The blood dried on his face under the intense heat. He could feel his skin being pulled in different directions causing itching and stretching in ways that he found more distasteful than the viscous fluid caking on his cheeks and mouth. But he dared not move. He directed all of his energy to his breathing, making sure, as he had been taught by his father, that his lungs slowly filled and emptied in long, controlled cycles. Not ragged gulps of air, which, only a month ago he would have found impossible to control.
The encounter had been swift and brutal, he had survived, but barely. His broken body lay on the strange forest floor, limbs twisted at angles that reminded him of his favourite super-hero action figures, tossed carelessly to one side when boredom set in.
At eleven years old, he had witnessed things he could not believe, had survived horrors that would have driven most to breaking point and still battled on. His father was no longer with him; their last exchange had been harsh, something he now had time to regret, which he did, he supposed. Not that he had many moments to reflect, they couldn’t stop. The pressure to keep moving, keep shooting, keep quiet was overwhelming, but even at his tender age, no-one had to reinforce the reasons why.
As he lay still on the ground, his mind wandered to the others within the small group, trying to make their way in this alien world of unfamiliar terrain and odd buildings. Structures that seemed to be one thing but turned out to be something completely different when looked at from different angles. Some of the others had adapted quickly, in fact, some seemed to revel in this artificial environment. His only objective was to get through each day, burning in the strange daylight, grateful for the quiet times, when he could rest. Folding himself into as small a form as he could, not wishing to attract attention.
There was a cry from somewhere behind him. He controlled his breathing again, his mind plummeting to another level of concentration as he dared his nervous system to betray him. Exerting fantastical control, he counted in his head as he inhaled. One… Two… Three… Once he had counted to 12, as his father had shown, he paused for a second and reversed the mantra as he exhaled. The air from his lungs, flowing, rather than rushing out.
He could not move his head to look. He had to remain completely still. He knew this, everything would be lost if he so much as twitched. Playing dead may not be the most heroic thing he had ever done, but to move now would be the end of everything they had worked so hard for. All of the planning, the long, drawn-out conversations. This was it; this was their end game. Hundreds of people were relying on him. It was essential that he do this. He could taste the blood in his mouth as his saliva dissolved small, dried flakes around his lips. He did not want to swallow; he did not want to taste it. He wanted to see his father again. Speak to him. Tell him he was sorry they had fought. He couldn’t, he knew that. Angrily he realised that his tear ducts were about to betray him. The temptation to move an arm to wipe away the small rivulet of water that was leaking from his eye was intense. Would it be noticed, not his arm, that was a given, he could not do that, but would the small track moving down his cheek give it all away? He didn’t know. The resonant feeling he was battling with now, after the fight, after the betrayal, after everything that had resulted in him lying here, motionless, waiting, was shame.
The wailing behind him had stopped. Cursing silently, he berated himself for drifting away, distracted by memories of the last conversation he and his father had shared. Was it over? He dared not move. Ridiculously, as he lay in the dried ravine, he became aware of an itch on the back of his left knee. The rough trousers he had found were just brushing the soft, delicate tissue at the top of his calf muscle. In an attempt to distract his brain, he sent it flying over the rest of his body, which was a disaster as he instantly became aware of several other places that needed his immediate attention. Itches in his scalp, dried blood lifting from the gouge in his face by his eye socket, something crawling through is hair? God he was thirsty.
His body locked; his breathing stopped. He could hear movement from behind him. Anticipation replaced shame. He focussed his eyes forward. Had he moved? He cursed his lack of concentration. He didn’t know if he had given himself away. He became fixated on the stripe running down his cheek that the single tear had left. Drying alongside the blood. Unmoving, he concentrated once again on the measured, slow breathing, imperceptible in the glare of the day.
The creature’s mangled face loomed over him. Jet black lips pulled back from a foetid, mottled green skin, to reveal row after row of razor-sharp teeth. Shotgun wounds were visible in its shoulder and chest, leaking dark green fluid that hung in strands, threatening to touch and eat into the boys already battered body. The creature looked at him for what seemed an eternity, and then, leaned back, threw its arms out wide and roared in triumph.
“Cut.” Came a metallic voice from outside the ring of light. “That’s a take, one for the dailies.”
The creature stepped back, and the boy’s vision was suddenly filled with half a dozen people looking down at him. “Good job Ethan.” Said one, the AD he thought. “Loved the single tear, Tim wants a close up on that, great bit of acting. Can you do it again?”
Ethan sat up and was handed a plastic bottle. “Sure.” He said, taking a sip of water “Has anyone got my phone, I want to call my dad.”
