by Peter Okafor
“I think we just found our ride home,” Dope said as he stepped forward.
“Wait.” Runner urged.
Something didn’t feel right.
He noticed the markings on their faces. They were painted in dual lines and bore distinct colours of blue, red, white, and black. It was not until he saw the ropes at the side of their horses that Runner was certain that he had seen them before.
“Goddamn slavers! Run, Dope, run!” Runner dashed backwards.
Beads of sweat rolled down his face as he ran to the riverbank. A scream urged him to halt, his feet digging into the soft earth. Runner glanced back, only to see Dope caught in a rope knotted around his torso. Atop his great black steed, a large man threw a rope at Runner.
As it reached for him, Runner inhaled deeply and dived into the water.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ill Met by the Jungle
Unable to hold his breath any longer, Runner propelled himself upwards. His head pushed out to the surface of the water, and he drew in air. Curiosity led his gaze to the bank, but the slavers were gone. Runner swam towards the bank. He stood to his feet on shallow bed and waddled through the water.
Something caught his eyes at one end of the bank. At first, he thought it was Dope, but as he strode forward, he saw his backpack lying half-soaked in water.
He sat beside it, tired and unhappy. His dark hair was wet and slapped to his face, his trench coat was lost in water. All that was left on him was a grey t-shirt slapped to his chest and muscled abdomen, black trousers belted around his waist, and black boots on his feet.
All were wet and uncomfortable.
The day was growing dim. It came odd to him, and he wondered why. His gaze lifted to the sky. The sun was sinking westwards, spreading crimson rays on white clouds. As it lost itself to the sky, the day grew dimmer, and it began to look like the atmosphere in the wasteland.
“This is not good,” Runner muttered.
If darkness was indeed coming, he could not tell what would follow. The jungle that stretched before him was an unknown territory, uncharted by none he knew. It was the one thing that scared him the most—the unknown. The coming darkness did not scare him, not when he had grown comfortable with the dangerous terrain of the wastelands.
He could track in the dark, but the idea of following the slavers into clusters of trees and shrubs did not seem like a good one. Old Max had taught him many things even if sometimes they found themselves on contradicting perspectives. Many thought the old man to have gone crazed talking to the engines that filled his workshop, but Runner knew he was the oldest living man to have survived every bump and bruise caused by the wastelands at seventy years old. The man had taught him to swim in the wide and fast flowing drainage outlets from MegaCityOne.
Runner walked to the entrance of the forest. He grasped the branch of a tree and chopped it with his wrench knife.
It served a long stick on his hands, but he set it down and began to sharpen the end with his knife. He fashioned the wood to look like a long spear and then stood to his feet. He was ready to continue, but there was something he didn’t want to admit to himself.
He was lost.
To find his way back home, he needed to go in the direction of the slavers. He was tired of fighting, tired of struggling, and tired of surviving. Home was the only thing in his heart. He had no will to go against the slavers, but he needed one of their horses and a path home.
Runner bent down to look at the tracks left behind by the slavers, but it was impossible in the dark. Normally, tracking in the wasteland was quite easy when he followed footprints on dusty paths to stay clear off gangs and marauders, but here, it was different. The woods smelt different. The chirping insects and glowing flies distorted his senses. The darkness did not help either, and it left him confused.
In a brief flash of anger, Runner buried the head of his makeshift spear into the soil. The woods were different. The air there was clean, and its scent was a combination of flowers’ fragrance and weeds. No smell of death and decay that filled the wasteland. The sound of flowing waters, the chirps of insects, the soft earth beneath his feet—all calmed his nerves as he listened. He walked to a green plant stalk and broke a fleshy branch.
All he had to do was to break through the barriers that obstructed him, and so he set out to do so. One thing he was sure about tracking was that while vision was important, a calm and combined sense of smell, taste, and hearing all came together to create intuition. But first, he needed to overcome the darkness and learn the landscape.
He brought the fleshy branch to his backpack and set it down. His hands went into the bag, searching for resources he had gathered from the Last House on the Left.
“Found you,” he whispered.
He drew out the oil reserved for fuelling the woods that heated his cooking spit. The next he went for was a roll of toilet papers.
“Oh god.” He sighed.
The paper was wet from being soaked in water, and that proved to be a setback. Runner grasped the end of his grey t-shirt and pulled it off his body. The shirt seemed to have dried up a bit, and so he wound it over the tip of the fleshy branch to serve as a wick until it looked like a Q-tip. He soaked the head with the oil and then sunk his hand in his pocket.
His matchstick was wet.
Runner held the box in his hand and slammed it angrily on the floor. He walked to it and stamped his foot upon it again, again, and again until it was flat on the ground. He was tired of everything, frustrated by the life he was born into. Why couldn’t he sit on a beautiful night and dine on exotic meals like other kids in MegaCityOne? Why couldn’t he lie upon a soft bed on a cold night and cuddle tightly to soft pillows? Why couldn’t he stand upon the city’s highest tower, mourning lost loves and dream of better kisses to come?
Must he wake up every day to a bundle of rods he called his bed? Must he fight every day to survive on a meal a city dweller would feed to his dog? If he had the power to change his fate, this would be the time. Perhaps that was what he had been fighting for—to change his fate and that of many others. The lake was the key to everything, and for that, he must make his way back. He must survive to the end. The lake would change everything, but it all came down to him. What must he do?
A piece of rock stood a stone’s throw away from him. It looked like gravel, but he did not care. He picked it up and drew a wrench knife from the side of his belt. Holding both on each hand, he walked over to the fleshy branch he had attached to a wick and then squatted before it.
He struck his blade on the rock, but there was nothing. He struck again, this time harder than the first, and a fleck of fire dashed away but missed the oiled wick. Runner held tight to the stone. He raised his knife and struck harder, and tiny sparks of fire scattered like one from a welder’s rod. It caught the wick and it came alive, bright and burning.
Runner had his torch, and he lifted it up with a smile on his face.
There was no time to waste; he was hungry. It was either to eat the canned foods in his backpack or go in search of game, but he hated canned foods. Perhaps there was a way to kill two birds with one stone.
Runner used the light from his torch to see the shrubs and undergrowth. He noticed the broken plant stalks made by a forceful entry. It was definitely the way the slavers must have gone through, and he followed the trail southwards.
The undergrowth made mobility difficult. The woods were not a thick jungle of clustered trees and shrubs. Rather, it was filled with hardwood and grassy undergrowth scattered all over. He found it difficult as a novice to such terrain, but he endured nonetheless.
His backpack burdened his back and sometimes got stuck on a tree branch, and then he would turn to pull it out. The torch lit his way through the woods. It seemed to be dying. Runner stopped. He had lost the trail. He shivered from the cold air that kissed the skin of his naked torso. His eyes scanned the shrubs, searching for footprints or broken stalks, and then he heard it.
; Grrraaawr!
The loud roar echoed repeatedly behind him. It urged him to alertness, and Runner turned side to side, pointing his torch at every direction. He didn’t see anything but darkness where the light did not touch.
The roar came again. This time, he could feel the sprinkles of saliva on his neck. Runner turned as quick as the fear that grew in him and was met by the slash of a paw across his torso.
He fell on the grassy earth, writhing in pain. A flesh wound in the form of five claw marks sat across his torso, a laceration that bled slowly. The wound was the least of his problems. Runner gazed at the animal with such fright. He knew this animal—a bear, such as one he had seen in captivity.
It was a great brown bear that stood on both feet. Its roar bore anger, or was it hunger? He could not tell. One thing he was certain was it fell to kill or be killed.
Runner crawled away with both hands and feet. The bear was surprisingly fast for its weight, but Runner escaped another swipe of its paws. He crawled faster past the protruding roots of trees, and something pierced his knee. He winced, letting out a loud shriek. His hands went underneath his knee, and he felt the stone that had pricked him.
He raised his gaze and saw a cave with water streaming down the mouth. With a quick glance backwards, he saw the bear gaining on him. Runner stood to his feet, carrying his torch and makeshift spear. He ran towards the cave, and without noticing, he stepped upon a slippery stone and lost his footing.
Bam! He landed on the ground with his back and could swear he heard something snap.
His finger was dislocated. God! He couldn’t believe how much pain that came from such a small thing. The bear growled as it came towards Runner, charging on all fours.
“Fuck it!” Runner said.
He grasped his dislocated finger. In one quick twist and one sharp pain, he pulled it back place. “Awww!” he screamed.
He could hear the ground around him trembling from the bear’s movement. It was close and too late for Runner to make an escape. Runner crawled to the wall of the cave. His eyes went upon his spear and an idea grew in his mind. He did not need the strength of ten men to kill a large bear. Rather, he needed the strength of the bear to be the agent of its own demise.
The bear was a stone’s throw away from him.
His heart was pounding so fast in his chest that it felt like bursting out. Runner picked his makeshift spear. He wedged the blunt end at the angle where the wall of the cave touched with the floor, and as the bear came upon him, it charged into the sharp end, driving the tip of the spear right into its heart. Warm blood trickled upon Runner’s hand as he listened to dying moans of the great animal.
Life fled slowly from it until its eyes were wide open and throes was heard no more.
Runner crawled away from under the animal’s furry body. His heart rate calmed, and he inhaled deeply like he was going to finish all the oxygen in the world. He couldn’t believe that his idea worked out perfectly, even when it was a leap of faith he had no choice but to take.
He would have been dead by now, another piece of meat to feed a wild animal. No amount of karma could help anyone survive that far from his home. But it seemed nature wanted him to succeed. Perhaps nature had chosen its champion, or what it wanted was a liberator.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fever Dreams
The little boy ran into a room dimly lit by a dying lantern. A rabbit hung from a rope slung over his shoulder, and at his back, a quiver rested beside a bow. His face was wet with sweat, and his hand trembled from fear.
“Come here, you little piece of shit!” An elderly man staggered into the room.
His thick black beard was mixed with grey streaks of hair, and his eyes bore his drunkenness in keen. The man flipped a penknife and stood behind a large table that separated him from the boy.
“Give me that rabbit, Runner,” the man said.
“But I want to trade it for food; it is all I have left,” the boy replied.
The man climbed upon the table, pushing forward to reach the boy. Runner ducked and crawled underneath it to the other side. He stood up and shook the table. The man lost his balance and crashed to the ground.
“You bastard, I’m going to flay you alive. I’m going to remove your teeth while you scream. That rabbit belongs to me. Give it to me or pack your things and go live in the streets.”
“Whatever, you worthless loser! I’m tired of seeing your ugly drunken face anyway. You want my rabbit so that you will gamble it off in Mekkel’s bar, but you won’t have it.” Runner stepped backwards slowly.
The man scrambled to his feet and charged forward. Runner turned around to take off, but his feet got stuck on a cable that ran down the floor, and he fell to the ground. He tried to crawl to safety, but the man sat upon him and unleashed several blows on his face.
“I told…I told you I will skin you alive, you stubborn piece of…” He unleashed another blow.
Runner encased his head in the protection of his hand to defend himself from the blows. The man did not shy from tussling with a boy of nine, but Runner understood the way things were. Tired of taking the blows, Runner sacrificed the protection of his face and instead used his right hand to reach for a knife at his belt.
He drew it and stabbed the man on his thigh. Blood spurted quickly, and the man screamed hard. In a fit of anger, he seized Runner by the throat, keen on choking the boy to death, and it seemed to be working. Runner struggled to breathe as the hand tightened further. Something struck upon the man’s head with a loud thud, and he pulled away from Runner.
Runner’s gaze went upon a green-eyed ebony-skinned girl with lush dark hair that flowed downwards. She was standing over him with a bat on her hand.
“Are you okay?” she muttered, staring at Runner.
The man recovered. He grabbed her suddenly and pinned her on the wall. “I’m going to show you what we do to pretty little girls like you.” He reached down his waist and unbuckled his belt.
Runner stood to his feet. He charged forward and leapt upon the man’s back. “Leave her alone, you pervert!”
The man shook his back persistently to unbalance Runner and throw him off. He stretched his hands backwards to grab him, but Runner reached for his head and with a hard bite, tore half his right ear. The man screamed. There was so much blood. Runner spat the flesh as he fell on the floor. He picked the bat and slammed it on the man’s head, sending him to fall unconscious.
“Let’s get out of here.” He glanced at the girl. “He’s gonna be pissed when he wakes up.”
They both ran out into the streets of Rat Town. The girl led the way and took Runner past stalls of butchers, marketers, and noisy barterers. They stopped at the foot of a small shed.
“Is he your father?” the girl asked as they sat down.
“No.” Runner shook his head. “He is just some weird dude that lets me sleep in his store room if I pay five credit-chips a month.”
“What about you parents?” the girl asked again, looking straight into Runner’s eyes.
He smiled sadly. “I don’t know. I lived with my aunt until she was arrested by rangers for hunting in the government’s reserved wilds a few months back.”
“Sorry.” She hung her head. “You can stay at my place if you want.”
Runner nodded. “Sure, if it’s no trouble.”
“My name is Rhiannon.” She gestured for a handshake.
“Runner,” he replied. “Runner of Rat Town.”
***
“Wake up! Wake up!”
Runner felt a sting from a slap on his face. Slowly, he opened his eyes to blurred faces looming over him. They were hardly recognizable, but he picked up paints of blue, white, and red, then there was someone…familiar.
“Rhiannon?” Runner muttered.
“No, it’s Makiki, motherfucker!” a voice replied.
The butt of a knife grew larger as it zoomed in on Runner, and then a heavy blow landed on his head knocking him back to utter dark
ness.
***
Runner opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the beautiful sunlight piercing through the tree leaves. Birds whistled from the branches above, and the wind sailed gently past him. He looked to his left. There were men wearing leaves and bone fetishes over their grey cloaks. They had oval faces with clay smeared all over their skin.
He turned to his right. There, the men carried the bear he had killed on a long pole resting upon their shoulders. Quickly, Runner glanced above and saw his feet and legs tied to a pole carried by four bulky men.
“What da…Let me down!” Runner yelled.
He wriggled hard, but his hands and feet were tied tightly. His heart began to race rapidly. The first thought on his mind was that they were cannibals, but that would seem illogical as they lived in a forest teeming with animal life.
“Hey! Hey! Where are you taking me to?” He glanced around.
The men marched onwards through thick shrubs and undergrowth, past thin leaved conifers and shallow streams whose stones were visible from the bed. They hummed a song in a rhythm unknown to him. Runner gave up struggling. His muscles relaxed as he hung like a deer from the long pole. His wounds itched at his torso. He wanted to scratch it badly, but it was impossible.
“Can I, at least, take a piss?” he shouted.
The men did not answer him.
Runner hissed, and then he felt a cold wave of fear down his body. They were approaching something that looked like a village, but Runner barely concentrated on what was ahead. How could he? Something else caught his attention. Something made him nervous. The path that led to the village was lined with poles, and on them were tens of headless men tied upside down.
Runner noticed the clothing on the dead men. It was thick black outfits that seemed to be made from animal pelt, and it looked exactly like those worn by slavers. As they moved further, he saw the separated heads mounted on pikes. His heart raced continuously. He was sweating on his face and on the palm of his hands.