Squeal… Squeal… Squeal.
It was only when Walker stopped that he noticed it. The silence. How long had the trolley wheel been making that noise? He didn’t know. It was a few miles since he last stopped. Funny how you got used to things that got slowly worse. Like a frog, slowly boiled. He stifled a laugh. He liked the quiet. It felt safe. It had been a beautiful day, with a thin layer of cloud protecting him from the burn of the sun. The cloud was starting to thicken now, with the wind blowing in. It might even rain.
He decided to stop for the day. He’d need to unload the trolley anyway, to get to the oil. A squeaky wheel just wouldn’t do. People, what few there were, would hear him coming a mile off.
As he unloaded, he saw the bottle of whisky. A 15 year single malt from the before times. He hadn’t had a drink since way before he’d acquired the bottle. But he cherished it, as a reminder. He’d vowed that the day life wasn’t worth living, he’d drink the lot and end it all. But today wasn’t that day. Today was a good day.
It was dusk now, the colours were becoming muted. After setting up camp, he walked through a small wooded area, looking for firewood. He came to an open meadow and froze. Rabbits. Fifteen to twenty of them. This was his lucky day.
He retrieved his crossbow from the camp and, returning to the copse, he crouched low, creeping to the edge of the trees. He took aim at the closest rabbit. Released the bolt. Woosh. Straight through the neck.
He knelt before his kill, with his palms flat on the ground. “I thank Gaia for this gift and pray to the giver and taker of life that when my time comes, it is as swift and painless.”
He set a fire, then gutted and skinned the rabbit. He’d use the skin for winter gloves. He mounted the rabbit on a spit, stoked the fire and put water on to boil. He’d eat the breast and leg meat as soon as it was cooked, to satiate his hunger. The carcass he’d stew, splitting the bones with his hunting knife to release the marrow. He had some aging carrots that he’d picked up from an old farm about two months before. Only good for stocking now. With the potatoes from that old allotment that he’d passed, and the wild garlic from the side of the road a few miles back, it would make a good stew. His mouth watered.
He’d been walking for several years now. Stopping in empty towns and villages, avoiding people whenever he could. The vast majority were wiped out when the world got angry. That’s how he liked to think of it, the world got angry.
He foraged off the land and scavenged for food in abandoned shops and houses. Some tinned foods were still okay. Sugary sweets were abundant, but of no nutritional value. It amused him, that this example of people’s disposition to damage themselves, and everything around them, had outlasted most of them.
Fire
“My name’s Fire,” she shouted, “not Bitch.” But he wasn’t listening. He just walked away. He didn’t care. None of them did.
She blocked the memory of what had just happened. She buried a lot of memories now, fond or otherwise. Dwelling on happier times or dreaming of better futures just made the present more unbearable.
She hated her kidnappers and hated herself for being dependent on them. She could look after herself, given the chance. She knew she could. She could forage. She could hunt. She knew how to recognise at least twenty types of edible mushroom and far more plants, nutritional and medicinal. She used to go out with her brothers, catching rabbits and hunting feral dogs. She felt a crushing sadness at the thought of her brothers. All dead now. Murdered by her captors.
Chicken
“How was Bitch?” Dan asked.
“Okay, a bit feisty,” Archie replied, doing his belt up.
“She’s always a handful after you.”
“What can I say, I like it rough.”
“Hey, can you smell chicken?” Archie asked, of no one in particular. He was the only one standing up.
Scar replied, “What the fuck you talking about? Chickens went extinct ages ago.”
“I miss the taste of chicken. Oh, but bacon. I miss that the most,” Dong said. They all agreed.
“Which came last, the chicken or the egg?” Clump asked. He was the lowliest of the group. Bullied. He took every opportunity to make them all laugh, when he wasn’t running errands for them.
“No seriously, I can smell chicken,” Archie said.
“Now you mention it, I think you’re right,” said Scar, standing up.
“Shut up, you fools. You’re both imagining it, now,” Dan said.
“No, no. Stand up. It’s coming in on the wind, from that direction,” Scar argued.
Dan stood up with a grunt. “Fuck me, I think you’re right,” he said. “Let’s take a look.”
They’d been together for a few years now, opportunists banding together to pillage what they could. They were a strong enough group to overrun travellers and most small villages. They’d picked up the girl from the last group of travellers they’d ransacked and left for dead. She was a fighter and a biter, so they called her Bitch. They thought she’d calm down and get used to it, but she continued to be a real pain. They may have to dispose of her soon, Dan thought. An extra mouth to feed and more hassle than she’s worth. He was the leader, by virtue of him making good decisions that had kept them thriving for so long. He was also the nastiest, so no-one wanted to mess with him.
They were all salivating, desperate to find the source of this wonderful aroma from the old times. It was a particularly dark night, with only a thin sliver of a moon and a lot of cloud cover, so it was tough going. As they stumbled through the trees, scratched by the undergrowth, they saw the faint glow of a dying fire.
Beating
Walker dreamed of a back massage. Pleasant, except that the masseur kept hitting him on the back of the head. He woke up, after a particularly hard thump, to find himself being dragged along the ground by his ankles. He saw someone rekindling his fire, otherwise it was near total darkness.
Then the kicking started. He curled up into the foetal position, but not before someone planted a kick to his chest that broke a few ribs. The kicks to his head dizzied him and the kicks to his back winded him. He was almost losing consciousness, when he felt someone stamp on his leg. He heard the crack, before registering the excruciating pain. He passed out.
He’d been through this before, a few years back. Left for dead, with all his worldly belongings stolen. He remembered the despair as he lost consciousness. The need for revenge and the knowledge that he’d never have it. That he’d soon be dead. This time was different. He didn’t feel the despair. He knew he’d be dead soon, but he felt content with that.
Broken
He regained consciousness. His leg was bent out of shape, throbbing dully and giving him shooting pains when he tried to move. Once his head cleared and he realised his situation, he was surprised. The fools should’ve made sure he was dead. They’d found the whisky. That’s probably what distracted them from the beating.
Good, Walker thought, that’ll take care of them. He knew he had a chance now. He had to get out of there, before the whisky started taking effect. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an old cigarette tin, containing a vial and syringe. Morphine. He used to keep it hidden in the structure of his trolley. But, after the last time like this, he’d learned to keep it close to hand. He injected and felt the sponge-like warmth, enveloping his body. He lay back, enjoying the sensation, not a care in the world. Then he reminded himself of his predicament, forced himself out of his reverie and dragged himself towards the edge of the clearing. Once out of sight, he jammed the foot of his broken leg under a tree root, bit down on a large stick and pushed with his arms and his good leg to realign the bones. He felt the pain, but it was softened by the morphine. He passed out, nonetheless.
When he came to, the morphine was still having some effect. He found a couple of straight sticks and splinted his leg, using his torn shirt sleeves as ties. Then he waited.
Celebrations
They sifted through Walker’s belongings, by the firelight, while passing around his bottle of whisky.
“There’s some good shit in here,” Clump said. “A proper lad in cave.”
“Alladin’s cave,” Dan corrected. But the education was lost on him. “Where’s Archie?”
“Chucking up in the bushes,” Scar replied. “He can’t handle his booze,” he laughed. But, no sooner had he said it, than his own stomach started to churn. Within minutes he too was vomiting and passing liquid explosively from his rear end.
“He poisoned the stew,” Clump wheezed, between violent eruptions, as the others started to react the same way.
“Don’t be stupid,” Dan said, “why would he poison his own stew?”
Aftermath
Walker waited, biding his time. He could hear it all, but daren’t move for fear of being seen. They’d hate him even more now and hate can be a strong motivator, no matter how sick you are.
So he waited until the vomiting noises had died down. He waited until the cries of agony had dissipated. He waited until the moans of despair had quelled. If the poison in the whisky worked well, they’d all be dead within the hour.
After the last time he’d been beaten and robbed, his despair was almost fatal. He’d survived for so long and built so much, to have it all taken away. His desire for revenge against the bastards who’d left him for dead had been a constant obsession. It had dominated both dreams and waking moments, preventing pleasure in even his favourite things, sucking the joy out of life. He had planned to end it all.
He was looking around an old farm house, trying to find some rope to hang himself, when he happened across a bottle of arsenic. Who knew what they’d used it for, pesticides or tanning hides perhaps, but it gave him an idea. He poisoned his own whisky. Now he could end it at any time, and enjoy one last drink. But more importantly, the next time he was beaten and robbed, he’d die happy in the knowledge that he’d have his revenge. It gave him hope. It saved his life. Twice now.
Return
He crawled back to the camp, dragging his painful leg behind him. Each move an exhausting reminder of the break. He was careful of his route, each corpse surrounded by pools of vomit and excrement.
He saw one of them, sat in a camping chair. Made himself comfortable before dying, he thought. Then his heart sank as he realised he wasn’t dead. Wasn’t even slightly sick.
“You know what this is, boy” Dan asked, indicating the gun in his lap. He accentuated the word boy, menacingly, emphasising his power and control over his victim. “It’s what they used to call a shotgun. Not much use now. No ammunition. Besides, it wouldn’t be worth the risk. Just as likely to blow back in your face. But good for scaring old folk, like yourself.” He paused, reminiscing. “No, I’m gonna gut you like the vermin you are, for killing my people. An’ I’m gonna do it slowly, so that you feel every slice of the knife.
“I don’t drink, you see. Never have done. I saw the way it made my Dad behave and I saw the way it made everyone around me. I like to be in control. There’s no room for alcohol in my life.
“Good trick, mind you. I might use it myself. One last act of revenge, as your lights go out. Sweet.”
Walker was helpless and pointlessly trying to pull himself away from his aggressor. It was futile. So this was it. His luck had finally run out. Panic set in and he shivered, as fear overtook his mind and his body.
Dan stood up and almost instantly collapsed to his knees. Stood behind him, holding a smouldering club of firewood, stood a woman. No, a girl. In a torn white dress, barely a nightdress, with dishevelled, fiery red hair, glowing in the fire light. She was grinning. She hit him again, and he went down.
Walker fell unconscious again. The morphine had warn off.
Distracted by Walker’s belongings, his food, his whiskey and the joy of beating him up, they had all neglected to tie Fire back up again, after the trek through the woods.
Revenge
Keeping the firewood club to hand, she pulled Dan’s trousers around his ankles. That would hobble him, if he came around. She strapped his hands behind his back, then bound his ankles. She hog tied him, attaching his ankle ropes to his wrist ropes. Then she checked on the older guy. The one they had beaten. He was unconscious and had a broken leg. Satisfied that neither of them were a threat, she went to work on the others. Making sure they were dead and removing their nasty appendages. It was cathartic, to remove what they’d so often forced inside her.
She thought back to all the times they’d violated her. That motivated her revenge. Balancing the karma. It would take a while. It was important to take her time. Purifying.
She returned to Dan.
Healing
Walker slipped in and out of consciousness. He heard the guttural screams of an anguished animal, but didn’t know what was real and what was nightmare. He dreamt of a grown man crying and asking for forgiveness. He dreamt of someone begging for death.
When Walker finally regained consciousness, the girl was standing over him, club in hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked. She didn’t answer.
“I’m Walker. At least, that’s the name I gave myself after the world got angry. I think names have meaning, you see. Walker gives me purpose. It gets me up each morning and makes me feel accomplished at the end of each day…” he trailed off. He was rambling, desperate for some kind of connection.
Still, the girl said nothing.
“Thank you for saving my life,” Walker said, hoping that showing his appreciation would make her think twice about killing him.
Fire stood, thinking. On the one hand, he hadn’t done anything to her. Not like the others. And she felt a little bit sorry for him. And maybe they could work together, to survive. On the other hand he was a man, just like the others, and she was quite capable of surviving on her own.
Walker sighed. He wasn’t getting through to her. He resigned himself to his fate, “Gaia gives and Gaia takes. Gaia decides, for all our sakes.”
Tears welled in Fire’s eyes. It was just what her father used to say.
She walked away, leaving Walker wondering about his fate.
New Camp
Fire found another clearing, not too far away, but far enough from the carnage. She’d taken a hammock from the gang’s hoard. She tied it at waist height between two trees. She then tied a rope between the trees, above the hammock, draping a tarpaulin over the top. She pegged the windward side to the ground, creating a windshield, and used more rope to tie the other side to trees further out. Shelter from the wind and rain. She set a fire at the edge of the shelter. She’d light it later.
She returned to the other clearing and, approaching Walker, she said, “I’ll see you through the healing of that gammy leg, but if you can’t pull your weight after that, I’ll walk away.”
She paused, then clarified, “I’ll put you out of your misery, when the time comes, if you want me to.”
More honesty and humanity than the before times, he thought. “Thank you,” he said. He knew how close he’d come today.
Epilogue
There was an unfamiliar whistling coming from the trees, as Fire walked back to camp. She was carrying a brace of rabbits. She was good at snaring rabbits. She was good at surviving. She didn’t need anyone.
It had been about six weeks since she’d escaped the gang. She still had nightmares, but she’d slept well last night.
“Did you hear the birds?” Walker asked.
“The what? The beards?” she asked, bemused.
Walker smiled. He’d forgotten how young she was. “No. Birds,” he said, “Small animals that live in the trees and sing. It’s good to see them flying back again.”
“They fly!” she exclaimed, astounded. “Like the flies around shit?”
“Yeah, but they’re bigger.”
“Eeew! I can’t think of anything worse than giant flies.” She grimaced, looking up at the trees.
“What shall we do with these?” she asked, holding up the rabbits.
“We’ll dry cure the meat and stew the rest.”
“You’re not afraid of the smell attracting strangers again? I’d hate for you to be murdered.” She’d grown to enjoy his company. “Fearing death is fearing life,” he said.
“You can’t live like that.”
