Blackbirds

Vows, Ch. 7

Xander limped out of the shelter, the back of his throat swamped with the lukewarm, bitter taste of sick. He shouldn't have had to see that. He was the youngest Blackbird, a child.

His olive skin emanated a sense of innocence, paradoxical to the primitive and brutal world around him. His greasy, cinnamon hair draped to his shoulders and sizeable boils and moles were scattered across his body, like an artist negligently staining a canvas with paint.

He was also timid in both his manner and his speech, similar to a frightened lightbulb only illuminating the shallow corners of a room. He had good reason for his shy and reclusive behaviour, however.

Xander was originally from a different farm, about twenty miles to the east, right next to the coast. It was a farm that didn't kill others. A farm that was content with the inevitable extinction of human beings. A farm that enjoyed the arrival of each unripe day.

It was led by his father, Marcus. There were eleven of them – a few families and a few individuals. They all had pleasant personalities and took refuge in a gaping cave, which resembled a yawning mouth with serrated teeth like a witch doctor's necklace. They'd sharpen their spears as the contaminated tide seeped up the curdled beach each night.

They had also conjured a sustainable method of living. They fished anything that could swim in the oily, glutinous sea, and drank anything that was even remotely transparent. They didn't hunt farms, and they had never been hunted by others. Until Jesse's farm found them.

At the time, it was Andrew's farm. They were so well drilled, so prepared. They'd done their homework. They'd strategically, yet discretely, camped about a hundred yards inland, on craggy, higher ground. They had monitored Marcus' farm and frequently conducted patrols, remaining muted and hidden but still extracting all the information they required.

They knew everyone's names. They knew all the possible escape routes. They even knew the time of day when Marcus' farm would be vulnerable and susceptible to an onslaught. They'd identified a chink in the armour, and my god, they knew how to exploit it. They'd been patient, like opportunistic stock investors, probing for the right moment.

They executed their plan on a morning that couldn't quite blossom, when even the gelled beach was glossed with tiles of ice. There would be no fishing today, which Andrew knew. In fact, Marcus' farm wouldn't leave their cave on a day like this, which Andrew also knew. Marcus, Xander, and the others, sat in a circle formation around a temperamental fire, like fascinated moths. Marcus had retained a lighter from before The Coda, which miraculously still functioned. His quest for cigarettes, however, had been less fruitful.

The circle formation gave them close proximity to both the fire and each other, with comforting arrows of heat skimming their skin. But it also made them a bulky, inviting target. One wave, one structured assault, would be enough to take out eleven Blackbirds. And so, it began.

Unanticipatedly, Evan materialised at the opening of the gelid cave, equipped with a bow and set of arrows. One. Two. Three. Three arrows fired. Three targets found. Three lives taken.

Tim and Lawrence marched in next, clutching spears with honed arrowheads of flint. One. Two. Two spears thrown. Two hearts pierced. Two more lives discontinued.

Kai then joined the offensive, wielding a short club that had minute, iron studs forged into it. Grasping the club, he danced around the circle with such grace – a far cry from what was about to happen next. One. Two. Three. Four. Four cruel swings. Four bludgeoned skulls. Four more corpses, deflated of life.

Two remained. Marcus and Xander hadn't even had the time to pour air into their lungs because of the efficiency of the attack. Marcus just embraced Xander, his parental instincts activating. A concoction of fear and confusion had been brewed as a result of the slaughtering.

"I know what you're thinking." A silky voice with an Irish undertone effortlessly filled the cave. It was Andrew, who revealed himself and stepped out from behind Evan. "Why? Well, because these boys very much want to be on-board a Hauler."

Andrew was an old man: he hadn't aged well and it was evident that he was in the closing stages of his life. Despite his feeble physical condition, he naturally had an authoritative demeanour. Steampunk glasses rested on his considerable sized ears and his metallic grey hair was perfectly parted.

"Haulers? You really believe that story?" Marcus questioned. "It's nothing but a tale, a piece of magnificent fiction. No one's coming for us."

"Lies!" Andrew roared. "We've seen some. Only a few, but they exist. They've not given up on us." Andrew strolled up to Marcus, dropped to his knees and then yanked his draping, soot black beard. Marcus released a high-pitched shriek. Andrew, in return, couldn't resist a smile, displaying his yellow stained teeth.

"How can you be so sure?" Marcus probed, almost frowning in disapproval.

"I just..." Andrew stalled. "I just know."

"And what about you?" Marcus' defiant performance continued, whilst Xander's breathing became less rhythmic and more panicked. "You're just an old man. There's no chance that you can join them."

"Oh no," Andrew dismissed the idea. "You're right – I'm an old man. They'd have no use for me up there. I've had my chance."

"Your chance?" Marcus interrogated, his face in such close proximity to Andrew's that their noses could almost have scraped.

"Yes... at life," Andrew answered, seemingly unnerved. "And for my men, being a Blackbird is not living, Marcus." He chattered his teeth, and then brought the conversation to a sudden conclusion. "Lawrence, grab the kid. Xander, I think it is, yes?"

"No!" Marcus howled. "Don't you dare touch him!" The words were raw, as if they had been manufactured in the depths of Marcus' soul.

Andrew brought his chapped lips close to Marcus' left ear, and began to whisper. As he fed Marcus' ear with words, Marcus' eyeballs began to swell with shock.

And it was at this point that Andrew pulled a tarnished pen knife from his rear trouser pocket, and sliced Marcus' throat open.

That's why this time around, Xander was perhaps less traumatised – because he had seen it all before.

Jesse had mirrored Andrew's actions of a few years ago: except the victim was a woman to whom Andrew had once proclaimed his vows.

And so, Jesse had decided to slit Martha's neck, and watch the blood drip from the opening like a saturated sunset.