Project - 16 (3 page)

I leaned over and closed those eyes that saw nothing now. I
checked her pulse, more out of habit than anything, and began to
search her pockets for a letter or a photo, something she would
have wanted sent back home. I found a small travel wallet on her
belt which held her ID in a plastic case. Rebecca Silverman.
Chicago, Illinois.

I stood up and looked around. I'd been right about the
trainers but from the worn patches on her coat I could see that
she'd worn a pack of some kind but it wasn't nearby. No doubt she'd
dropped it at some point and I searched the area for over fifteen
minutes before realising it wasn't there.

She'd have been in a panic. She would have opened her pack,
torn it apart in the hope of finding something to stop the pain, to
heal the sickness inside her and there it would be. A little
scattered here and there. Frantic hope somehow hidden inside the
canvas.

I stood looking at her frail form as I puzzled over what had
happened until it hit me. She'd drunk the water because she'd been
thirsty.

There was no other choice because she had none.

They'd taken her pack off her.

They'd taken her things and sent her off on her own to
die.

I returned to my own pack and found two large orange sacks
that I always kept in the bottom compartment with my poncho. I also
took my duct tape on its little half-roll and returned to Rebecca,
gently rolling her away from the trunk of the oak and onto the
floor. I did my best to ignore the smell of her indecent death and
removed the mud splattered trainers from her feet by cutting the
laces with my knife. Then I lifted her legs into the mouth of the
first sack, pulling it up to her waist before taking the other sack
and pulling it over her head. I was grateful that her coat had
buttoned cuffs and I fastened them together so her wrists were held
in place on top of her stomach. Then I brought the mouths of the
two sacks together and sealed them with the duct tape, doing three
turns at the seam, her ankles and around her neck.

I gathered my gear and got to my feet before testing the
weight of Rebecca's body in my arms. She was light enough to carry
but the real weight felt like it was on my heart. She'd died here,
alone, and I struggled to get the thought out of my head. In those
situations there were always the feelings of remorse, of thinking I
could have done more, maybe found her in time the previous night.
But what could I have done? I was no Doctor and it was clear that
she would already have been dead even if I'd have found her in the
blinding darkness. The blame lay elsewhere, a few thousand miles
away but it didn't stop the nagging in my head.

It was too far back to the Land Rover to carry her all the
way and so I looked for a suitable spot to set her down where I
could find her again. I walked back along the trail, back to one of
the flatter intersections and led her against the wall. Then I
marked the place on my map and set off at a quick pace in the
direction of the tarn and the 'Rover.

I'd never really been uncomfortable around the dead. At 12 my
Dad had me kill and skin a rabbit I'd caught in a snare. It'd been
a big fat thing, all fed up for the winter and I could still
remember the hot, wet guts as I'd followed his directions with my
pocket knife and cut open its furry stomach. Then the cleaning of
the carcass, the cuts of meat, the scraping and drying of its hide.
A few years later my Dad had been sent south to find a couple of
looters who'd gone missing near Manchester. He thought I was ready
and asked me to come along and help. I'd never been out with him on
a search before and I was eager to show him how helpful I could be.
When we came across the first body he seemed proud of how I wasn't
shaken by it, how I was eager to help move the slabs of concrete
with the Land Rover's winch to free the crushed body of the poor
man.

“
Look,” he said, indicating the horrific mess the tonnes of
rubble had made. “He must have died almost instantly. His heart was
under all that. At least he didn't die slowly and in lots of pain.”
Together we filled a couple of those orange bags with the broken
man and sealed them with duct tape before putting him carefully in
the back of the Land Rover. I could still see my Dad's gentle
movements, carrying those remains as though the man were only
sleeping. There were two more to be found - the US Army didn't know
about the girl. She'd fallen down a hole in the road and been
impaled on some re-bar. The other had been attacked by dogs and
most of him was missing.

After that I saw the dead as mere empty vessels worthy of a
little dignity and respect. Dad had never taken a moral stance,
never preached about fairness or wept out of sorrow for them like
I'd seen others do. He never raged at the tragedy or cursed the
gods. In death he saw the same thing - the natural ending of a life
which was as normal to him as the setting sun or the falling
rain.

“
You measure your time in days out here, son,” he'd once said
to me. It took me a while to work out what he'd meant by
that.

I returned to Rebecca's body just as the night was coming,
crossing the fields where ever the 'Rover could fit through a gap
in the walls. I wasn't concerned about the others hearing me -
they'd be too far ahead now and the hills would deaden the sound of
the engine. I lifted her into the back and covered her with a tarp
before driving further on, aiming to reach a stretch of plantation
where I could hang the hammock for the night. I considered sleeping
in the 'Rover but I wanted to be fresh for tomorrow and the idea of
trying to nod off in an uncomfortable driving seat didn't really
appeal to me. Instead I pulled into a natural break in the hedge,
grabbed my pack and locked the 'Rover behind me, heading into the
inky black of the silent forest.

It was quiet in the only way the wilderness could be. The
crack of the odd twig, the chirp of an insect or the wailing squawk
of some far off bird sometimes broke the monotonous nothing, but it
was something natural, something right as if the whole world had
come to some kind of agreement over what silence should sound like,
feel like, even taste like.

I worked in the darkness of the moonless night, feeling by
instinct and routine for my straps, my carabiners and my cordage. I
adjusted the slings, felt for the sag and moved onto my tarp.
Meanwhile the thoughts of the following day faded into a tightly
packed set of logical steps, devised more from a kind of muscle
memory where the body went through the motions while the mind
wandered the hills and dales of my native land. Before I knew it I
was bathed in the dull glow from the stove and the silence was
broken by the bubbling, rolling boil of water and the hiss of
burning fuel.

I sat with my feet on the floor and my back supported by the
side of my hammock, nursing a cup of hot nettle tea made from
leaves I'd picked up earlier. I allowed the pungent aroma to settle
in my nose, to submerge the mundane and immerse my mind in the
natural. What else did I have to engage with? 5 simple senses and
at that point all of them were tuned to the natural state of
existence.

My Dad could barely stand to be indoors. If he was then it
was always near a window - and we had many of them in our house and
he'd always be looking through it, his mind off somewhere else,
backward into some forgotten trail or forwards into the next
stretch of unexplored dell, another field of emerald blades to be
crossed.

I led there for a time trying to remember his face. It was
difficult now. The memory seemed to be of a shape, a tall, broad
shouldered figure in a greatcoat, his pack on his back, his faded
blue woolly hat pulled down tightly on his skull and blonde spikes
of hair escaping out from under it. But no face. A beard perhaps,
but no features to remember. Not since his death. It's like I could
only remember his essence, his actions and will, his true self, not
the shell that surrounded it.

I dozed for a time, drifting off into a dreamless sleep. I
woke at some point and crept out into the cold to pee before
retreating back into the warmth of my top quilt. I could see no
stars above me, no break in the dark purple sky and only the
invisible threat of a storm.

When morning came I felt groggy but well rested. I boiled a
cup of coffee and chewed on some dried strips of beef, watching the
sky become angry and bruised as the sun fought with the coming
storm. Evidently it lost because no sooner had I packed up my
hammock than the heavens opened and my short walk back to the
'Rover turned into a battle with the elements. My poncho flapped
noisily as I walked but at least I was dry as I clambered into the
cab and started the engine, engaging the wipers and turning on the
headlights. The rain beat upon the steel roof and made my ears
ring. The wind shield was awash with the downpour and the wipers
did their best. I decided to wait. There would be no rush. Wherever
they were they would be held up too. Any shelter would have drawn
them in and out of this chaos.

An hour passed. In that time I'd boiled another cup of coffee
and sat drinking it, watching the glass steam up on the inside.
There was plenty of fuel and so I left the engine idling, the
blower on and the fans keeping the air moving. I ate a piece of
hard flat bread and dunked a corner of it in my cup to try and
soften it. I read some more of a book I'd brought with me, some
fiction piece I'd found on Dad's shelf, then waited some more. I
could always do waiting, especially waiting for the rain. It
reminded you that you weren't in control which was always good to
remember.

By mid-morning the downpour had gradually eased to a gentle
drizzle. I set off, slowly at first until I reached a firmer track
that was edged with great thickets of nettles and blackberry bushes
that scratched against the sides of the Land Rover like hundreds of
tiny claws. I pressed on at about 20 miles per hour, reaching the
last of the woodland where the old world waged its silent war
against the ruins of the new. It was clear who was winning as I
stopped in a village who's name had long since been forgotten. I
could go no further in the 'Rover. The roads were little more than
deadly tracks that often collapsed in on themselves if I so much as
drove near to them. Underneath was a rotting maze of sewers which
had crumbled from within taking much of the tarmac with them. Where
there were enormous craters in the road vast bushes and weeds
sprouted up, all reaching hungrily towards the sky. I would have to
go on foot again.

I climbed out of the 'Rover and felt the cool touch of the
rain on my skin. I closed my eyes for a moment and looked directly
up, letting the droplets tickle my eyelids. It did the trick. I was
more awake now and ready to go after sitting there with the heater
on too high.

I refilled my water bottles and checked the rest of my pack
just in case I'd missed something. I put a few extra orange sacks
in the side pocket with another roll of duct tape and got rid of my
rubbish. Then, after I locked up the 'Rover I set off in the
direction of the city and began to look for their trail. I didn't
expect it to be difficult. In the woods it was a little trickier -
you couldn't always predict where someone might take a turn or
decide upon a particular path over another. But in an urban
environment it became more obvious. People tended to walk on the
pavements despite there being no cars. Habit perhaps. They also
favoured open areas out of fear and places that were familiar.
Shopping streets, fast food chains, that sort of thing. They also
couldn't help but touch things which was what I was counting on.
The dust had settled here long ago and the slightest touch would be
a huge spoor to track them with.

I made my way to the other side of the village and the rain
finally stopped. It didn't exactly break out into glorious sunshine
but it brightened a little as I followed the ruined roadway into
the outskirts of the city. I'd have to climb a little - the land
rose up to the city edge before dropping down into the centre and
from this side I had a good idea which road they would've taken in.
Two others were across bridges and both of them had collapsed about
three years ago. It might have been caused by a storm but I
couldn't remember. A lot of the country changed from year to year
and it was one of the reasons I often made my own maps or annotated
the ones given to my by the US army. I could write down one
location or place of interest and then scratch it off the following
year. These were poorly made structures to begin with and without
care and maintenance it was little wonder they fell down -
sometimes with spectacular results.

A while back I was driving along the outskirts of Preston
when I heard the stadium collapse, maybe caused by the vibrations
of the car, but it was enough to make me shake in fear. It began
like a distant thunder, rolling towards me until I began to think
it was an earthquake instead. I'd driven away as quickly as I could
until I saw the gigantic dust cloud overhead and realised what had
happened. After that I had another reason to stay away from the
city - as if I needed one. If a falling building didn't kill me
then the packs of wild dogs would. They were horrible creatures,
probably a mix of wild and domestic pets but still quick to
re-learn the law of the jungle. It was another reason why I kept a
pistol with me, loaded with hollow-point rounds.