at the muzzle. The rifle kicked back in his arms, a deafening crack of a single shot contained itself in the bubble of the storm. The shape dropped instantly. Carlos cocked the rifle. The empty casing spun out from the chamber and was lost to the snow. He pushed the bolt back into place and moved toward the charcoal figure with the rifle still raised in his arms. As he got closer, two more folded bodies came into view that lay still in the rising snow.

  Carlos approached the closest, the one he had shot. The snow began to fall quicker now, settling atop the dead man's leather trench coat. He had a masculine build but he lay face-down. Blood stained the snow around him. Carlos edged his foot forward and kicked the body over to face him. The body rolled, arms rigid and lagging behind. The body already began to stiffen, joints clicking as it moved. Carlos tossed his rifle and satchel down. The dead man's mouth gaped open and blood poured from his chest and stained his shirt.

  Carlos stared, no expression. He moved in closer to the other bodies. He lifted one of the deceased, a middle-aged female, and dragged her through the snow. He dumped her body over the man he had shot and then placed the second one, a teenage boy, next to them. His legs brushed rapidly back and forth to cover the trail left behind in the snow. He wiped the cold moisture from his red nose and took one last glance at the stack of bodies. There, it was done. He was never there. He wondered how long the blizzard was going to last, if it could last long enough to engulf the scene entirely. He would do it himself but there was no time. The temperature dropped suddenly. He felt a hot flush in the pores of his forehead from lugging the lifeless corpses. He needed to go and find the others. What would he tell them? The distant howl of wolves pierced the air around him. He'd have to figure that out along the way. His eyes shot up, darting ahead and back over his shoulder. He snatched the rifle and stumbled back through pines. He needed to go, right now.

  FIFTEEN

  Frank felt the roughness of coarse sandpaper graze his nose and lips. He opened his eye and saw Max, too close to focus. The dog wheezed silently, licking Frank over and over. The blizzard had seized but the snow continued to fall. How long had he been out? The dreary white sky had descended into darker shades of grey. Day's cycle was drawing to a close and he was losing light fast. A small puddle of blood had formed in the bowl of his left eye and when he turned onto his side it rolled down his face and into the snow. He could still feel the eyeball. It was intact but had settled farther back into the socket. He looked up and around but there was no one to accompany his companion. Max wheezed and hopped over Frank. He brought the dog in and embraced. He brushed the snow from Max's coat and ruffled the fur beneath his chin. His fingers were numb and felt as though they were going to snap off at any moment. He curled them into a ball to his lips and blew the warmth from his body onto them. As he sat up, a sharp digging pain reminded him of the knife embedding his leg. He inhaled a single deep breath through gritted teeth and turned away.

  There it was again. That damn raven… The monotonous caw mocked him from above. He turned to its call and spotted it sat upon the lowest branch of a nearby tree. His attention drifted down to the dangling object hanging at the branch's edge. It was his knapsack, hanging by a single strap to the tree he had hit on the way down. The flap was open and its contents had spilled out into the snow at the base of the steep mound. He tried to stand up. It was no use. Instead, he used both his hands. He dug his claws into the dirt and dragged his battered body through the snow. Max followed. He seemed unsettled, tilting his head to one side. The dog had never seen his master move in this way before.

  Frank had always been soft with Max in the past. He remembered the first night he brought him home as a pup. It was a rainy night and when Annie locked him in his cage to sleep he wouldn't stop crying. He knew you weren't supposed to cater to their cries for the first night but he couldn't help it. He loved Max and always mollycoddled him when and where possible. Annie always told him off for feeding Max cheese but he did it anyway. What was the point in having a dog if you couldn't spoil it? That's the way Frank saw it anyway. He trained Max to be obedient and in return he'd shower the dog with unconditional affection. But now more than ever he'd noticed changes in both himself and the dog.

  The blood flowed quicker now and left a messy red trail in his tracks. He stopped under the tree for a moment and gazed up the mound. It struck memories of falling across its jagged edges that looped over and over again in his mind. Max’s ears shot up. Something caught his attention through the white fog above. Three figures stood at the top of the mound. Two older men either side of a woman. Frank spotted their familiar fur garments that cloaked their bodies. They watched him, studying his every movement. They were still, calm and collected. Frank noticed Max’s unaggressive poise; he seemed unbothered by the party of three watching from above. The two men were dressed in caribou furs, similar to that of the men and women he had seen in Wolvendale. The woman's attire, however, was concealed by a long black cloak, layered with the feathers of a raven. She had long black hair and her skin was tanned like the others. Frank squinted through the mist but he could not make out any more detail. He tried to call out to them but his throat seized. His cough was sickening, and when he looked back up, they had already turned their backs on him and retreated beyond the mound. Something landed just a few feet away and rolled toward him through the snow. He couldn’t believe his eyes and had to touch it to make sure. He snatched the c
hunk of meat with both hands. Frank looked back up to the mound but nobody was there. He brushed the snow away and attacked the meal ravenously. Although it was raw, it was packed with nutrition. He recognised the taste. Caribou. He rarely saw them in the west but they were well known to roam the fields of the eastern coastline. He wondered if they took pity on him, or if they believed he would die down there by that stream. All he could do was be grateful that they spared him, and more gratefully so, fed him. In that brief moment, he had prepared for a swift death, but he couldn't give up, not now. In his spur of desperation, he felt completely and utterly ashamed. Max’s eyes stared lustfully at the glorious meat. Frank took one last bite and tossed the rest to the dog who attacked it with the same instinct that he had just displayed himself.

  He remembered the gunshots from before. John. Could he have fended the other raiders off? There was no way he was making it back up there in his condition. He looked down into the snow and recognised some of his equipment; a canteen of water, blanket, saucepan, matches, socks, a fishing hook. Something was missing. He stared up at the knapsack, hanging loosely by a single strap. He took a sip from his canteen then stretched up with both arms. The corroded dagger scraped against his muscles at the slightest of actions. Max sat in front of him and stared with those pearlescent eyes. They say it's harder to watch the person in pain than to be the person in pain, but Frank found that very difficult to believe. He pulled the rag from his back pocket and tore it at the corner to lengthen the material. His palms suddenly became drenched in sweat. His heart pounded in his chest, desperate to flee his body. He balled the rag into a bundle and held it between his teeth before gripping the handle of the blade. He counted to three in his head. Slow and steady.

  One...Two...Three...

  He chickened out and looked away. "Come on you bastard," he uttered to himself. He closed his eye, his breath faltered. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He gripped the handle and gave it one great pull. He cringed at the sound of steel exiting his body. He fell immediately and his teeth sank into the soaking rag.