Blackbirds

Tides, Ch. 23

Jesse attempted to reverse, planting a foot backwards. Realising that this was ineptly swift, however, he swivelled and sprinted towards the doorway to the shelter. He never even made it.

A pack of men converged on him: one rained a blunt blow to his head, one writhed an arm round Jesse's left leg, whilst one collided with Jesse's midriff to devastating effect, like an HGV lorry sweeping aside a cosy, unexpecting four-door vehicle.

Pinned against the ground, with the remains of his left ear scuffed against the gritty dirt, Jesse felt like a thin sheet of pastry, being flattened by a dense, wooden rolling pin. With his major organs now two-dimensional and paper-like, Jesse acknowledged that his survival was finite.

A further herd of men galloped into the shelter, their strides large with enthusiasm, and their cries charged with excitement. Succeeding these cries were groans of exertion; Jesse's farm was fighting back.

These groans were not to be prematurely celebrated, however – the resistance proved to be short-lived. The unmistakable sounds of bones snapping rushed into the air: one was a crisp, wafer-like sound, whilst another was a sharp crack. Inevitably, hallowing shrieks followed.

As Jesse was hauled to his feet, with foreign arms coiled round each of his, his farm was paraded from the shelter. Each Blackbird, each member, could barely complete their gravelly gasps. Their bodies had been awoken from slumber to be greeted by a vicious beating. Their forlorn, vacant expressions and quivering lips were evidence of this. The only individuals who appeared to be unscathed were Xander and the baby, the latter nestled in the former's arms.

Of note, however, was Evan's dangling, swaying left arm and wincing face – his unsecure arm appeared to be the origin of the earlier snapping sounds of bone.

But, evidently, there was a further source. The right leg of a brute, with an egg-shaped head and cauliflower ears, was lagging behind him, like the syrupy trail of a slug.

As Jesse's organs began to inflate and recover, his farm and he were lined up horizontally. Several pairs of vast hands on each Blackbird's shoulders, their palms applying pressure and their fingernails tucking into their collarbones, forced the Blackbirds to their knees.

Oscar, meanwhile, teased the brute that was lumbering back to the regiment behind him.

"What's up, Nate?" Oscar said in a childish voice. He slid his bottom lip out and strummed it with the index finger of his right hand. "Did someone hurt you?"

Nate, disgruntled and embarrassed by the taunt, brushed Oscar's shoulder as he limped past.

"Don't you dare!" Oscar spat, his mood as volatile as the winds that ruled The Bundu.

If that was how Oscar was treating members of his own farm, Jesse pondered, then today was not the day to be his enemy.

The sulking Nate slipped to the back of the crowd.

"Now," Oscar commenced proceedings. "I'd just like to say good morning to everyone and thank-you for being here. I appreciate you could have chosen to be elsewhere, so I really value your time." Sniggers and heckles rose from the crowd like steam.

"Jesse!" He then mockfully beamed. "Long time no see!"

Jesse gave no reply and merely sniffed through his nose. With his nostrils slightly blockaded by mucus, a sound similar to a car tyre driving over loose gravel escaped.

"Anyway, you'll probably want to know how we found you." Oscar pushed on, a smirk proudly adorned across his face. "Yes? Okay then, bring him through!"

The battalion behind Oscar then parted, as if making way for royalty or an ambulance. Kneeled and handcuffed, his face a medley of purple stains and blueberry bruises, was Tim. Ridges of crusty, scaly blood had formed under the dimples of scalded flesh, which were scattered like a constellation across his body. His eyes were raw and pink and sagged like the throat of a chicken.

"This little gem offered, yes, offered, to take us to you!" Oscar gloated.

Jesse was struck by contrasting tides: a fury and resentment towards Tim for betraying them to such an extent, and a pity and sympathy towards him due to his trampled state. He couldn't quite figure out which had more of a gravitational pull. For now, he would let neither wash across his face – not in front of Oscar.

"So, Tim. Do you have anything to say to them? Anything?" Oscar playfully punched Tim's left arm. "Come on buddy. Say Something!"

"I can help you, Oscar! I can join your farm!" Tim barely croaked. "I-"

"-No, no, not to me." Oscar said, seemingly disinterested in Tim's proposal. "Have you got anything to say to them?"

Tim's eyes rolled downwards. He sensed that there was no way out. He sensed that this was the end. As he began to sift through the words that would be the last to be breathed from his lungs and the last to bounce from his tongue, he noticed something.

A small being rested in Xander's arms, smothered in striped blankets. He'd only ever seen one other baby. It had to be. It had to be her. Tim nodded at the little one, and spoke his final words.

"Grace," he weakly mumbled. "Her name is Grace."

And with that, Oscar hauled Tim up, held him horizontally, and brought him crashing down onto his marble knees.