The Cold Within Us: Chapter 2: Alone.

The Cold Within Us: Chapter 2: All Gone.

June 14th 2024.

     The boy runs and runs and runs along the ruined road. Worn boots fly across the cracked concrete that has been penetrated by green grass and flowers. A green backpack bounces on his back as he runs desperately away from the walled city behind him. It is a foggy night- he can barely see five feet in front of him; there is not a sound or sight in the mist to guide him. He is scared- lost in the darkness but he carries on running blindly; it's better than not going anywhere he thinks.

-

    Darkness. Then grey. Then the boy is once again visible. He is now on a larger road- a motorway, still running scared and tired. His knife hangs in it's sheath now webbed with dripping, red blood. Abandoned cars and possessions lie forgotten on the road, rusted and beaten by the elements. Hundreds upon hundreds of people's bodies lie barren and bare in the cars and on the cold ground- last thoughts of escape. Same as the Boy's thoughts.

    The boy slows to a slow jog and then to a dawdle as he gazes keenly in all directions. When he is satisfied that it is, more or less, safe he stops and kneels down to open his backpack. Moments later, he pulls out a blue book- a journal, and stares at it. A single tear falls from his hazel eyes: two, three, four. He tries to suppress it, but can't: he cries out in anguish- animal like- whilst pulling his knife out of the sheath. Screaming, he stabs the book repeatedly while more tears hit the rough ground. Again and again he brings down his simple knife. Cuts and slashes cover the page but that is not enough for the boy. He rips and tears at it with his hands, nails, teeth in pure, unadulterated rage. Pages upon pages of black ink storm out of the bindings and dance in the air towards the welcoming earth before. He wishes he could join them but he has better things to do now. Survive.

     He leaves the pages behind in a careless heap and walks on.

-

     Now he is running through a forest; signs of the coming spring fill the environment. Some time has passed. Flower begin to sneak their way through the cold soil while tiny leaves cover trees all around. The setting sun is masked by a thick layer of grey cloud swamping the skies. Shouts of men weave from tree to tree- angry, menacing shouts. He cannot see them but he can hear them.

     Suddenly, one of the men calls to his companions and, soon after, a bullet arcs it's way towards the boy. It finds it mark and the boy is thrown to the floor while a cloud of blood distorts the air. Raw pain fills his mind, consuming it. Desperately he drags himself under a large tree where the roots had left a small gap where he could crawl into. Pain emanates from his torso where he was hit and slithers of blood drip out of the wound steadily under his red, checked shirt.

     He can't do anything but wait under the tree and hope they don't find him. Once again he feels like crying. Unlike last time he stops them in their tracks. What is that going to do?

-

    The scene changes again. Once it reforms the same boy is present only older and with years in his eyes. He is walking through a small town, watching his surroundings wisely as crisp brown leaves drift down from fading trees. The bite of winter is coming; he can feel it only this time he is alone. He doesn't seem to care. Maybe he is actually more comfortable with it- or at least, prefers less contact.

    Suddenly, his eyes dart to the left at a small corner shop advertising a variety of non-existent goods. A woman and child both looking weak and exhausted burst through the door. Immediately the boy pulls out a long machete and holds it towards them. The women begins to cry and plead and the child stares confused at him. Brave or just confused why he is holding the weapon at them. Still, he has no quails in killing them if need be. People are dangerous. He would rather not though.

    A sickening screams echoes from inside the shop. The women begs the boy to help but the he is already dashing for cover behind a broken, white van . The women pleads and pleads desperately at him but the boy fazes them out. He can hear the door once again being opened behind the van. The women waited too long.

    Stupid.

    The Women cries out a name- a man's name; the child begins to cry; singing a chorus of screams. Impact. A large crunching noise. The thing has killed the Women. He imagines the bloody mess covering the ground like all the other times he has seen the monsters handiwork.

     Now: A desperate patter of tiny feet. A cackle and a crunch. A smaller body falls to the ground. A triumphant, sickening scream pierces the air.

     The boy just hides behind the van not making a sound. It's best not to care. Cover it up and it won't hurt you.

-

     Snow falls gently over the quiet land smothering everything in a cool blanket. Perfect weather for a snowman- perhaps a snowball fight, but there is no one left here to do so. The only sound in the village is a ghostly wind filtering it's way through the village. Veins of snow balance themselves upon naked tree branches while huge slabs cover the slate roofs. The church sits as the centrepiece of the town with a grand bell tower standing proud above even that. You would think that, being a church, it would be safe from looters but instead the decorative stained glass windows are broken in numerous places and the brickwork is cracked and eroded. What does the tower have to be proud of?

     The boy loves the snow despite it's cruel persona. He loves how it made everything all quiet and peaceful and made what should have been harrowing, beautiful. He was always a fan of this stuff. Back in the day he would have brought out his camera he got from-

     A flash from the tower and an almighty crack. A bullet sinks into the snow mere inches from the boy. The sound of a man cursing. He hears the sound of a bolt being pulled back from the same place: the bell tower. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He disciplines himself for letting his guard down. He could have easily seen the attacker, whoever he or she is, if hadn't been distracted.

     He dashes for cover behind the nearest wall to the door to the church. He eases out a handgun from the holster at his waist and pulls back the slide on it. It gives a satisfying click. The boy eases his way to the door as quietly as he can; now all he can hear is the taunting wind beating the snow around, the rhythm of the drums in his head and the clear snow crunching under his heavy boots. He eases the church door open but it still lets out a low groan.

    Slivers of light seeps into the church through the door and scattered remnants of the windows. It is dark in here without it. The air smells mouldy and musky like damp clothes left for too long. He slowly makes his way down the aisle, his hands twitching as he grips the gun tight, passing pew after pew where villagers used to pray at and where children performed nativities. He always hated taking part in them.

     He ascends the stone steps at the back of the church slowly but steadily. His boots make a light dull sound every time the boot makes contact with the steps like a clock ticking away eternally.

     The steps cease and reveals another door at the very pinnacle of the bell tower and without hesitation the boy dashes through it. The centrepiece of the room is a single, brass bell. The walls of the tower are open exposing it to the harsh snow. A man kneels cradling a hunting rifle with an expression of surprise stuck on his face. The boy shoots once- twice- at the man's chest with the handgun without hesitation. The man with greying hair seizes up and drops the gun. He sighs disappointedly and collapses against the wall.

     Heavy boots move closer to the dying man. He notices and curiously lifts his head up and weakly gesturing at the boy with a hand endowed with a gold ring. Three. The third shot and the man finally fades. Blood splatters the brickwork and lightly dances across the bell. Sighing, the boy picked up the rifle now laying orphaned on the ground and stared at the man.

    The boy rang the bell; he was always a fan of dramatics. A ensemble of animalistic screams echoed from numerous houses in the village.

     He immediately regretted the tribute. Time to leave, and he ran out into the long dark cold once again alone.