Hawk's eye - Chapter Two (Working title) Scrapped

4/4/2014

This chapter has been scrapped, and the only reason I have left it up is to compare it to the re-written version.

CHAPTER TWO:

And these crimson nights will blind you.

Hawk woke up to the sound of screaming.

He blinked several times, trying to clear the bleariness from his vision. Straightening up, he noticed immediately how the lights were flickering on and off, like some kind of horror-movie being played before his very eyes. All the passengers were definitely up now, wide-eyed and pallid, with starched, gray faces. People were pointing to the front of the bus; half of them were on their feet, pushing and shoving and falling over each other in their haste to see what was going on. Hawk wondered if the bus had stopped, or perhaps it had broken down. But, no, the floor was still shaking, the windows rattling – it was obvious that they were still on the move.

What the heck is going on? thought Hawk. Maybe someone had been taken ill. If so, that would explain the crowd. But as he got to his feet, stretching wearily, he saw something that made his jaw drop open. He couldn't tell how long he stood there, simply gaping at the scene, but it felt like millennia could have passed and his feet would have refused to carry him away. It was just so grotesque, so terribly awful...

And it was real. Hawk realized with a sudden jolt that reality was crueler than she seemed, and he hadn’t even seen anything of the real world yet. His throat seemed to have been filled with corrugated paper, so he couldn't speak. His brain felt numb, as though it was beyond his nervous capacity to decipher the scene laid out before him. The sparks within his eyes were changing shape swiftly, reflecting his perturbed state of mind.

As he drew his breath in sharply, he thought of what an ignoramus he had always been. He had always thought of blood as a ketchup-red substance, flowing on the ground in narrow rivulets; the cheap kind of thing used in films and school-plays. But as he took in the sight of the dead man lying spread-eagled on the metallic floor, one of life’s many truths struck him good and hard.

Blood was crimson. And it was everywhere. On the windows, on the floor, even on the seats clamped so firmly to the metallic ground. It just didn't belong: an oh-so-natural yet gripping reality within the artificial bus interior. It felt wrong.

No. It was wrong. Hawk gritted his teeth, frowning deeply. He needed to know what had happened, but he couldn't risk asking anyone without drawing attention to himself. Everyone was jumpy, more aware of their surroundings than usual, as though frightened of what secrets the shadows honed. Hawk squeezed his way into the crowd, watching the mothers cradle their children in their arms; feeble attempts to shield them from the sight of blood. A little girl’s high-pitched voice broke through the low rumble of voices, as she asked, ‘Mummy, what’s going on?’

Hawk could see the fear flickering on the woman’s face as she replied soothingly, ‘Nothing, dear. It’s ... nothing. Just go to sleep, darling.’

It was strange, how parents lied to protect their young; with their tongues, their voices and the safe refuge of their arms. But their eyes could not lie, and Hawk knew as much. A strange shiver slithered down his spine and he drew his hood even lower, out of sheer impulse. He had the strange feeling that he was being watched, but then scolded himself internally for his paranoia.

Stop being an idiot, he told himself, as he pushed through the passengers standing in tightly-knit circles. Everyone was so distracted, he didn’t even have to try to be inconspicuous. Hands in his pockets, he leaned against one of the seats in an attempt to eavesdrop on a couple of men who were arguing with each other. There was no need to have moved closer, really. While the atmosphere in the bus was pensive and hushed, the men were talking rather loudly. The tension hanging between them was palpable – so thick you could cut through it with a Swiss army knife.

‘It wusen’t a heart attack, I tell you!’ the first man said, who was also the taller of the two, ‘He’s been stabbed – clean through the gut. There are marks on his neck that suggest he was first taken down; unconscious. It’s murder, tha’s what it is.’

‘I never said it was a heart attack.’ huffed the other man, whom on closer inspection Hawk recognized as the paunchy man from the seat beside his, ‘If you look closer, you can see that it was the spleen that ruptured, almost as though there had been an – an explosion inside his body. Notice the blood splattered on the windows? Or maybe you just thought it was the paintwork.’

His voice was dripping with sarcasm, and he spoke condescendingly to the taller man. His stance was erect, and a sneer was unfolding over his broad features. He was a man who knew exactly what he was talking about, and – no matter how crazy he sounded – he also knew he was right.

He was also succeeding in making his grumpy-looking companion very angry.

‘Now look ‘ere, you,’ the man said, ‘you’re a walking nut-case! That’s plain illogical, tha’ is. He’s a man, not a time bomb! Can’t explain that theory, now, can you, Doc? Can you?’
He was smirking, but his grin faded to a grimace as “Doc’s” smile grew ever wider. His eyes gleamed in a way that was almost cat-like, and he said something in such a low voice that Hawk had to strain his ears to listen. Even then the only vaguely audible words he heard were: ‘Rah-vocala’ and ‘Stahnata.’ And neither of them made the slightest bit of sense.

The taller man suddenly backed away, muttering something that sounded like, ‘Yer right.’ He walked over to the front of the bus and sat down. Hawk caught a glimpse of his face and was surprised to see the lack of emotion; just a blank expression that had latched firmly to his face. But his eyes were wide and scared. What had Mister Paunch (alias “Doc”) done to have frightened him so?

Hawk scrunched up his eyebrows. He suddenly knew, instinctively, that this bus was unsafe. Not just for the other passengers, but for him. It was one of those gut-feelings, the kind of feeling you get when you know you’re right – even if you can’t explain it. He needed to get off. Now.

But how?

Hawk felt a sudden tap on his shoulder, and his muscles tensed. He had been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed Paunch sidle up next to him. He looked at the tiny man disconcertedly, but wasn't surprised to find the latter looking calm and serene. What did surprise him, though, was the unmistakable incredulity hoisted over his features.

‘What are you doing here, boy?’ he hissed at Hawk, ‘How on earth could Xia have let you out of his sight?’

Hawk opened his mouth to respond, to tell Paunch that he didn't know what he was talking about, but found himself unable to say a word. He had never heard the name in his entire life, and yet it seemed familiar somehow...

‘Well?’ Paunch demanded, glaring at him openly, ‘Do you intend to tell me in this century? Or perhaps we should catch a bus that’ll shift us a hundred years into the future. I’m sure there’s one like that in Colorado, but wouldn't that just be a waste of our time?’

Hawk’s mind was in a whirl. This man was crazy; what he was talking about couldn't be real. But that meant that he must be crazy too, being what he was. He realized how stupid he must look, gaping at the man, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy. He shook his head violently in response to Paunch’s question, and before he could interrogate him further, he repeated what he had said to Ann Bobby earlier that day.

‘I have to go.’

He pushed past the man roughly, but Paunch was too quick for him; gripping his arm firmly, he said, ‘You may go. But remember where your home lies. Hjem elementární.’ Then he let go. Hawk stared at him for a second, confused, and then turned away quickly, taking long strides until he reached the slide-open door. He turned the handle and leaned out of the open door. The wind whipped his face, like icy hands striking him forcefully and telling him that this was a stupid thing to do. He drank in the nightscape: the wild overgrown shrubbery, the wind hissing as it passed by. Tall, gnarled trees stood by the road like gargoyles; hunchbacked soldiers guarding a rock-and-gravel fortress.

The night is an intimidating thing, Hawk thought grimly.

He could barely see the tarmac of the road; it was dark, and there were barely any streetlights in this part of the highway. But he knew there was danger both ways, and there was more to this strange bus-ride than he was aware of. It was dangerous, and he was afraid of what would happen if he stayed. He thought of the dead man, and the fire seared through him again. This was a chance he would have to take. He bent his knees, in the stance of a swimmer who is about to dive. He ignored the driver’s yells (‘What the hell do ya think yer doing?!’) and the frantic calls of his fellow passengers; (‘Are you crazy?!’ ‘I think he’s drunk!’ ‘Mummy! What’s the man doing?’) plunging himself recklessly into the looming fortress of the night.

Or rather, someone else doing it for him; a slight push that pushed him off edge and into the blazing darkness.

For a split second before he hit the pavement, everything seemed to stop. His breath had hitched so he could feel the frostbitten air flooding his lungs; his heart was beating at a hundred miles an hour. He caught sight of a pair of steel-gray eyes; and Paunch nodding at him – briefly – as he was enveloped by the many layers of the night.

And Hawk wondered dimly what it would feel like to die.