She Reaches Out

Chapter 4

Blake POV
20th July

*Today is going to be hard. I can tell as soon as my eyes feel heavy in the morning, as soon as I stay in bed for a little longer than I should. My bones feel heavy, my head is full of cotton and my limbs aren't doing what I tell them to.

*I throw on my jumper, shuffle to the cave and sit there for a while, waiting for something. Someone. Anyone.

Minutes, hours, decades later, I have no idea, I rouse myself to grab some coffee and feed the animals. I can shrug off fieldwork for today, I make allowances for the days I feel really shitty, and go to check the cams. That definitely isn't something I can shrug off. I couldn't forgive myself if something awful happened while I was gone. I drain my coffee, shovel some pasta into my mouth, and set off down the path. Groggily, I climb the ladder—I really need to move the surveillance room. I think I read a book once where this chick had everything—and I do mean EVERYTHING—on her phone, but I'm computer illiterate, so I'd have no idea how to set that up.

When I get there, I collapse into the chair, exhausted from the climb, and lean my head back as I click through the feed. Nothing much happening. The surrounding forest looks clear too, though I do catch glimpses of people a couple days off from the Village. One of them is a Black man, the other is a white woman, and they appear to be together. Oh God. When they get closer, if they don't turn around, I'll have to scare them away, or take them in. The Village isn't a good place to be in any minority, women, LGBTQ+, POCs, disabled, or even just the weak. I've seen far too much exploitation to let them bypass me and head into that hellhole. I'll wait until tomorrow for them to get closer, to give them a chance to turn around, but if they don't...

I make up my mind. I can't leave them there. I have to intercept them. I have to.

This newfound determination prompts me to start getting things ready. I have to decide how I'm going to play this. What reason would they have to believe me? How can I show them that I'm telling the truth and not hoarding goods for myself? They looked gaunt enough, hungry enough that they could steal the clothes off my back out of necessity, and I don't want to show off how well I'm doing before I decide if I can trust them or not. I'm relatively slim from training, gardening and a healthy diet, and my muscles are the kind that hide, thankfully. I dress down, in the kind of clothes that make sense to be dressed in, jeans, trainers and a hoodie. Not too different to how I normally dress, actually. Anyways.

I half fill a backpack with some raw supplies, some cans of things, empty cans to show I'm not leaving a trail, but nothing of particular value. I know I could take them if they attacked me, but I'd rather have a safety measure in place just in case. Some fire-starting equipment, a compact sleeping bag, and all I need is a plan. What's my story? Should I give them one? Better safe than sorry nowadays. People have jumped me for less than a faulty story. How do I reassure them I'm alone? Do I? Maybe I could come running up from the Village, pretend I'm running away, and warning them on the way past, yes, that could work...

Okay, I've got a plan. I'd better enact it before they get too close, before it becomes too difficult to 'escape'. Tomorrow, though. I have to keep calm and not go charging out to save them, making a ruckus and attracting all kinds of unwanted attention. That would be bad.

What I have to do now is distract myself. My stomach begins to knot. I know I won't be fully able to focus on anything, but I can try and keep calm. Overthinking won't do anything to solve the problem.

My purpose gets me up and striding out of the room to do some gardening. I climb down the ladder briskly, start pulling up weeds before promptly giving up. Not only can I not focus, the activity is doing nothing to work off my nervous energy, so I throw my hands up, striding out into the cave. I force myself to turn away from the weapons room. I know from experience how out of control I can get in this mood, and handling weapons at the same time? Never ends well. I had to learn that one the hard way. And I repeated my mistake afterwards. Not great.

I settle for hand-to-air combat, forcing my battle into rigid movements, defined techniques, avoiding sloppy punches, because, unproductive as they are, they also hurt. Move after move after move, the music ringing in my ears rising and swelling in crescendos, one after the other, my heart thumping erratically. The thought of not being able to save these people, of making a mistake and them having to pay the price with their lives is one I can't stomach. None of it could possibly be their faults.

My punches grow swifter, my heart thumps louder, and my anxiety shouts over the top of it all, what if? WHAT IF?

I collapse down onto the carpet, mentally and physically drained. I just-

A clunk overhead has me jumping in fright. I spring off the floor, suddenly energised, and rush outside to get a look at where the noise came from. The cave is taller than me, so I have to do some quick thinking to get up there. However, now that the anxious thoughts have been interrupted, my brain moves sluggishly. I can't think, can't properly focus on anything.

Okay, don't panic, no need for worry. I can stay calm. I can breathe some more. That's fine. Fine.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale-

Clunk.

With a roar of rage, I reach for the nearest moveable item, which just so happens to be a mixing bowl seized from the kitchen countertop, and hurl it, with all of my strength, up and over, in an attempt to squash whatever is on my roof.

I suppose it's a good thing that it was only a crow.

The sound of metal on stone clangs through the space, reverberating in my skull. I blow out a heavy breath, tired and frustrated. Then, all of a sudden, a giggle bubbles its way up my throat. I clap a hand over my mouth in shock. Next, a choked laugh filters through my fingers. Before I know it, I'm laughing hysterically, wiping tears from my eyes and chortling to myself, snorting-

When I realise that no one's here to hear it, or laugh along. That's the moment my happy tears turn into sad ones, and, having found myself on the floor, I reason that the only logical thing to do is to curl up into a ball and cry to my heart's content. Tears slither out without my consent. I close my eyes and let the loneliness wreak havoc on my body, the force of my sobs rocking me, my head banging into my knees uncontrollably, my teeth clanking awkwardly. No one's ever said crying was pretty. No one's ever been around to say it. The thought only makes me cry harder.

When I finally reopen my eyes, the sky is darker, and, considering it was about midday I started stressing, I'd consider that a pretty solid sad sesh. All the same, when I unfurl, I can't bring myself to do any more than slump back, spread-eagled on the ground, damp with my tears, same as my reddened cheeks. I can only imagine what I look like from above, starfish on the ground, splayed out for all the world to see, only the reason for my wet face is that no one will ever see.

Eventually, I peel myself up off the ground and dust off my back. My shoulders are slumped heavily for the walk back to the caravan, my soul weary.

I fall asleep too easily.