Ichor And Steel

Chapter Nineteen; Restless and Testy

ʀᴜɴ ʙᴏʏ ʀᴜɴ, ᴡᴏᴏᴅᴋɪᴅ

Chris was a crow; his dark coat bristled like a ruffle of feathers and took up a perch on the sandbags. He was watchful, awaiting their next swoop since their last, allegedly, positioned them in forsaken chaos. A team reaped by whatever laid in the clutches of the village's boundaries. Rose had been present, but in an armoured van huddled between crates of silver bullets and sacks. When Chris returned from scouting, it looked as though he had no face; he'd gone so pale, and the whites of his eyes had consumed his pupils and irises. Was this what he looked like frightened or was it the purest of fear?

Back in the camp—which had been moved a little into the valley—she was confined to a dome-tent. As a classified member of their team, she was privileged enough with her own room that even Chris, for once, didn't step foot in. She curled up beside a space heater, scanning Village of Shadows without a sign of worn-out interests, and sometimes tapped to a far-off beat on her plate; her phone, due to some sort of metal poles in the Earth or other science nonsense, couldn't pick up the right signal out here. It contributed further to her fidgets and the agitation compelled her to peer outside which is where she saw Chris, now like a bird silhouetted against the night.

Something that brewed week-long nudged at her conscious, to be bought into consideration and mulled on. She weighed up consequences and outcomes...she might've been biased but Rose thought she had the right opinion here: seven days and almost six nights of doing nothing and knowing nothing. She wanted to come out of the dark and find some light, feel the warmth of knowledge on her face. Her fingers gripped tighter to the tent's fabric entrance before she ripped away and scavenged around for her jacket. A week of contemplation gave way to many opportunities of hiding leftover bread rolls and chicken drumsticks in her cargo pants, and a few bars of sweets in the inner breast of her father's jacket. It was just water, a flashlight and a way out she needed.

On her first convoy there, she'd sketched the road since, already, she pondered her going back but wholly not on her lonesome. Rose envisioned Chris becoming rebellious and going behind whoever's back, again, for the greater good. He'd come wake her late and tell her to dress warm and their plight would be successful until plunging into the blackness of the valley. He would briefly become frustrated, but Rose would reveal to him her napkin, scribbles of a vague path etched onto it. Presently, to stand singly on the barren stretch of road, flashlight off until she reached the outer boundaries of humanity, became the first time Rose had felt afraid in Romania. But if Chris won't do this, I will.

Her beginning few steps on the embarkment meant her subconscious had willingly signed an invisible contract, declaring anything, meaning injury or death, would be pinned against her. So when she chose to foolishly vault a log not even five minutes beyond the guard, and sprained her ankle, that was her fault. And she'd never loved being held accountable before.

A particular thrill enlightened her senses, and the adrenaline heightened the awareness of what might lurk beneath the white carpet ahead. Rose was suddenly useful; an example of bravery; a primary to being solo. Walking with an increased pace through the night, flashlight pinched in her teeth when she needed to look at the map, ensuring she stopped every half-an-hour to replenish, she grew and became the expert adult; that's what she thought.

The eventual overpass, however, came too soon and her confidence seemed to liquify and slowly drip from her, like a pinnacle of ice under the sun. The village was nearing. Despite this achievement, Rose glanced over her shoulder, her hair of ivory making a gentle rustling sound on her parka, which beneath sat her father's jacket. Her face was pink and nose a vibrant red light, so cold, and fingers felt a little paralysed. Breath wisped and tangled in the air, pointing the way she had travelled from.

What a hike, I've done so well! She thought although she wanted to yell it. But Rosemary, you cannot go back now, you made somewhat a promise. Don't turn around.

She obeyed her mind and crossed through, an instant regret trembling through her spine when she didn't look at the ground. Without the support of Earth, she slipped on the sleek hill and veered feet-first into a creek. Winter's freeze jolted up her body and, abruptly, that poor ankle became worse.

Good one, Rose. You really stuffed it.

The smoky peaks of where once many dwelled under were just in reach but, without really encountering any danger, she'd successfully hit a dead-end. Rose had no choice but to collapse on all fours and wade through the creek's shallow waters, dampening her parka's arms and chest. She slithered to the opposite bank and quickly dusted off snow and icy debris, quietly exclaiming curses against the weather. Briefly, it crossed her mind that this didn't seem like the right place, even if a castle leered in the distance and, she thought, a factory to the West. Alas, her suspicion was denied when she saw the second armoured truck which had come down the same day as her. It was left abandoned since the vehicle could go nowhere without a driver and passengers. She shuffled to it, the snow shin deep after the afternoon dump, and ran a gloved hand over its hood, frowning at the scratch marks and little dops of crimson.

Then, at an accidental glance to her feet, she saw the streaks of clotty blood. Some sick sort of artistry dragged corpses like a paintbrush in a maze of patterns and the vilest of flies swarmed around an older body; a woman, brunette with a bun, and her vest had been obliterated by whatever tore open her chest. Rose failed to stifle a shriek and pinwheeled into a mound of red, bloody snow. It got caught in her hair, stained her chin and cheeks, and propelled her ambling legs in a dead-run to the centre of the old town square. But that was even worse; there were more, all pale faced like Chris yet just a bit...deader. The acrid stench, radiating in a visual steam of human organs and eyeballs strewn along the cobblestone.

Rose dry-retched, buckling to her knees and crashing to her side. She turned her flashlight off, not wanting to see even the dimmest image. In fear she was shutting down, Rose willed herself in a blind crawl away from the pile, fingers struggling to hold a grip until her feet found themselves and walked her to a house. It was empty but warmer...further from the monstrous nightmares that would plague her well into her elder years. Her composure returned quick, and she grounded herself by pinching her arms and giving herself big Chinese-burns; Chris had taught her this, as way of reminding yourself, your body, you are not in physical pain, only emotional stress. Her reality stilled in a non-nauseating image, and she allowed herself a few moments before rolling on to her knees and peering out an empty window-frame.

Over the tops of quivering knuckles, her big round eyes dilated at the sight of a bobbing lantern, held by a large coat with a flurry of hunched creatures swirling around him. He gruffly yelled at them, belting one in the stomach with a thick boot. It yelped but simmered into a snigger before conforming to what he told it.

Rose's lips parted in curiosity, and she leaned a little, tempted to flash her light at it. Instead, she sneezed, a straight, dead-give away. Six pairs of white eyes glared up through the dark and the man, who wore low-set glasses, looked too. Rose remained unmoving, scared a sudden movement would startle them. She tried not to breathe so they couldn't see it in the air, but a burning hyperventilation seared in her chest, and she gently punched it, warning her body.

Nothing happened. No one, no thing made the first nor last move. The man had saw her, she swear she met his eye, but, clearly, she was of no interest, and he bid her a subtle gesture of goodbye before waving and shouting, his hollers making his pets scamper.

"Shit," Rose hushed, crumpling into a ball. "Shitshitshitshit!"

This was foolish; idiotic. She could hear Chris now, leaning over her dead body, angry and grieving. Rose thought she was going to die and that was a possibility she never considered whilst on her calm journey here. She felt surrounded by those things and the only move she could make would be further into the village but that, she smartly agreed, would not happen until the far-off dawn.

What the fuck have you done, Rosemary?