Clouds of Blood |4|

A serialised dystopian horror story. Flash fiction chapters.

Previously |1|. |2|. |3|

|4|

Cry stood alongside the other men, his mouth open, letting the drops of bloody rain fall into his mouth. He stuck out his tongue, the acrid drops slid down his throat. The same clouds that birthed him, now quenched his thirst. The blood washed all over his body. Tall he was, one of the tallest of the pack. Shamani observed him. Shamani made him. Shamani taught him. Day and night he created Cry anew, from a helpless human-clone, to a walking and talking man. All his wisdom Shamani poured into Cry’s mind.

Many days and nights of the blood rain had passed, and Cry had become the same as them; a survivor on the dead planet Earth, coming to life inch by inch. The desert bloomed, full of new life. The times were good.

“What’d’ya’ say, Shamani? A good time for mating, eh?” Buck approached the giant, grinning.

“Hm…” Shamani closed his eyes, and inhaled the tangy wind. “I can feel their scent. A new tribe. We’ll send out the messengers soon.”

Buck gave a hungry laugh.

“Can’t wait for them gals,” he said, rubbing his dirty hands.

“The seed needs to be sown. We need strong youngsters, both them and us,” Shamani said sternly.

“Ain’t nothing like sowing that seed!” Buck grinned.

Shamani shook his grey head. His dark eyes found Cry, running around with the others, picking up pieces of clone flesh to take with them. A feast awaited. Shamani smiled like a proud father, when Cry waved at him.

Buck’s beard couldn’t hide the deep hate crawling up his face.

***

“This one’s too wet. Won’t burn,” Cry said, trying to make a fire. It was his turn tonight. Buck and Colt gathered the wood.

“We’ll get better wood,” Colt said, but Buck stopped him.

“No. We ain’t taking orders from a piece of meat.” He eyed the crouching Cry, standing tall above him.

“What?” Cry stood up.

“You’re not like us,” Buck grunted.

“Yes, I am,” Cry objected. He knew he wasn’t. Shamani held no secrets from him. Not only was he a foul-born reject from a higher human civilization above them, but he was pale, tall, blue-eyed, and blond. Others were natural survivors, born the right way. Others had survived rough childhoods in the desert. Others were tawny, bearded, and black-haired. Immune to the sun, burning and peeling off Cry’s gentle skin. Cry was different.

“You’re nothing like us. You should’ve died when you fell. You’re a mistake,” Buck said. His black eyes glanced around quickly. Shamani was out of sight, busy chopping up the clone meat in smaller chunks.

“No, Shamani says…”

Buck punched him in the face before he finished. Cry yelled, grabbing his nose. Buck rammed him. Cry fell. He kicked Cry’s stomach again, and again, and again. Colt joined in, after Buck gave the sign. Blood filled Cry’s throat, and mouth. He couldn’t breathe. A gurgling yawp broke out his open mouth, vomiting blood, and remains of food.

Shamani’s heavy steps neared them. He kicked Buck, and Colt without a word, both scurried into the dark like cowardly mutts.

Once again, Shamani picked up his son, and carried him to his tent. Without a word, he wiped Cry’s mouth clear of blood and vomit, and began treating his wounds.

“Why did you let them?” Cry asked.

Shamani smiled at him.

“You see more than others. You are different, not only on the outside. On the inside. They will attack. Get used to it. The different ones always suffer,” Shamani leaned in closer, “you suffer, or you fight.”

“Why did you save me? I’m a mistake,” Cry’s bloodshot eyes filled with tears.

“You are my son sent from the Beyond. You will understand someday,” Shamani looked at the stars above, “someday soon. You will see, and you will hear what the Beyond whispers.”

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