Red Village by N.P. Martin

Author:N.P. Martin [Martin, N.P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter

Twelve

The journey back through the woods was a marathon of agony. Each step was a battle, every breath a searing pain. The forest around me felt like a hostile, living thing, its shadows reaching out like fingers, trying to pull me down into darkness.

Blood was pumping from the stab wound at an alarming rate, so I ended up stopping and taking off my trench coat. Then I took my shirt off, which was already blood-soaked, and tied it around myself to stem the bleeding a bit, crying out like a wounded animal as I pulled the makeshift tourniquet tight.

Trying not to pass out from the pain and blood loss, not to mention the heavy concussion I’d sustained, I put my coat back on and stumbled on.

My vision swam, the trees warping into grotesque shapes. The sounds of the forest were a cacophony in my ears, mocking me with their normalcy. I was a walking corpse, staggering through a nightmare landscape, leaving a trail of blood behind me.

As I emerged from the woods what seemed like hours later, the village seemed like a mirage, a cruel joke. The people I passed gave me a wide berth, their faces masks of fear and aversion. I called out for help, but my voice was a ragged whisper, lost in the wind. It was as if I was a ghost, unseen, unheard, unwelcome.

Every step was a Herculean effort. I collapsed multiple times, my body giving out, but each time I forced myself back to my feet. I wasn’t going to die here, not in this godforsaken place. Not when I had a job to finish.

Nearing the village square, my vision was a red haze, each heartbeat a drum of pain in my skull. The village square loomed before me. My feet moved of their own accord, staggering, lurching, every step an agony. The villagers watched me, their faces etched with horror and disbelief, as if I was some kind of ghoul staggering out of the woods, no more human than the monsters who stalked the streets at night.

Then, right there in the heart of the square, my body gave up. It was like someone had cut the strings on a marionette. I crumpled to the ground, the impact barely registering as the darkness rushed in to claim me.

But death wasn’t ready to dance with me yet. A voice cut through the fog, young and insistent. “Hey, mister! Mister, wake up!”

It was Eddie, the kid with a mouth too big for his body. His small hands shook my shoulder, his face a blurry smudge above me. “Come on, get up! You can’t lie here!”

Somehow, his voice was a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge. I groaned, my consciousness clawing its way back to the surface. Eddie’s hands were surprisingly strong as he helped me to my feet, half-dragging, half-supporting me.

The villagers watched us, a ring of silent spectators to my humiliation. Their eyes followed us, wide and scared, but none of them moved to help.

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