Ashley had run, and run, and run some more. He'd run so far, breaking in and stealing food, fighting with dogs for scraps, washing and drinking from rivers. He was sure he looked feral. He'd taken a nice knife from a dead body, as well as a coat. He still needed to find some proper footwear. He was always hungry, the keen stomach cramps always keeping his vision sharp and his hunters instinct on point. He'd tried to bandage the burn from when the man had hit him on the arm with the burning piece of wood, but the material had fused with the burn, making a disgusting coloured patch of flesh that hurt to touch. He scavenged for food and drink, often sleeping in sheds and sometimes in doorways if he absolutely had to. He began to see less and less people as time went on, snuffed out by each other or who-knew-what. He lost track of time, he had no idea how old he was anymore, or what month it was. Even the year began as vague and ended as impossible to determine. He'd been hunted himself a few times, and had to learn to escape and evade. He'd taken on a kind of mantle, Ashley being too weak to cope in this world. He'd shorn his hair short with a broken piece of mirror, and pretended he was somebody else. And he'd gathered quite the collection of scars. He'd realised that you could learn a lot from someone by their scars, each one was a story. From falling off of your bike, to spilling acid on yourself, to a fight to the death. He had a scars now. You couldn't see them all, but just underneath the surface lay the silk fabric of pain.
YOU ARE READING
The Hand and the Hatchet
ActionA survivor known only as Bell is betrayed, and fights his way across post-apocalyptic England to take his revenge, fighting not only rivals and bandits, but his own demons.
