CHAPTER 27
THE BUTCHERBIRD
The bitter wind bites at my skin as I crawl out of the Fox Den.
The thin scraps of clothing I wear offering no protection against the relentless cold.
I tug Gabriel’s coat closed, the fabric carrying traces of him – warm cedarwood and a faint hint of leather, mingled with the clean, crisp bite of the fresh air.
His scent wraps around me, grounding me in the moment, even as my breath mists and vanishes into the cold, consuming darkness.
I can’t stay here.
The darkness presses against me like the jaws of an unseen predator waiting to snap shut. Huddling like prey- it’s wrong. It’s not what Grandpa trained me for. His voice cuts through my thoughts .
‘Courage isn’t about hiding, girl. It’s about standing up for what’s right.’
And what’s right is finding Gabriel. Angel .... whatever.
Regardless, he’s out there. Somewhere. He needs me. I won’t abandon him again, even if somehow he’s a part of this. There has to be an explanation, and I owe him that. The thought of him spurs me on. This time, I refuse to let fear win, to bind me here, frozen and helpless.
Sorry, Gabriel. You can punish me later, but I’m not waiting here to die.
It’s pitch black, the kind of darkness that presses against your eyes and dares you to blink, but the stars are bright, and slowly, behind the cloud, the moon is shining through.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots – a sound like a cat’s meow, nature’s way of luring you into the woods under false pretense.
‘That’s a Little Owl,’ Grandpa’s voice flashes through my mind, calm and matter-of-fact.
I exhale a laugh, the brittle crack swallowed by the cold as I push forward. But the silence of the night is broken by cackles and whoops that ripple out from the abyss. My skin prickles.
I’ve not heard that sound before.
I look up, the surrounding mountains looming like skyscrapers, their jagged peaks silhouetted against the faint glow of the moon. Grandpa told me that mountain peaks can guide you as they’re constant anchors.
The moon’s rays offer a faint light, enough to distinguish shapes in the night, so I keep to ridges where the ground is steep, giving me a clear vantage. Below me, I can see faint foot impressions left in the clay earth – tracks - he passed through here.
The uneven ground reaches out, clawing at my steps with sharp rocks and hidden pitfalls. My leg catches on one- a sharp, unforgiving edge – and pain soars along my calf, hot and stinging as blood wells up. Its dark and slick, and it begins to trace a slow path down to the dirt.
‘Keep going, Tarran.’ Grandpa’s voice emerges from a memory etched deep inside me. ‘Remember the last time you failed me?’
The reminder of him locking me in a room with a rotting corpse and maggots crawling through the flesh churns my stomach.
Right . The memory of the familiar stench punching me first, then – humid, the gagging reek of decay that clings to the walls, the floor, my skin.
Maggots, tiny writhing worms squirming through the meat like they own it – I guess they do.
Their squelch and crackle was louder than my pounding pulse.
My stomach tightens further like a fist clenching in disgust.
I choke down the bile rising. I won’t fail you, Grandpa. I won’t fail him either.
Fear is slithering in, whispering the promises of failure, of death, of worse. It wants me to run, hide, and cower like a pathetic weakling. But I bare my teeth against it; shove it down into some dark pit in my mind. I can’t let it stop me, not now, Gabriel needs me. I need him .
As I reach the peak, the forest opens up, the oppressive, skeletal trees giving way to a small clearing at the top of the mountain.
At its centre, squats a shack, like a scab on the beautiful land.
Corrugated metal sheets hang haphazardly alongside warped wood, the seams stuffed with filthy rags and torn plastic.
I walk around it, treading carefully, hiding between scrapped cars and trees.
There must be someone here? Someone who can help?
Instead, I see chains and barbed wire snaking along the roofline. The ground littered with debris – broken glass, rusty tools, and bones. Bones poking up from the dirt like jagged teeth, bleached and pale against the mud.
They’re old bones.
The guttural laughter I’d heard earlier sends me running for cover of the trees, the scrape of metal as unwelcome as nails running down a chalkboard.
Tattered fabric hangs above the front door, flittering weakly in the night breeze.
As I squint, I see it’s a weathered pelt, fur matted and stiff from age.
The door creaks open, and a figure steps out moving with a shuffle like a marionette, grunting as if every movement is an effort.
His head jerks from side-to-side as though sniffing the air like an animal, and I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
Who or what is that?
Gripping the doorframe he squints into the darkness.
I barely exhale, frightened he’s heard me, smells me, sees me.
But when another whoop sound rises behind the shack, with the crunch of heavy boots over brittle leaves, I realise we’re not alone.
Two more figures emerge from the shadows, their movements jerky, disjointed, like predators who had just caught their prey.
And they had.
Between them they drag a limp form – Gabriel.
His head lolled forward, his arms dangling uselessly, feet carving erratic lines in the dirt as they haul him towards the shack.
His body limp like a broken doll. I press my back against the tree, the bark biting into my skin like a row of tiny teeth.
My breath catches; shallow and sharp, and only when all three are inside do I exhale.
‘Courage isn’t about hiding.’
My chest tightens as I watch them take Gabriel inside. Right now, I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to move, to do something, but my legs are stone, rooted to the dirt. Useless. My fists curl, nails biting into my palms. MOVE. Damnit. MOVE.
But what do I do? They’re three of them, at least. What if there’s more? My heart pounds so loud I’m convinced it’s the forest’s war drum, as fear wraps itself around me like shackles urging me to run in the opposite direction.
Would Gabriel hesitate if the tables were turned? No. I don’t think he would. Would he cower behind a tree while they dragged me away? I doubt it. He’d fight, and something tells me, until his dying breath.
‘Help me, Grandpa.’
Trust the land.
The whisper of a plan begins to form – create a noise, a distraction. Fear can have its say, but it doesn’t get to decide. I do.
Hold on, Gabriel. I’m coming.
I crouch beneath a grimy window, the glass smeared with dirt and grease. I can barely see inside, but I see Gabriel hanging against a wall; his arms strung up and chained high above his head. His body is limp, but he’s alive, despite his pale face under the light of a single, flickering bulb.
Nearby, a battered table groans as the three figures hunch over it.
The largest of them leaning into a large pot, gripping a ladle, sloshing thick, steaming spoonfuls into each of their bowls.
The other two grunt as he pours the wet, sloppy sounds of stew splattering onto the wooden surface.
It spills over the edges of their bowls, pooling into grimy puddles that trickle down and drip onto the stained floorboards.
The sound alone churns my stomach – the wet squelch of stew dribbling from their mouths as they tear into their meals with animal-like grunts.
I’ve seen pigs eat with more manners. My throat tightens, bile rising as the rank, meaty scent hits my nostrils.
It lingers in the air, seeping into my skin, impossible to ignore.
Their slurps and smack of their lips scrape at my nerves, pulling me towards the edge of nausea, but I watch.
The smaller one rocks back and forth in his chair, his hips swinging in a rhythmic motion, and he’s slapped by the larger of the three, who is clearly irritated, growling at him to stop and eat.
His chair creaks as the rocking stops, and the room falls back into its unsettling symphony of slurps and low murmurs.
But then, with a sudden, careless motion, the object of his affection slips from his lap.
It hits the floor with a thud, rolling slightly before coming to a stop.
A girl’s head.
Its lifeless eyes stare at me, blankly, its mouth frozen mid-scream. They barely react, and he nudges the head with his foot, muttering something unintelligible, before standing up to reach for it.
His penis is hanging out of his zipper!
My jaw wrenches open, a gasp clawing its way out before I can stop it. I slap my hand over my mouth, muffling the sound as I turn, staggering back against the wall. My stomach twists violently, bile surging up my throat with a burning, acidic sting.
I double over, my body convulsing as I retch the meagre contents of my stomach, splattering onto the ground.
The smell hits me, its sharp and sour, mingling with the scent of decay.
My knees threaten to buckle, but I wipe my mouth with the back of my trembling hand and stand up straight.
The taste lingers, vile and unshakeable.
I want to shrink away, run, far, far away, but I’m not that girl I once was.
I don’t want to die, and I’ll be damned if I lose Angel again.
This is my second chance. This is my reckoning, my second shot at redemption, the chance to right the scars of my past. I run back to the sanctuary of the trees, their shadows my ally, and then I release a scream so raw, so untamed, it feels as though it can shatter the very fabric of the world.
It’s my war cry, carved from the depths of my soul.
It’s the perfect lure for hunters seeking prey.
Muffled voices rise in alarm, their shadowy figures hurriedly shifting behind grimy windows.
I work quickly, my fingers fumbling in the faint glow of the moon as I grab an old rusty, Coca Cola can.
With a jagged rock, I pierce through its side, threading a piece of string through the makeshift hole.
I tug it tight and tie the other end to a low-hanging branch.
The trap is crude but it’ll do. The can will dangle there, ready to rattle noisily at the slightest disturbance – either a warning or a lure that might just buy me a few precious seconds.
A baited snare, designed to hopefully draw them in the opposite direction to where I’ll be headed.
The front door creaks open as I finish tying the knot, and the three figures emerge, their weapons glinting in their hands.
As they head towards where I had screamed, I slip around the side of the shack.
Inside, I see jars filled with murky liquid, unidentified content lining the shelves, and the walls are adorned with crude, macabre trophies – bones, skulls, piles of mobile phones, and scraps of fabric.
‘Oh, god, Gabriel,’ I rush out, sprinting to his side.
He’s alive.
I seize a pair of rusted secateurs, their jagged edges biting into my palm as I force them shut.
With a harsh snap, the chains give way, clattering to the ground.
Blood pumps hot in my hands, but I ignore it as I hoist Gabriel up onto my shoulder.
His weight nearly topples me, but I grit my teeth and hold steady.
‘Can you walk?’ I ask, my voice low and urgent.
‘Tarran...you need to get out of here.’
‘Shut up. Can you walk?’
‘I- I think so,’ he mutters with shaky words.
Stepping outside, the night air feels heavy. The sound of guttural grunting cuts through the stillness, distant but unmistakable – it’s coming from the direction where I’d placed the can. I glance around. ‘We don’t have much time to get out of here. Who are these sick fucks?’
‘The Trinity,’ he whispers. ‘We need to find Sal. I dropped the headset when they ambushed me, it should still be there.’
‘Then we better get a move on, because the woods are our only ally now.’