📖 The Ghost of Emily - Chapter 9

In which a desperate father runs himself straight into captivity.

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“Maaiiissiiieeee!” Jake Thorne screamed hoarsely as he ran, clutching his Lee-Enfield in his sweaty palms. His thighs burned, blood surging urgently downward from his heart, powering the relentless run he had endured for hours. The ice cold air had pricked at his skin like a shower of needles, but now he was numb. Every part of him throbbed dully, and every square inch of his skin was wet with sweat. His heels were bleeding. Blisters had risen in minutes, in desperate defence of the precious lifeblood that lay beneath their bulging exterior, and had popped seconds later under the strain of the ceaseless grinding of skin to boot leather. His footsteps sent claps of sound in all directions as he tore along the bitumen roads of the town, lit only by the moon.

His route felt purposeful, planned, but it was not. He turned every corner with complete commitment, but while his body led the charge without an iota of doubt, his mind was mired in the utter futility of his search. He did not know if she was still alone, or if she had been taken. He assumed the latter, as he surely would have found her by now unless she was assisted; carried by the ghost of Emily.

In the recesses of his mind, a voice was telling him to give up. He had no idea which way she would be going. He had already failed. He failed by not waking when Maisie slipped out. He failed by not locking the door, or hammering it shut. He failed by allowing Maisie to believe that there was any sense in leaving. He failed by not making her understand the horror that her mother’s mirage was bringing into their lives, so she could know that the ghost was the harbinger of death.

But Jake’s flesh and blood pushed on, rifle in arm. His feet dashed from road to grass, grass to porch. They rose and kicked in doors, tore up stairs, out of back doors. They leapt over fences and landed back on the hard black roads.

Jake reached the plateau of a low graded hill in the town. He was deep in the centre of the abandoned settlement now, with houses sprawling as far as his red, stinging eyes were able to see. His body, finally unable to continue without rest or water, collapsed beneath him, bringing his vision and his mind down to the bitumen with a cracking thud. His rifle smashed to the ground and loosed its load, the devastating thunder of the charge repeating down the hill, into the town, and dancing rapidly between every building. The echoes faded as quickly as Maisie had slipped from his grasp.

He lay on his back on the ground, his body drenched and heaving uncontrollably in complete exhaustion. His arms fell out to his sides and his vision was filled with the brightening morning sky. He bore down on his abdominal muscles and roared the fiercest scream he could utter, his lips articulating the name of his beloved daughter. The sound that escaped his lips was a dry, toneless whisper, like the tearing of paper.

You won’t find her now, go back to Gus, said a calm voice within.

He pulled himself up. As he rose, he suddenly felt something hard slam across his chest and he fell back, his arms flailing behind to catch himself in a dishevelled sprawl. Two silhouetted figures loomed over him. As he focussed his vision, he saw two men with dirty faces and layers of grimy patchwork clothing strewn across their lean, angular bodies. They held rifles, and wore hateful expressions on their gaunt, mud-smeared faces. Both men raised their weapons and pointed them straight at Jake’s face. He was in a state of shock, and said nothing, but his body recoiled in reflexive defence, his elbows holding his weight as he opened his hands wide to gesture surrender. His elbows tried to burrow through the bitumen, to help him escape death. His buttocks and legs tried to melt into liquid and seep through the cracks and potholes in the road, to evade annihilation.

One man spoke. “Who’re you?!” he snapped, thrusting his weapon forward.

Jake spluttered, desperately reaching for the right words to say, and the voice to say them, “I’m... I’m no... I’m no-one!”

The man’s eyes narrowed, his face contorting into an evil grimace that caused Jake’s eyes to slam shut and his hands to squeeze in towards his chest, bracing for the deadly entry of a bullet.

The man began to laugh.

Jake opened his eyes, and both men were now smiling at him, laughing to each other.

“No-one, hey?!” asked the second man, “Well... so are we! We are all no-one out here. No-one is anywhere you look, anyone you meet," he smiled and lowered his rifle. He reached out and offered Jake a hand to help him up, as the first man spoke again.

“Have you got a name, no-one?”

As Jake was pulled to his feet he felt his legs almost buckle beneath him. In a show of survivalist bravado, as if the men’s impression of him was his last and only weapon against them, he pushed through the pain and weakness and stood tall, straightened his clothing and looked the first man deeply in the eyes.

Jake was taller than both men. He looked down at them and saw that they were malnourished, hunched, and - now that he was standing - intimidated. Both men hunched down a little further before him.

Jake had not seen another man for years, and he had forgotten how emaciated most of them were. He had forgotten how outstanding he was among men, because his competition each day was not with other men, but with nature - and with a ghost.

“My name is Jake Thorne," he said slowly through a raspy timbre. He raised an eyebrow and waited for a response.

“Jim," said the first man.

“Phil," said the second.

They each nodded at each other.

“What are you doing out here, Jake Thorne?” Jim enquired.

Jake heard the subtle squeak of the rifle stock as Jim’s hand wrung it slightly, as if realising once again that he held the power, and that Jake was a stranger. Jake had been about to reply I’m looking for my daughter, but the sound coupled with a subtle shift of expression on Phil’s face made him decide to proceed with caution. I don’t know these men. If they are even men. They could be ghosts. They could be cannibals. I must protect the kids.

Jake’s eyes darted upward for a moment and saw the blue sky. He knew that by now Gus would be making his way back to the tree line with Nimrod. There he would hide, and when Jake knew he was free and alone he would find him again and resume the quest for Maisie.

“I’m looking for food. I’ve been in the bush for a while. This is the first town I’ve seen in a few years.”

The men looked at him, incredulous.

“Y-years?!” stammered Phil.

“Yes,” said Jake calmly. “Every time I went to a town before, I found ghosts. I’ve been trying to avoid them. But game has been slim out there; I haven’t eaten for a few days.”

Jim looked Jake up and down. Jake felt conscious of his muscular form, and hoped it did not betray his lie.

“God damned ghosts!” blurted Phil. “I don’t blame you, mate. They are best avoided." He looked at Jim for reassurance, who looked back at him, and nodded. Jake heard the squeak of Jim’s hand relaxing on his rifle once again.

“There’s no food left in this town, Jake. Believe me. We’ve been here a while, and our militia has collected it all. You’ll need to come with us if you want food.”

Jake smiled, as warm and trusting a smile as he was able to fake. “Jim... Phil... I’ve been going it alone for some time now. I prefer it that way. I will leave this place if you say there is no food and I will look elsewhere.” He took a small step backward, watching the men cautiously. Both men tightened their grips on their weapons and raised them, slightly.

Jim shook his head. “You’ll need to come with us," he said gravely.

“I see," said Jake. “Okay then.”

Phil collected Jake’s discharged rifle and shouldered it. Then they led him down the road, weapons not pointed at him, but held steadfastly in their sweaty hands.