The Hand and the Hatchet

Chapter 12

They wove through the warped trees, the low branches slapping at their faces and the shrubs and underbrush snatching at their boots. They made barely a whisper as they moved, and Bell kept Ant and Vang's locations in his mind. The
Buzzing projectiles flying towards them had slowed down, the initial frenzy dying after their pursuers failed to hit anything except trees. The gloom concealed them for the most part, but they knew that they weren't anywhere close to in the clear. The lights had fallen away somewhat, but they could still hear shouts and whistles. They broke into a clearing of sorts, the moonlight shimmering down onto them. Bell saw Ant at the far left part of it, and veered in that direction. He got within ten feet and said loudly enough for him to hear.

"I'm with you!" And waited for a response.

"I see you, mate" Ant replied, panting slightly.

Bell drew level with him and they ran side by side. Bell's breathing was fast and deep, and he was beginning to feel tired. As exceptionally conditioned as he was, he'd run more than two hundred metres across uneven ground, while being chased. Ant on the other hand, seemed like he was on a light jog.

"Let's pick it up mate, see if we can find Vang" Ant said, increasing his pace.

Bell inwardly groaned, and forced his speed up. They found Vang slightly ahead of them, and to the right. He must've ran with everything he had to escape, because when Bell looked at him, it was obvious he was nearing exhaustion. His breaths were sharp and fast, and spit was flying from his mouth with every shuddering heave of his chest. He pulled him along, half carrying him some of the time. They ran for what seemed like an age, but in reality Bell knew it was only a few minutes, until them came to a river. It was fast-flowing and wide, but not particularly deep, in fact it looked as if it wouldn't even come up to his knees. Although, Bell remembered, his dad had once told him that twelve inches of fast water was enough to sweep a man away. Ant went first, wading through easily and climbing up the sheer bank on the opposite side. He watched the trees behind them as Bell guided Vang through the water. The mud sucked at his feet, and reminded him of the river outside the old house. He wondered if it was the same river. Probably. He tried to banish the thoughts of the old house from his mind, but they stayed stubbornly at the forefront. When they reached the other side, he jumped up first, pulling Vang up after him. He stamped his feet to try and dispel the icy cold that had gripped them in the water. Ant spoke.

"We should cut left, follow the river. They'll expect us to keep running"

Bell nodded. Vang was slumping against him, his chest heaving. He gave an uncoordinated nod, and then went sharply left, the rivers gurgles covering them sound of their footfalls. It was the depths of night now, and Bell's feet were freezing, doused in water which he swore he could feel crystallising even as they walked. Ant had said something about going back to the estate, so Bell assumed they were headed in that direction. The trees were far less dense here, and the going was much easier, the ground more even. The lights that hounded them had dropped so far behind them that they were no longer visible, except for the barest hint of a glow between the woods on the opposite bank. Bell's thoughts led him to wishing he had a coat. Then he remembered the coat Jamie had stolen. The one he'd worn as he chased Bell from the only home he'd ever known since the apocalypse. He could feel his thoughts spiralling, and wondered, almost independently, if he should try and stop himself. But why should he? He deserved to spiral, and he deserved much worse. He'd laid in bed as his friends were slaughtered in their sleep. Even when he had woke, he turned tail and ran at the earliest opportunity. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that there was no way anyone would survive if they hadn't ran, but his illogical side didn't care for his reasoning. He could feel his body slowing down. His heart rate shot up, panic gripping him with icy tendrils. His blood stopped moving, coming to a sluggish stop in his veins. His joints dried and cracked, locking him in place from the waist up. His legs kept walking, dragging him onwards regardless. The sense of doom turned to dread in his stomach. His legs were jelly. One of his knees felt like it was going to fold if he put too much weight on it, and his skin crawled, as if some gruesome monster was breathing down his neck. He shuddered in revulsion. He looked straight down, and noticed the trail of blood on the rough mud. He looked up, and noticed Ant's hand clamped onto his arm. Blood was dripping from his fingers, not a huge amount but definitely not something that warranted no worries.