Tears in the Fabric of Time

Five

FiveThe cold bit deep. Jude shivered, holding himself, rubbing his bare arms vigorously, trying to get the blood to circulate and bring some semblance of life back to his limbs. Father appeared immune, striding ahead, cutting through the water like a great ship, a miniature tidal wave following in his wake.

“Slow down, for God's sake,” hissed Jude.

Father craned his neck around and glared. “We've been down here long enough, Jude. It's best if we get out of here before nightfall. We haven't got any torches and the thought of being down here with an army of rats…” He shuddered. “No thanks. Now, come on.”

Jude bit his tongue. What was the point in arguing when his father was like this, a man possessed? Being surrounded by disease-ridden vermin, however, was not a comforting thought and it spurred him on. Although he had already spotted one or two, when night fell the rats would pour from their hiding places, hungry, desperate to feast. If he could clear his mind, erase the images of stinking furry bodies roving all over him, the journey may not prove to be so bad after all. Time would pass, the discomfort in his soaking feet and frozen body would fade. All he had to do was keep moving.

He bumped into father standing rigid and gave a start. “What is it?” Jude, angry that his father had so quickly come to a halt, stepped up next to him and gasped.

Due to the gloom, it was difficult to be sure, but at least four of them stood, stripped to the waist, bodies hard, streaked with filth, barring their way. Their heads were shaven, curious tattoos etched across upper bodies, the design some form of creature with long limbs ending in claws. In each hand, they held makeshift weapons, heavy clubs with sharp shards of metal protruding from the top edge, and curved blades. Jude stared hard and managed to discern slight differences between them, but from a distance they looked the same. Exact copies of each other, and all of them terrifying.

“Who are you?”

The one who spoke was slightly ahead of the others. His eyes, like narrow slits, gave away none of his feelings. He flexed his arms, the muscles rippling, raised his blade and pointed it towards Father. “Speak now or die.”

Jude sensed his father tensing with fury and gripped his arm. “Please, Father. Do as they say.”

“That's good advice,” came another voice.

Relaxing, Father shook his head and spoke, voice small but controlled, “We're nobodies.”

“Why are you down here, Mister Nobody?”

Jude looked back down the tunnel they had come from, suppressing the urge to run. Within a few steps they'd be upon him with their clubs, and Father, what would happen to him? So he waited, struggling not to breathe too hard, but his heart thumped so powerfully that he felt sure everyone would hear. This wasn't good. The threat, everywhere, and Father not in the least bit concerned, almost relishing the opportunity to face them down. Without another thought, Jude threw out his hands. “We were running from the militia!”

Father swung around and glared at his son. “Jude.”

“It's true,” continued Jude, ignoring his father. “We were trying to get away. That's all. We had no idea this was your patch.”

“Patch?” The leader, assuming he was the leader, having spoken first, turned to his companions and laughed. “What's that, some sort of street speak?” He grinned at Jude. “This whole system is our patch, as if you didn't know.”

One of the others sloshed through the murky filth. “You sure it was militia?”

“Militia, I'm certain of it.” Jude caught the glare from his father and swallowed hard.

“No one escapes from the militia, not if they don't want you to.”

“Which leaves us with only one conclusion.” They all grinned now, and the leader stroked his blade with a well-bent thumb. “You must have been sent down here by the militia yourself.”

“Informers.”

“No!” Jude tugged at his father's arm again. “Tell them, please.”

“We're not informers.”

Jude didn't like the tone in his father's voice. He grew more tense, as if readying himself to strike. It didn't take a genius to realise, as Jude himself did, that there were too many of these strangers, and they were armed. There could be no chance of prevailing if father decided to attack, but the more Jude gazed at his father, willing him to turn his way, see the fear, the more he became more convinced that Father was in no mood for compromise. His entire body, rigid, fists clenched, telegraphed his intent. The atmosphere grew hot, a brewing electric charge of imminent violence. Jude knew there was nothing he could do. The strangers were moving forward, crouched, blades and clubs looking even more vicious than before.

It was too late.