Blackbirds

The Chase, Ch. 18

Tim walked. And walked. And walked. It was a thoughtless walk, a walk derived from an innate knowledge of how to do so - just one foot in front of the other. His eyes were growing tedious of the, by now, well-accustomed view. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

Whilst Tim commanded his body to relentlessly stride forward, his thoughts were engaged elsewhere. Flashes to Jesse's farm tormented him.

Tim believed that they were naïve and foolish to discard of him - he embraced being a Blackbird. Privately, however, Tim had harboured concerns as to his own conduct.

In order to attract the Haulers, he was willing to extend to barbaric ends: it was this that had been tunnelling into his mind. If chosen, he would have to succumb to civilised behaviours. To detach himself from the sadistic pleasure gained when killing others was a troublesome proposition. Tim had been choked by a primitive stranglehold. It wasn't the Haulers that enticed Tim: it was the chase.

Distracted by his thoughts, Tim almost failed to detect the chatter and mumbling to his right. There, about ten meagre metres away, was a farm. How had he not seen it? How had they not seen him? It would be night soon, and the glacial winds would brutally bludgeon him. Shelter, at this farm, would be his most probable option for survival.

Tim, hunched as to avoid detection, stalked towards the closest of the six buildings, and backed up against its rear. He then crept sideways, his palm flat against the wall, until his fingers reached out past the wall at the apex.

Steering his head around the corner, he observed a tree, with a lanky, skeletal trunk and broad branches. Within range of the tree were several Blackbirds - a handful of thick-set men and a sole woman, with champagne hair and her back to him. This farm had numbers. There were possibly more inside, and perhaps they even had weapons at their disposal.

Unarmed, not even Tim could take out that many Blackbirds. At most, his bare hands could scrape a few eyeballs out of eye sockets, and robustly dislodge a few skulls from spines. In an unusual and uncharacteristic tactic, he would have to employ a charm-offensive.

Tim stepped out. "Hi!" He exclaimed, his voice knitted with innocence.

The three sturdy men swivelled, their eyelids lifted in panic. The woman rotated next, and Tim took note of both her pale, coffee freckles and, more importantly, the very young baby at home in her arms.

"Who the hell are you?" One of the men asked.

"What are you doing here?" Another questioned.

"I was just walking past," Tim unconvincingly answered, his lazy left eye flitting between the individuals. "I need somewhere to stay for the night." His friendliness now seemed artificial. The third man then spoke up.

"Sarah, what do you want us to do?"

The woman, who Tim had discovered was called Sarah, pouted, arched one of her skinny eyebrows, and traced her tongue along her pearly, perfectly-arranged teeth.

"Send him to sleep, Grant." She ordered.

And with that, Grant, the third man to speak, marched towards Tim and delivered a crushing uppercut, sending Tim into a world of blackness and rendering him unconscious.