Free He Runs (Part One) by Owen Seth Page B

vultures. He swats them away and places most of the meat into a dirty carrier bag. Back in the old times Man would have worried about eating the meat. But not now. A few years living on the flesh of random creatures, of water ravens and seagulls and pigeons, the dirtiest of animals, has trained his stomach to accept almost anything. The meat should keep for a while. If he's lucky he'll find a stream, hang the carrier bag in the cold water for a few hours while he bathes and drinks. Sometimes he tries to fish, his hands held still in the water as tiddlers flow through, a patient man's game. Once he caught a rainbow trout, held it up to the sky and marvelled at the beautiful array of prismatic colours that ran the length of its belly. That one, he threw back. Somethings, he knows, are too beautiful to kill. Even if he has too. 
     
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    Man gathers his belongings, stuffs everything into the rucksack, bar the goat meat which hangs loosely in the carrier bag from one of the frayed shoulder straps. He checks his weapons, measures their sharpness. Not the best but with enough velocity most blades will cut through flesh. He takes the karambit and cuts away at the frayed edges of his corduroy shorts, now black and grimy with a wanderer’s wear. He takes a sip of water from a bottle, feels some escape and fall from his chin, clambering down through matted beard hair to drop swiftly to the earth. 
    The morning is hot and full of danger. Soon other animals will come to feast on the goat carcass; carrion birds will hang in circles in the sky, a sign to anyone around that a murder has taken place. Man sniffs the air around him, still pungent with the throng of death and blood. A bead of sweat lines his brow and he wipes it away. He sighs out aloud, squeezes his hands and then scratches the itching cuts on his arm. 
    And then he walks, feet clumping over grassy mounds, bent low, looking for the rest of his life and everything that comes with it. 
     
     
    EARLY SUMMER 
     
    Man lurks in the undergrowth by a horse-beaten road, the makeshift bone-pick resting readily in his hand. He sees it ahead of him. The hustle and bustle of life, medieval-like in appearance, a mulch-filled cesspit of humans and animals, violence and survival. He smiles to himself, his lips barely visible under the beard that has grown bigger over the weeks he's been on the road. 
    The rumbling of hooves drops his body to the floor, a natural reaction to such danger.
    Limber thins of grass mingle with his beard, blowing slightly on an easterly wind and he remains still, tiger-like in tall grass. 
    Then he sees it, the war party he's been expecting. He saw them leave the day before, six of them, a horrifying pack of balding monsters. He watched their horses, powerful and lean, coats glistening and healthy in the midday sun. He wondered where they were going, how long they'd be. Then one of them, a raw-boned brute with facial scars crisscrossing and connecting like jigsaw pieces, the leader of the pack, shouted to the rest that it'd be a quick mission. Another village, half a day's ride south of them, rich to plunder. Man digested the leader's words with little ease. Even before the lights went out he's been aware of humanity's devolution, the anthropological throwback to days when the Northmen set foot on English soil. He expected them to return with supplies, their blood-bathed bodies stiff with the after effects of adrenaline. But as they pass him, all six still intact, still breathing heartily, he sees exactly what they went for. 
    People. 
    Bound together with zip ties and rope, each rider carrying a beaten and unconscious prisoner. Man's eyes light up the greenery, focusing on each of the prisoners, all men, all beaten and bloodied. The last rider passes and his barely conscious organic plunder looks in Man's direction, sees the whites of Man's eyes and throws him a look of defeat. The prisoner's eyes tell tales of what's to come,