Blood Stream (A Short Story)

by M. D. Bowden

  The war spread quicker than anyone could have imagined, governments losing control as chemical agents started to be employed as the weapon of choice by multiple countries.

  Nobody knew who was in control anymore, or who the enemy was.

  Paranoia spread, and it wasn’t long before France started to suspect that England was collecting their own supply of noxious nerve agents, and grew fearful that they would be the target, as France had recently destroyed the cities of Spain and Germany with nuclear weapons.’

  ~

  I glance up at the bait, and around at my surroundings—water trickling around mossy boulders and flowing softly over the stream-bed, and the lush summer leaves overhead, gently moving in the wind.

  Any excuse for a break.

  No sign of life yet so I refocus on the book in front of me.

  ~

  ‘England had not been accumulating weapons, but that did not stop France.

  In 2046 France fought Scandinavia, defending itself against the repeated attacks it had suffered. After months of small invasions, they had still not won, so once again they deployed more nuclear weapons.

  After France had taken down the countries surrounding it on land, it turned its full attention to England and targeted London with a powerful nuclear bomb.

  Survivors from neighbouring counties fled, but many were suffering the effects of radiation sickness, and millions of people died. Those who didn’t die fought each other for food, and anarchy spread through the country.

  No-more attacks came from the government in France, who were themselves destroyed in an attack originating in Asia.

  However, the damage was already done. The majority of the English governing party had been killed, and imports had stopped due to the fighting that was still rife in China and America.

  Countless people died in a struggle to gather food as a famine took hold, and many died of starvation.’

  ~

  I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples again, and look back towards the slices of carrot. I stare at them, only half seeing what’s before me, as I think about what I’ve read, and why I find it so hard to remember it all.

  It’s the dates, I think. Dates that are so long ago, and countries I’ve never been to.

  I’ve never been anywhere beyond where I travel on my own two feet, and occasional trips by train to the city of Exeter, where my father works, where he is now. It’s one of the few remaining cities in England.

  That’s as far as I’ve ever been, and it only took about twenty minutes to get there.

  No-one goes abroad anymore, how would they? More to the point—why would they? Europe is in ruins. There are no-longer beautiful cities with outstanding architecture. They are all gone, ransacked and deserted.

  Of course, some people do still live there, but they are said to be savage and murderous.

  No-one could afford to go further afield, and anyway, no-one even knows much about America or any other continents these days. I certainly don’t. I read somewhere that a long time ago people used to travel to other countries all the time, but that world has ceased to exist.

  Everybody still feels the after effects of the war, still lives in the world that was left behind. It just wasn’t the war in my book. Far from it.

  It was the war against Faerie.

  The faeries that came from another world, another dimension.

  Dad says that there is some truth in the made up history, in the sequence of events, the countries that fell first. Only they didn’t fall to nuclear war, they fell as faerie after faerie came through the gate that had opened to their dimension, like a portal that had got jammed wide-open, and no-body could shut it.

  The world was overcome, one country at a time, as these faerie’s trashed houses and killed the people within. They torched cities, possessed people, controlled them, exchanged babies for changelings, and made people do bad things.

  Dad says that these things did happen on the dates in my book, but they are still meaningless to me—this all happened over two hundred years ago! And anyway, what does it matter if I remember some stupid dates or not, or know which countries fell first? It won’t make things any better now.

  Dad says that the gate got closed in the end, somehow. That’s what he’s researching, well, one of the things. He found some ancient papers at the university that describe the faerie invasion, and dad is trying to find out how it ended, in case it ever happens again.

  He thinks we need to be prepared.

  That’s why he trains me so hard, why he’s always pushing me to do better. If it happens again he doesn’t want me to suffer the same death that millions before me succumbed to. He wants me to live.

  In fact, he’s been talking about it more and more recently, pushing me harder than ever. It’s almost as though he believes something bad is going to happen soon.

  My eyes snap into focus as the ferns, near the bait I set, move apart. A soft grey rabbit pushes his nose through and approaches the carrots.

  I stay stock still as he looks up to check that it is safe, before lowering his mouth and starting to nibble on the food.

  I slowly slide the gun out of its belt and point it at the chewing ball of cuteness, then fire. A net launches from the barrel and wraps itself around the creature.

  I jump to my feet, letting the gun fall to the ground, and pounce on the wriggling rabbit before it breaks free. I draw back a corner of the net and, taking a deep breath, stick a hand in fast, getting a firm hold around its belly to stop it squirming free.

  Its fur is soft beneath my hands. I feel a moment of regret and I hesitate, inadvertently allowing the rabbit another attempt to escape. I grip it tightly again, take a short pause, take another deep breath, quickly reach for its neck, and snap.

  I cringe.

  I hate doing that, but I know I have to if I’m going to have meat for dinner.

  I pick up the net and fold it carefully into the correct position for using again, then get down onto my knees next to the gun and insert the net back into the barrel. I slip the gun into my belt for safekeeping.

  I wipe the thin layer of perspiration from my forehead and take yet another deep breath to steady myself. I did it. My father and I will have rabbit for dinner.

  It would be even better if we had two.

  I decide to leave the carrot in place, and try for a second bunny, but first I need to put the dead one somewhere cool so it doesn’t go off in the heat.

  I rustle in my pack for my cool bag, finding it folded at the bottom beneath my other book and supplies. I pull it out and shake it open, before gently placing the body of the rabbit inside.

  I pick up my history book and slide it into my pack, along-side a maths one, and squeeze the cool bag back in too, before strapping the bag closed and shrugging it onto my back.

  I glance down at the carrot, hoping I don’t miss an opportunity to catch one while I’m gone, then I head off further from home.

  I’m walking in the direction of a cave where I have set an old metal box for the express purpose of storing any animals I catch. It’s not far away, ten minutes down-stream, set back in an enormous rock, and surrounded by boulders, trees and ferns.

  The path stays close to the stream as I go. It is rocky so I keep glancing down to make sure I don’t trip.

  As I walk I think back to my earlier training.

  My dad shakes me awake, “Fayth—time for action!” he compels me.

  Ugh, how does he have this much enthusiasm, so early in the morning?

  As my senses kick in I smell potatoes frying on the stove, and my stomach grumbles. This is enough to make me open my eyes, just as my father starts to shake my arm a second time.

  I see his face before mine, in shadow in the early morning light, his mouth crinkling into a genuine smile, and deep chocolate coloured eyes radiating warmth.

  He leaves the room and I hear him return to his cooking, as I push myself to my elbows and stifle a yawn.

  This happens every ot
her weekday. My dad wakes me ridiculously early so we can eat breakfast together, and then train, all before he leaves for work and I set out for school.

  That was until recently anyway. As I’m approaching my final exams, and I don’t have to go to any-more classes, I am left to revise at home.

  After the exams I won’t have to ever return to the school again. I grin. The joy this brings me releases a surge of energy, enough to finally motivate me to clamber from beneath the covers, quickly wash and dress, then jog down the stairs—reaching the kitchen just as my father is placing my eggs and potatoes on a plate.

  There is already a glass of cool milk beside it, so I give my father a one armed hug as he dishes up his own food, before sliding onto a stool and tucking into mine.

  It is warm and deliciously fresh, the eggs are from our own chickens, the potatoes dug up yesterday from the garden.

  We exchanged surplus eggs for milk with Ewan Ford, a friend of dad’s. The only thing we had to buy for this meal was the cooking oil.

  As I finish my food I look up to my dad. He hasn’t even sat down, but is leaning back against the counter, tucking in as he stands, watching me with a thoughtful frown.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He swallows his food and takes a drink of milk before answering. “Just thinking about your future—what you are going to do after your exams . . .”

  My feelings darken. It’s all very well being happy I will no-longer have to go to school, with its practically totalitarian regime of work, silence and punishment, but that doesn’t mean that whatever I do next will be any easier. That I will even find anything to do.

  I shrug, assuming he’s not expecting an answer, and glug back the last of my milk.

  “What shall we start with this morning?” I ask, deflecting his thoughts.

  He looks away, out of the window to the street, and watches as a neighbour empties vegetable cuttings onto a compost heap, to the side of her house.

  “Let’s go to the bottom of the garden and practice shooting, then we can do circuits,” he finally responds.

  I wonder at his mood, he seems troubled, but maybe he’s still thinking of my future, so I decide not to broach the subject.

  I simply say, “OK,” and rise from my stool to show I am ready.

  It’s not long until I’m standing next to my father, a shot gun held firmly in my grip as I focus on a target he has set.

  He is always challenging me, setting targets that are smaller or further away. He’s even set up a rope, dangling from a high branch off one of our trees, to swing targets off. That is the hardest challenge I face. But today he’s chosen precision as my skill to develop and I am focusing on an old ball that he has balanced on a post.

  I am far enough away from it that I have to use every ounce of concentration I possess.

  When I am ready, I squeeze the trigger. The force of the bullet leaving the gun makes my arms shake.

  I rub my wrist with my free hand and look to the target. It is still there.

  I missed.

  I return to the present when I recognise I am close to the cave.

  I turn from my path and follow a thin stream, stepping in the shallow water as there is no-where else to tread, and ducking so as not to hit my head on the tree branches that obscure the cave from sight when on the main path.

  I originally found the cave in winter, when the trees had shed their leaves, removing their protective embrace.

  I look up as the barely there stream turns into a trickle, falling over the mouth of the cave.

  I sidestep the water and duck into the cool darkness beyond, fumbling at the catch to the metal box. When it is open I retrieve the rabbit from my pack and place it inside, where it will be safe until I come back for it later, when the day has started to lose its heat.

  I trace my footsteps back to my seat near the carrot. I sigh, relieved. It looks like it has gone untouched.

  The rock I am sat on is under the shelter of a tree, providing some relief from the warmth of the day. I am wearing black trousers, which don’t help keep me cool in the sun, probably a mistake, but I like the protection these ones bring—they are durable and prevent me getting scratched by brambles in the woods, or thistles on the moor. They also have plenty of pockets, useful for storing bits of my survival gear, and fit well with the belt which holds my weapons.

  I pull out my history book and force my eyes back to the page once again. I scan the lines, seeing the words, but not absorbing their meaning.

  I hear a rustle in the trees and glance back towards its source, but can’t get sight of what caused it. It was probably a deer, or maybe just a large bird. I crane my neck around, trying to verify my suspicions, but am unsuccessful.

  I look back at my book but feel a prickle of unease as I do, and glance around again. I shake the feeling away, not wanting to be paranoid, and focus back on my work.

  When the light starts to dim under the trees, I know it’s time to stop what I’m doing, and give up hope of catching a second rabbit. I scoop up the left-over carrot as I don’t want to waste it—I can feed some to our pig at home—and take a sip of water from my bottle, before making sure everything I brought is back in my bag and on my back.

  I return to the cave and retrieve the rabbit from the metal box, and add that to my possessions in my pack, before starting my trek back towards Okehaven, and my home.

  I follow the stream uphill until I’m out of the trees, and prickly gorse borders the path instead. It becomes steep and I take care as I clamber up rocks, until the path becomes level again.

  I look out across the valley ahead as the sun starts to set, and the sky is streaked with red. I speed up, eager to reach the main path—the old road—before night sets in.

  The old road is still some way ahead.

  As I start to descend into the valley I hear a scuffling in the bushes. I can’t help but glance nervously over my shoulder.

  Trees cast shadows behind me and, even if there is someone there, it would be easy for them to blend into the landscape, for me not to notice.

  I keep going, starting to feel weary, and hungry, and I try to ignore my fears. I am used to walking by myself at night, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me. It’s not hard for some small thing to trigger my imagination to go into overdrive, and then the fear starts to escalate.

  I take a deep breath, determined that won’t happen this time.

  When I reach the place to cross the stream I eye up the bridge. It almost looks safe, but the wood is crumbling so I decide not to risk it.

  Instead I tread carefully through the water, making sure I step in the shallowest places so it doesn’t go over the top of my boots. They are leather, but treated well, so pretty good at repelling water.

  I reach the other side and place my hands on my knees as I climb another steep hill. I’m struggling for breath as I reach the top and stop for a break, looking back behind me as the sun finally disappears over the moorland horizon.

  Nothing else has given me cause for concern and, despite the approaching darkness; I am feeling a little more confident. As I set foot on the old road I start gently jogging to get home faster.

  My dad will be back soon, returning from Exeter by train, and he will be hungry too as today he had to work late.

  My thoughts turn to preparing the rabbit and making a stew, and my stomach rumbles with hunger.

  As darkness surrounds me I start to ascend the final hill before home. My father and I live right on the edge of town. Where we live it almost feels like a hamlet, or small village, as the houses are widely spread and everyone has large gardens.

  Further into the centre of Okehaven the houses are more tightly packed, and people struggle to grow enough food to supplement what they can afford to buy.

  The train station is in the centre so I won’t cross paths with my dad until we meet at our cosy house. I can’t wait to get there now, to take off my pack and stretch my shoulders, but I am getting tired so I slow my
pace, and once again recover my breath.

  As I round the final corner, before I will see my home, something grabs me from behind. I instantly panic. An arm firmly wraps around both of mine, pinning them to my side, at the same time as fingers cover my mouth so I can’t shout out.

  I struggle silently, trying to get my arms free, but my breath halts in my chest when I see a shadow cross the dimly lit path about a hundred metres ahead.

  I freeze, but although I’ve stopped struggling, I am not let free.

  I see another shadow materialise from behind a tree, and yet another come out from behind our neighbour’s house.

  I strain my eyes to see clearly, my heart pounding in my chest, not knowing if I’m in danger from the shadows, or from the person restraining me.

  At least whoever is holding me doesn’t seem bent on causing pain, so I decide to hope they are trying to keep me safe.

  Then I spot my father’s head as he rounds the hill, and his body comes into sight as he nears our front path.

  I start to struggle again, but am held even tighter.

  Dad looks content, unaware of the danger. I want to get to him, to whisk him inside and away from the shadows.

  I try to shout through the fingers that are over my mouth, to warn him, but before a sound starts to rise in my throat, a fierce whisper stops me.

  “They’re after you, stay quiet.”

  No sound leaves my lips, but as the first shadow approaches my father, I can just see his face turn to fear. Some kind of exchange occurs, but I can’t hear what is said.

  I see my father step back, but another shadow is behind him.

  I resume my struggles, trying to move forward, to help, but another whisper cuts me off.

  “They are too dangerous, you can’t do anything to help,” and then a gentler whisper of, “I’m sorry,” as the shadow behind my father steps up to him and draws a blade across his throat.

  My eyes widen as blood spills and my father crumples to his knees, then falls flat on his face. I hear a crunch as his glasses break, and shock pervades my system.

  I am still, my throat feels cut too, I can’t think, function.