Young Writers Society

Bang.

Tree after tree passed me as I ran deeper and deeper into the forest. I knew the sound that echoed around all too well – a gun had been fired. Something inside me screamed in agony, and I near collapsed then and there. My feet, however, kept thudding against the ground and carried me deeper into the forest.

There, I thought, that one is perfect. Not too far ahead from me stood a tall Sitka spruce tree, its branches low and easy for climbing if they were strong and thick enough. I would have preferred to find an oak tree, but the Sitka worked too.

Each branch I grabbed onto bent under my weight, but after some fussing and tugging, I managed to get a good ten or so feet high in the tree, huffing and puffing as I leaned against the middle of the trunk. Pain stung my wrist and I glanced down to see a branch had scratched it, the skin torn and a few beads of blood smeared across my skin

“Crap,” I muttered, wiping it against my shirt. I looked down at my black leggings, but there was nothing I could see wrong with them. No tears, no holes, just a bunch of spruce needles sticking out and agitating my skin.

Settling down on the branch and working towards picking the small needles out, I tried to think of what I was doing up in a tree in the middle of the forest. Had my parents scheduled a training session and not warned me? They didn’t often spring surprise sessions, and Mum was not the best at acting… She had seemed far too scared for her usual drill-days. No, there was something wrong, and I yearned to head back home and find out if I could help, but remembering the petrified look in my mother’s eyes kept me rooted to the spot. Something had been wrong, but what?

The hours that followed were full of impatience and more thoughts than I cared for. What if I never heard my father whistle his little tune again, or never listen to Mum’s songs as she hugged me? Or the stories, would I never hear my parents tell me about the novels they used to read? Would I never see them again?

I had been ready to run home long before nightfall, but I was stopped first by the sound of someone screaming – deep and heartbreaking. I climbed a little lower in the tree, but I did not try to leave again. I was stuck writhing in worry, waiting and hoping that the heartache I felt was not the loss of my loved ones, but just the pointless terrors I was subjecting myself to.

Another few hours, I was antsy, desperate to write off my thoughts as foolish fears by finding my parents. I didn’t care if I failed the test – I just wanted to be sure they were alive. I inched further down the tree when I caught sight of a man skulking through the woods, clutching a gun in his hand. His voice, scratchy and low, traveled to me but his words were incomprehensible. He was muttering about something, but what I did not know, and I was glad not to. I wasn’t interested in the ravings of some mad man – I was interested in knowing my mother and father were okay.

By the time nightfall came and the cold nip in the air had me shivering and curled up, flexing my fingers to keep them functioning, I had been crawled on by more bugs than I had ever needed to see. A large green caterpillar had squirmed its way up my arm, an ant tickled its way across my ankle and a jumping spider leaped on my face, scurrying away and onto the tree. After that, I couldn’t take it any longer and fled the tree. Bugs were one thing, but when spiders crawled in my hair, I’d had enough. I could still feel them minutes later, my skin tingling where they had crawled.

Sweet freedom, I thought as I pushed free of the pines and shook the needles out of my hair, running my fingers through it to make sure I had removed the little green needles. Black strands of hair and pine needles stuck to my hand, and by the time I was done I felt like I had pulled enough loose hair to make a wig and enough needles to make an, albeit uncomfortable, blanket.

I pushed away from the tree then, catching a strange scent drifting on the wind. There was something familiar to the scent, reminding me of my childhood and all of the traveling we had done. Burning wood – was there a fire? Had they set up a campfire as a reward for passing my test? Perhaps Dad had gone into the town to trade for some special treats, if the trader had any?

That’s got to be it; why else would there be a fire out here? I burst into a sprint, the idea of some sweets and the comfort that could only be provided by finding my parents alive and well keeping me going at a fast pace. Otherwise, I would have been walking, my body aching from being in almost the same position for some five hours.

As my house came into sight, I noticed the smell had grown ever stronger. In fact, it was quite a significant difference from the Sitka tree to where I had run to. There was something off about the smell, however – there was something else, not just burning wood, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what the source was. Whatever it was, it was a foul odor. My gut told me to run, but I needed to investigate, I needed to be sure my parents were alright. They had to be, I couldn’t handle life without them.

Walking past the last few trees that separated me from the view of my house, the smell began to burn my nostrils. Whatever was burning, it wasn’t letting off the aroma of firewood. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I stared at the back door of the house, which was cracked open just enough to illuminate a sliver of the kitchen. From where I stood, everything appeared normal – but I could only see a small corner, so what did I know?

“To my room,” I breathed, whispering to myself, “and leave.” I had to follow orders; Mum could still be testing me, after all. Lifting my right leg, I pushed open the back door with my foot. The kitchen was normal, illuminated by the moonlight and nothing else – it looked like it hadn’t been touched since my departure. Had Mum and Dad not bothered to make dinner?

At the thought of dinner, my stomach rumbled and I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous day, and even then I hadn’t eaten much – I’d been feeling ill. I would deal with my hunger later, once I finished the test.

I began down the hallway, suppressing the urge to gag as the smell became almost intolerable. It was horrid and my appetite was ruined right then – I had to press my hands against my mouth to keep from vomiting.

I stared at the walls then and swallowed back a scream at the sight that greeted me, my back slamming against part of the archway leading into the kitchen as I stumbled backwards, losing my balance.

Blood was everywhere in the hallway – handprints smeared across the pictures, frames that had been hanging there since long before we’d taken residence, were smashed and covered in crimson. Inside, I tried to think of what other substance the smeared handprints could be, but there was no doubting it – it was blood, and lots of it.

“Mum,” I called out, unable to keep my voice from shaking. I was terrified. Where were they? That couldn’t be their blood; it had to belong to someone else. Maybe they had been attacked by someone who was infected? That had to be it; it was the blood of some infected man.

“Mummy,” I called again, fear obvious in my tone, but no answer came, not that I was surprised. Instead I inhaled a deep breath, cringing at the horrid scent, trying to keep my breathing steady as I wracked my brain for some kind of rational explanation that didn’t involve my parents being hurt or worse, but nothing came to mind. They weren’t dead, though, they couldn’t be dead.

Living in a bungalow had its advantages. All the rooms were on one floor, and so my parents’ room was not far from where I stood. I tried to keep my gaze on the door leading to their room, but my attempt wasn’t working. I kept glancing at the wreckage of my home, the place I had lived for six years – the only permanent place we had ever stayed in, as the years before had consisted of running and living out of a tent.

I hesitated outside of my parent’s room, debating on entering, and decided better on it. I would do as ordered and go straight to my room; I had to do what they said. Perhaps it was all just an act, part of a strange test that they had devised to see how I would react if anything did happen to them. Yes, that had to be it – that was the best explanation I could think of. Maybe the blood was animal blood.

I trekked down the rest of the hall and entered my room, which was untouched and remained as it had been when I had been in it hours before, save for a few misplaced items and knocked over objects.

I must have moved my stuff, or Mum did to make this a bit of a challenge, I thought, shrugging. I reached under my bed and grabbed my red duffel bag, throwing the bow and quiver on my bed and grabbed a few outfits from my closet, my winter jacket, and a few of the ‘emergency only’ food we had stored in the top of my closet – a few water bottles and preserved non-perishables that would last a very long time. I tied a rolled up stretch of foam to the top, figuring I would use it for a bed if worse came to worse and I had no place to sleep. I packed a blanket, too.

“There we go,” I said, throwing the last bit of stuff into the bag and zipping it up. Why haven’t they come to tell me I’m finished the test yet? They must have fallen asleep… I’ll go wake them up, then I won’t get in trouble for going to sleep in the middle of a test.

I left my room and shuffled across the hall, hoping they were in their room and not hiding out elsewhere. I pushed open my parents’ door, and at first glance all was normal. Their bed was neat enough; Mum hadn’t gotten around to making it that morning. She rarely did on the days Dad went into town. I wished it had stayed normal like that, but when I looked to the right, there was a sight that would forever be burned into my brain, a sight I would never be able to put into words just how horrific of a view it was and I hoped I would never have to.

Lying propped up against the wall, which appeared to be stained black in a gradient pattern, was a corpse – chunks of its skin were charred black and a dark shade of crimson, the clothes it had once worn no longer existing; various sized holes covered its legs. Its face, however, was left almost untouched, except for a few blisters formed from the heat – its jaw remained open in what seemed to be a permanent, horrified howl of pain.

“Daddy,” I gasped, sinking to the ground. I cupped my hands over my mouth, unable to tear my gaze from the scorched body that had once been my father. It wasn’t him anymore, only the face was his – the rest was claimed by fire.

“Arin,” croaked a small, soft voice from behind me, and I turned on my heels, slow and hesitant to see the being that had just spoken my name in such a hoarse, broken voice.

“Oh my God,” I cried, falling backwards as I saw who had spoken. My mother there was no mistaking the auburn hair – what hadn’t been torn from her head – which she’d always been so fond of. Her face was swollen to about four times its normal size, large purple lumps dotting her face. I could just make out the glint of her eyes in the moonlight, her lips puffed out to the point where I was astonished that she had even been able to say my name. The rest of her body, as she bore only her underwear, was covered in blood and burns. They had been tortured and my mother had lost so much blood… It was everywhere…

“Just tell me what to do, Mummy, please. What can I do to fix you? Where are the first-aid kits?” I said, looking around for paper. I could get her to write it, that would be easier and I figured a lot less painful, what with the way her lips were, as well as the purple finger marks around her neck.

“Arin, go. Leave.” Her voice was so weak; it was hard to make out what she was saying at first.

“I can’t, I have to help you!” I protested. I couldn’t just leave her. I continued searching, tearing open her bedside table and rummaging through the drawer.

“Go, please.” She lifted a hand, pointing to her stomach. I glanced down at her stomach and noticed it - a small hole, a bullet wound – with its location; it may very well have pierced right into her stomach.

“Mummy…” I mouthed, unable to make a sound as I stared at the wound, crawling towards her. She reached out her right hand; movements slow as she began to run it along my cheek.

“My baby, my precious baby,” she sighed, trailing her fingers down my arm. As she came to my hand, I latched onto her hand, holding it tight in my grasp. I didn’t want to let go – I couldn’t.

“Love you, baby girl.” She closed her eyes and squeezed my hand. “Promise you’ll fight to keep going after we leave, okay baby?

“Forever,” I said as I squeezed her hand back. She made no movement after that, the only sound in the room was her ragged breathing. I swallowed hard, trying to keep myself from bursting into tears once more. “I promise, Mummy.”

We sat in silence and I watched her, unable to let go of her hand as her shoulders stopped rising and the sound of her shaky, harsh breathing came to a sudden halt. Her arms slumped; the only thing keeping her right hand up was me, holding it tight in my own hands.

“Mum,” I murmured, tears burning in my eyes. “Mummy, please…” I knew it was hopeless, but the ache in my chest was almost unbearable. I couldn’t hold back the tears and I leaned forwards, curling up into the fetal position and holding her hand tight to my chest, pressed against her bloodied, beaten body. I didn’t care how dirty I got, how much of her blood I would be washing from my hair – I just wanted to be with her, I just wanted her alive.

“It’s all my fault.”

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