The Sign of One. Eugene Lambert

      If I die, then so does he!

      I look into his bloodshot eyes and hurl myself at him.

      Next thing I know, I’m shaking and down on my hands and knees. Reaper boy is on his back in front of me, legs kicking as he tries to slide further away. The bloody hilt of my knife is sticking out of his chest. Not a killing wound, but he looks as shocked as I am. His knife is beside me. I grab it, the handle slick and warm, and scramble up. His face goes rigid – he must think I’m going to finish him.

      I should . . . but I can’t. It’s just not in me.

      On the far side of the wagon, the fighting sounds almost over. I gulp air and try to think what to do. Behind me is the fast-flowing brawl of the river. I don’t swim too good, so that’s no use. But I’m the fastest runner in the three valleys. If I can get past their spears, I reckon no half-starved Reaper will catch me. The forest is their world, so it’s the trail or nothing.

      But how to get past their spears?

      I scramble to the front of the wagon. On the trail, I glimpse hell. Swarming Reapers. Bodies everywhere. A woman screams as she’s dragged away by her hair into the trees. Behind me, Reaper boy starts yelling. I hold my breath and dodge between the rearing, plunging fourhorns. Somehow, their lashing hooves miss me as I reach up and slash their trace ropes. I hack at their flanks. The stink of blood and Reaper does the rest. The maddened fourhorns, free from their harness, red-eyed and frantic with terror, stampede. Reapers scatter. I see one tossed into the air, but daren’t stop to watch. I slip along to the front of the leading wagon, pull my head down into my shoulders and take off running like I’ve never run before.

      I make it past the spears, only to trip over a root.

      Soon as I hit the ground, I know I’m hurt bad. I scramble up, but my ankle won’t take my weight and I cry out as Reapers come running. I limp backwards and they follow me. They’re in no great rush now, seeing I’m hurt.

      It hits me then, like a knife in the guts.

       I’m dead.

      Something clobbers the back of my knees and sits me down hard. It’s a shelf of rock above the river. I haul myself backwards up on to it, sobbing, staring in horror at the red smears my hands leave on the limestone. My blood, or Reaper blood, or fourhorn blood? Guess I’ll never know.

      I think about throwing myself into the water. But I can’t.

      ‘Not much meat on this one.’

      I look into their hateful Reaper eyes. And I don’t know what shocks me more – that Reapers can speak, same as you and me, or that this is the end. Reaper boy struggles up to join them, grinning, my hunting knife in his hand.

      At least I left my mark on him. That’s something.

      I loved that knife. It’s about the only thing Rona ever gave me, apart from that dose of swamp pox. Slowly, painfully, I haul myself to my feet.

      The sky’s so blue – not a cloud in it.

      Biggest Reaper points a blaster at me and pulls the trigger.

5

       AWAKENING

      Agony. Raging and cruel, sinking its razor-sharp fangs into my jaw, neck and shoulder. Tormenting me. Dragging me down, deeper and deeper into the cold, wet darkness. Whispering give up, Kyle, time to die . . .

      I scream and scream, but the pain shows no mercy.

      A long darkness.

      Maybe I come to. Or maybe I just open my eyes.

      Either way, I’m staring at feet, sliding free of rushing green water. One booted, one naked, white and shrivelled. My boot. My foot. My legs attached. Dimly, in the small part of my mind that isn’t roaring red with hurt, I realise I’m still alive and someone is hauling me backwards out of a river.

      I squeeze my eyes shut again.

      Put my hand to my jaw and feel bone, slick and wet.

      Shouting. Lots of shouting. And someone calling out my name.

      ‘Kyle! Can you hear me?’

      I try to answer, but all that comes out is spit and groans. I’m cold – so cold.

      All I want to do is sleep, but the shouters won’t let me. They lay me on my back on to something hard. When they pick me up, the agony comes scuttling back. It leaps on to my chest, hot and heavy, much more alive than I am, crushing me so I can’t breathe, tearing at my flesh again.

      After that, I only remember bits and pieces.

      The sky bouncing around.

      Crying out as they drop me, seeing the old door that’s my stretcher.

      A crash as they kick a gate open.

      Hard hands lifting me, putting me carefully down. Whispers and curses.

      A man’s voice, strained: ‘Where the hell is she then?’

      Somebody running out.

      Rona rushing in and gasping as she sees it’s me, dripping gore all over her clean kitchen table. Next thing I know, she’s pushing a needle into my arm. A wonderful soothing warmth as whatever stuff she’s pumped into me trickles its way through my veins. The room spinning round and round my head.

      I sob with relief as the drugs chase the agony away.

      ‘Am I going to die?’ I ask her later. I don’t sound like me. I don’t even sound human. My voice is this weird, paper-thin rasp. It’s only because Rona’s leaning over me, cutting off the remains of my shirt, that she hears.

      ‘Don’t try to talk, Kyle,’ she says. Her healer voice wobbles.

      Someone lifts my head gently on to a pillow. The way I’m lying now, I can see how messed up I am. Blaster spatter has caught me high across my chest, collarbone and jaw. The skin is mostly burnt away, the flesh below red and white and ugly yellow, charred to hard black in a few places. There’s a finger-wide crack where the swollen flesh has burst apart. Everything’s wet and oozing stuff. All around the edges are these huge, angry red blisters and there’s blood everywhere.

      I groan. I knew I was hurt bad, but –

      ‘I’m surprised he can talk at all,’ a man says.

      Rona steps aside. Vaguely, I watch the ceiling fan’s blades swish round, until two blurry faces lean in and stare down at me. One is old Fod, Freshwater’s preacher. His gaunt face looks more suspicious than sympathetic. The other face, wide-eyed and nervous, belongs to my girlfriend Jude.

      I think it’s Jude squeezing my hand.

      ‘Does it hurt?’ she asks. Then her hand flies to her mouth.

      ‘What-do-you-think?’ I manage.

      Rona shoves her roughly out of the way. ‘Apart from the blaster wounds, he’s in shock, he’s been stabbed, he’s got some broken ribs and I’m worried his skull might be fractured. Of course it bloody well hurts, Jude.’

      She slides another stinging needle into my arm.

      Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see faces. It’s torture, but I roll my head to look. Some must be the men who carried me here. The rest are our neighbours – the Clancys, the whole Ferguson brood, some of the Smiths. The men stand there, shuffling their feet and scrunching their hats, as if they’re in chapel. The women wince, look mournful and swap whispered remarks. The children fidget, nudge each other and gaze at me curiously, their eyes like saucers.

      Even though I’m struggling to keep my eyes open now, I get it.

      They’re