Corpses of War.

I woke with a start, heading pounding and gray matter pulsing against the walls of my skull. What had happened? How long had I been out? Instinctively, I tried to sit up, but was immediately pushed back down by the invisible hand of a sharp, shooting pain that tore its way up my backside. An equally agonizing scream erupted from my throat, splitting the chilled air like lightening. My lower back was swollen, giving off a raging, throbbing sort of pulsation that only seemed to spread throughout my crumpled form with every beat. It was swollen, it had to be, and it was then that the cause of such an infliction became clear.

When I had fallen backwards, I must have landed on a rock jutting out from the mud, which also explained the seething pain I had experienced before blacking out—falling asleep? What had that been? I blacked out, I must have. There was no way I had willingly slept in that grime… Right? Fuck, I couldn’t think, not with the terrible, thrashing pain that rocked my head every few seconds.

What time of day was it? The sun was bright, considerably bright in fact, and I squinted against it as I rolled onto my side. I was covered in muck, most of which was now dried and falling from my skin like a peeling sunburn. Each article of clothing cracked and shed its own layer of brown crust, giving way to their original, equally dull textures. Raising a hand to my eyes, I brushed away the chips of dirt upon my face, muttering words of malcontent under my breath before returning my gaze to the uncharacteristically blazing sun. Was I really still in Sheffield? The sun had never shone so bright, not since the Ashen Awakening. Not in seven years.

Wrapping my arms behind me, I cradled the inflamed flesh, gently prodding at it as if to make sure nothing was coming out or lodged in it. The lump was about the size of my palm and sent an agitating, stinging pulse up my spine. Heaving a sigh that almost suggested defeat, I brought my hands back around to my front. Breathing was still a task, however not as difficult as it had been upon the initial impact from the night previous, and it was then that I decided to focus on evening out each breath instead of the churning inside my head that refused to calm.

My mother was sure to be worried sick about me, and it was a wonder that no one had been sent to search for me. Perhaps someone had been sent, but who would think to look in Busk Park? Only an idiot would have taken this road-turned-path during a storm, which probably told you a lot about me. Most people took Crumpsall Road in order to get to Musgrave Place, but that road was always busy and it wasn’t unusual for someone to get mugged along that street. Besides, Busk Park was a pleasant scene, even though there hadn’t been animals there for years and majority of the greenery was either dead or dying.

Growing irritated with my situation, I lurched forward in the hopes of bringing myself into a sitting position, but fell back against the dirt as a pang of anguish shattered itself through my chest. Howling in pain and frustration, I took no precautions when it came to my word choice, spitting treacherous words against the Empire like it was my job to do so.

That figure, that stranger that had stalked me last night must have been sent by the Empire. Who else could have sent such a terrifyingly composed killer? Maybe I was getting ahead of myself; I didn’t know why he was there. Or she. It could have been a woman. I laughed out loud in a pained sort of manner at the thought. There was no way it had been a woman, the figure had been much too tall, too broad shouldered. And yet, I hadn’t exactly gotten a clear look at the stranger, so I couldn’t make a proper assumption or accusation.

As the event from last night played over and over in my mind, I grew frustrated, and with some superhuman strength I seemingly gathered out of nowhere, I pulled myself to my feet. I screamed in agony, clasping shaking hands to my knees in a hunch-over sort of manner as thrashing teeth separated to allow cursing outcries to rattle from my dry throat. The throbbing in my lower back only escalated with my howling, and I almost crumpled back to the ground, but somehow found the strength to stay upright. It felt as if someone was sticking needles into my flesh and moving them about, like a terrible acupuncturist who planned on providing seething pain instead of much desired comfort. Shaking like a madman, I whipped my head about, teeth clenched and chattering against each other in order to try and prevent any further screams from leaving their gates.

Like a hunchback, I moved forward in slow, feet-dragging motions, gasping for breath every few steps. There was no way to deny that I was in agony, for it was evident on my face and the scathing words my poison tongue provided for the cool air to carry on its blustery winds. My legs felt like lead, my arms like rubber that often snapped at the elbow, sending me in a downward tumble that was quickly caught by the very limbs that had played the terrible trick. I was missing a shoe, which I hadn’t noticed until after my first few paces, and figured it had been stolen by a stray dog or something of the sort.

So there I was, hobbling along the freshly dried dirt path, finding what seemed to be every damp patch with my shoeless foot, resulting in mud being allowed to seep into my soot dyed sock. My mother was sure to be sour with me, but most likely over losing a shoe and not the fact that I hadn’t rang and told her I wasn’t going to be home last night. I couldn’t blame her really, seeing as how I’d had the same pair of shoes for the past seven years, and it would probably take another seven before the Empire would allow me a new pair.

A lost piece of your uniform practically translated as death these days. Sure, I had another pair of shoes, but those were against the dress code and much too “pretentious” for someone of my status to be wearing. My status. I scoffed at the horrific thought of such a thing. My “status” was no different than our neighbors, than the broke baker on Longley Avenue West I often visited after my religious service on Fridays. We were all the same, however I was sure things were different for those who lived in London. They always seemed to be the spoiled bunch, or so I had always thought them to be. During the first few years, London had been as busy and flourishing as ever, but once the revolution started, all went to hell and London soon became known for its daily bombings and murders. If you were ever sent to London and returned in one piece, people would consider you a holy beast. Not many returned from the capital these days, not alive.

I remember the day when our neighbor’s husband returned from London after being summoned by the Empire to discuss his locksmith business. Came home he did, but in a box made of wood that had clearly been constructed to fit his measurements. Heavens, did his wife cry. Like a banshee, she bawled day in and day out for a whole week before she died of heartbreak, or at least that’s the rumor. I watched from my front porch as the officials dragged her corpse out the front door, her legs draped over one bloke’s shoulder as if she were some sort of discarded rag doll. Her dress had fallen in the opposite direction it was constructed to cover, exposing her almost entirely, and no one had bothered to pull it back up. They tossed her into the back of a battered looking pickup truck, its chipped and patchy, discolored blue paint only increasing the horrific aura of the scene.

It was then—three years ago—that I had decided that this empire did not wish to care for us. We were at the bottom of the barrel, the leftovers that weren’t even worthy enough to be thrown to the dogs. I remained on the porch for hours, motionlessly watching numerous people—once loving neighbors—from the surrounding houses come and go from the dead woman’s residence with armfuls of food, clothes and various other items. They cleaned it out in less than two hours, leaving little more than the electrical outlet covers and a busted looking waste bin in the entryway. It was at that moment that I knew I was no longer living among humans, but distorted creatures that claimed the same forms and faces of the people I once knew.

Revisiting the past had (thankfully) taken my mind off of my current pains, and to my surprise I had already reached Musgrave Road. I hobbled a little quicker now, my heart pounding with anticipation at the thought of being able to collapse in my warm bed. It was an old mattress, that was for sure, for years of use had matted it down and ash had done its own part in making it thick with gray particles that could cause any creature to wish to discard it. I, however, called it my own and spent a decent amount of time wrapped in the equally ashen sheets, wishing away whatever was left of the day. Such an act happened more often than not.

The rusted, weathered street sign for Musgrave Place shook in the gathering wind, creaking and whining against each blustery burst. No one was outside, no one ever was. If a stranger were to visit I wouldn’t doubt that they would think this a ghost town. Each and every house looked abandoned, with its peeling paint and boarded windows. Most gardens and lawns were long dead, looking like nothing more than graveyards for plants that had once been lovingly attended to. If this was not an example of a ghost town then I did not know what was.

The front walkway to my house was slippery, which caused me to almost meet the cement on a few occasions, but I made it to the porch, breathing heavily as I leaned against the front door in order to try and catch my breath. All was quiet; it always was, so I had no suspicion that something was afoot.

Perhaps that was where I had gone wrong.

Raising one shaking hand from my wobbling knees, it rapped gently against the chipping white paint of the front door. The sound of a chair being pushed back was heard and someone stirred, their footsteps approaching the door in a calm manner before stopping just a few feet away. Hunched over in pain, I called out to my mother through gritted teeth.

“Mother, it’s me, Oliver,” I said, voice hoarse and cracking with every other word that managed to leave my chapped lips. The footsteps did not resume. I closed my eyes tightly in frustration. “Mother, please, open the door… I’ve been hurt.”

As if spurred forth by these words, the footsteps rushed forward now, reaching the door in what seemed to be a fraction of a second. But the door opened slowly, and as I raised my head to greet my mother, I was stricken with pure terror.

It was not Mother.