The cracks of gunfire cut through the air, battering brick walls and shattering frail windows. Each bullet zipping past me sent my heart racing and my breath quick and ragged. My gaze darted around frantically, searching for any refuge from the relentless barrage.
My steps grew leaden, and flashes of my life played out in my mind's eye. All I could concentrate on was the laboured rhythm of my breath and the thunderous pounding of my heart, constricting my throat as if a blade threatened to descend.
"An alleyway!" I hollered, spotting a narrow passage just a few feet ahead. With a deep breath, I quickened my pace, channelling all my strength into my legs. As I neared the alleyway, I executed a sharp turn, my feet skidding across the ground before colliding with the wall, a searing pain lancing through my left side.
I winced, applying pressure to the wound, then gingerly moved farther down the alleyway. Reaching the other end, I peeked around the corners, surveying the desolation of the street. Potholes marred the road, buildings with shattered windows loomed, and there was no sign of life.
I leaned against the left wall, trying to alleviate the throbbing in my abdomen. A long exhale escaped my lips before I discerned faint footsteps echoing from the opposite end of the alleyway. Seizing the opportunity, I dashed towards the haven of the lake, each step causing excruciating agony.
But as I approached the street's end, the torment in my lower body became unbearable. It felt as though it was being torn from me. I couldn't endure the pain any longer. Collapsing against the whitewashed wall of the nearby house, my hand clamped over the wound, I gazed down, my once-white shirt now stained a deeper, darker red, like a creeping illness.
"Agh…" I moaned, the anguish intensifying and my leg muscles giving out. My body crumpled onto the harsh concrete, my head resting against the wall. With tightly closed eyes, I let out an anguished cry.
"You bastard," I cursed myself under my breath. I loathed myself for this predicament. Perhaps this was my own foolish atonement for that botched heist in Bristol, working with those wretched lot of scoundrels. The whole bunch of them are low-life wretches.
To hell with it. Maybe it was my own fault for not delving deeper into scouting the place before attempting the robbery. But those imbeciles didn't need to run away, leaving me to face this dire situation. And to think that the first damn police officer I saw, he would shoot me, giving me no time to think about giving up.
"Kid, come on, get inside, quick!" An elderly man whispered, his voice barely audible. I turned to my right, my heart racing at warp speed, my eyes widening as I feared I had been caught. However, when I beheld the short, elderly man with a crinkled face, his blue eyes, walking stick, and old-fashioned attire, my heart and eyes both eased. His hand extended towards me, and I grasped it. He hoisted me to my feet, then guided my arm around his shoulder as we made our way to the black wooden door of the white house.
He led me inside the cosy house, and then, stepping aside, he nodded at me. "Hurry, get inside," he whispered, his voice a bit louder this time. I nodded and quickly entered, observing the light outside fading as the old man gently closed the door, locking it and ensuring that no prying eyes could peer in, thanks to the curtains blocking all views.
As I awkwardly stood by the door, I realised I was in a small living room. There was an old-fashioned brown leather sofa and a wall-mounted flat television playing some vintage shows. The room exuded warmth and tranquilly as I watched the old man make his way slowly into the kitchen. There were faint sounds of rummaging for a while before he returned with a medicine box and seated himself on the sofa.
"Come, sit down, lad," he said, gesturing for me to join him with a wave of his hand.
I took a moment to ponder whether I should heed his advice, and ultimately, I chose to do so. I walked over to the sofa, positioning myself in front of the elderly man. I turned my gaze towards the wall with the TV, lowering myself onto the plush sofa. Leaning back, I couldn't help but emit a low groan as another twinge of pain shot through my abdomen. I hissed softly, jerking slightly in response to the sudden shock of agony.
However, I felt the man's warm, wrinkled hand settle on my left shoulder, compelling me to meet his gaze. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and as I stared into the old man's eyes, all I could perceive was warmth and kindness, a subtle smile playing upon his weathered face.
"I haven't seen you around here before. Are you a wanderer?" The old man inquired in his husky, soothing voice.
"Yeah," I mumbled, my voice low to spare my strained abdominal muscles. "I came for food supplies. I had none back at my camp."
The old man studied me in silence, my words lingering in the air. He then directed his attention to his vivid red medicine box, opening it to reveal a collection of bandages and first-aid supplies.
"A camp? Are you a hiker or running away?" The man posed the question in a straightforward manner, but for some reason, it made my palms grow sweaty, and a trickle of perspiration slid down the back of my neck. I hesitated to answer for so long that the old man took notice. He maintained his warm gaze, his smile unwavering. "Don't worry, lad. If you're on the run, whether from the law or just seeking freedom, you're welcome in this village, even though it's currently under 'siege,' I suppose."
His voice carried a comforting tone, but beneath it, there was a tinge of sadness that he couldn't quite conceal. He cleared his throat and reached for a bandage, lifting my shirt. I peered down at the wound, observing that it had torn further, and blood continued to seep from the bullet wound.
"How old is this bullet wound? It doesn't appear recent," he remarked, clucking his tongue and retrieving a pair of metal tweezers from the medicine box.
"It's, um, about a week old. I couldn't do much to treat it because most of the hospitals in the north are still under construction. It's been lawless for thirty years since the civil war," I mumbled, watching the old man focus on the bullet wound.
As the tweezers hovered near the wound, he glanced up at me. "May I?" he asked for my permission. I nodded and bit down on my sleeve, bracing for the excruciating pain. The tweezers slipped into the wound, sending agonising waves through my body. It felt like torture, with the tweezers probing and manoeuvring within the wound until they seemed to catch onto something.
"I've got it," the old man chuckled softly. "This is going to hurt quite a bit." He warned me. I bit down harder on my sleeve as I felt the bullet being painstakingly extracted from my wound, the tweezers squishing around. I clutched the end of the sofa, groaning loudly as the pain and tears overwhelmed me.
"It's okay; it's okay. The bullet is out," the old man reassured me, presenting the golden bullet covered in my blood between the tweezers. He placed it in the box and proceeded to dress my wound with the utmost patience.
"How did you get shot?" he inquired as he worked on my wound. I had no reason to lie; my story was likely public knowledge.
"I was involved in a bank robbery with some guys. The heist went terribly wrong, and I got shot before I could even raise my hands. I had to steal a car, and, well, I accidentally killed someone," I confessed, my voice choking with guilt.
"Oh, you're that Simon Richardson fellow, right? You've been in the news a lot lately," the old man chuckled while tending to my wound. Oddly, I didn't feel any fear; I felt somewhat at ease.
I was well aware that the bank robbery would make quite a stir, being the first of its kind since Bristol became the capital city after London's decline due to a lack of funds to maintain its status as the capital of the new Republic of England. That city had been utterly destroyed during the 43-year civil war—a conflict that claimed too many lives due to the rigged elections in 2024.
My father, as it turned out, had been one of the rebels during the war, and his militant approach towards the Richardson Gang, of which he was the leader, seemed somewhat understandable. Growing up with my father had been challenging; he was extremely strict but not abusive.
Lost in my thoughts, a question suddenly crossed my mind as I watched the old man lean back after tending to my wound. "Sir, um, this might be a personal question, but were you involved in the civil war?"
The man fell into a prolonged silence, his gaze fixed on me, before he finally replied, "In a way, yes. I served as a neutral medic. I treated many soldiers from all factions, except for the terrorists."
"Is that so? Um, thank you for helping me," I said, groaning as I began to stand up cautiously, mindful not to strain the wound he had just treated. As I rose, he suddenly grabbed my hand. I shifted my gaze to him, his eyes reflecting concern.
"Where are you going?" he inquired.
"Leaving. I can't stay in here for too long. You might become a target," I replied, extricating my hand from his grasp while keeping my gaze fixed on him.
"Don't worry about the MacKenzie Gang. They don't venture near my area; they keep to themselves in the centre," the old man chuckled, using the sofa for support as he rose, coming to within a breath's distance from me.
"But I just killed one of their men. I'm covered in blood, and..." I started, but he hushed me by placing a finger on my lips.
"Just, please, stay in the house for the night. I can give you some spare clothes; you seem to have the same build as my son," the old man smiled, turning away and disappearing down the hallway. He returned with spare black joggers and a black shirt, offering them to me along with a towel.
"Your son?" I couldn't contain my curiosity. The old man's smile vanished instantly, and he averted his gaze to the floor, as if struggling to hold back tears.
"Yes, my beautiful son. The MacKenzie Gang killed him when they raided this village. They accused him of stealing from them while he was hiking near Glasgow. They've been here ever since, looting every building in this village and treating it like a military outpost," he said with a heavy heart. He cleared his throat and coughed slightly, patting his chest to hold back the tears before forcing a small, fake smile. "Go ahead, son, have a shower. I'll prepare some food."
I was left speechless, not knowing what to say. I chose to follow his instructions and headed for the bathroom. However, as I stood in the bathroom, I swore I could hear sniffling coming from the living room.
I think he was crying.