Clouds of Blood |10|

A serialised dystopian horror story

Previously |9|

|10|

The clouds of blood had wept all morning, only to part when Cry, and Colt finally limped into the territory of their pack. The wild hound had wounded Colt’s foot, and Cry had beaten him up good. But the latter wasn’t looking much better either; tired to death from the lack of sleep, scarred and bruised. The two men supported each other’s tired steps, tripping over roots, and stringy plants crawling under their feet.

Shamani stood waiting for them. He knew. Shamani knew they’ll come. The rest of the men lingered nearby. They cheered low at the sight of the two.

When they reached Shamani, he looked them up and down, stared deep into Cry’s bloodshot eyes, then embraced him without a word. The tall man disappeared in the giant’s wide arms. Cry barely held back tears breaking their way through his eyes. The days they were away felt like years. The spider’s poison had tainted his dreams, turning his rest into battles with nightmares.

“You are home, my son,” Shamani said only for him to hear.

“Is the seeding happenin’? We have a contract?” Buck yelled behind Shamani’s back. He appeared to be unpleasantly surprised by Cry coming back.

“Sure do! Cry did the talkin’. He got the contract. He did good,” Colt said, patting Cry on the back. Buck gave him a hateful stare, which Colt withstood with proud contempt, and a grim smirk.

The men roared and cheered; the contract meant their bloodline will go on. Their seed will create new life, their knowledge will live on.

***

“There’s something clouding your mind, my son,” said Shamani, after handing him a pair of scissors. Cry sat cutting his own hair shorter, all men were busy improving their looks – the seeding demanded them to look their best. Over the years of his long life, and many travels of his nomadic tribe, Shamani had gathered a collection of peculiar items. Plastic bottles, paper scraps with signs on them, scissors to cut hair, and beards, sharp blades to shave them off. Shamani insisted the men shave before the seeding, though after travelling for three days they still would have stubble growing on their chins, it was somewhat better than a pack of bearded savages approaching the females. Cry didn’t need it. His face was smooth, no beard ever grew on it.

“Cry? Is there anything troubling you?” Shamani repeated after Cry kept his silence.

“There’s nothin’,” Cry muttered under his nose. He remembered Maya, and blushed.

“Cry, you won’t be taking part in seeding fights this time. You are not ready.”

Shamani’s words stroke him like lightning. Cry ignored him, cutting his own hair as short as he could. Shamani always knew what was on his mind.

“Trust me, son. You are not ready.”

“I’m a good fighter,” Cry said stubbornly. He never revealed Colt’s betrayal, and the fight. All he and Colt mentioned was the attack of the wild mutt. The men didn’t ask any further.

“You are not ready,” Shamani repeated, calm as ever.

An uproar outside Shamani’s tent drew their attention.

Cry rushed out, only to witness Buck beating the daylight out of Colt in plain sight. Before any of the men had intervened, Cry ran up to Buck, and smashed his face with his huge fist. He helped Colt up, the latter coughing up blood. Shamani walked to them; that was the only reason why Buck didn’t attack Cry. He stood up with his nose bleeding, spat at Cry’s feet, growled, “I’ll destroy you, bitch,” and walked away.

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