No Choice

The Man Who Wouldn't Die – Episode 6 | Flash Fiction #35

Last time on The Man Who Wouldn’t Die…

After a visit from an old friend, Bee made up her mind and decided it was time to settle an old score.

If you haven’t read any episodes, please find Episode One linked below.

The Man Who Wouldn't Die (AV Edition)

And now for the continuation…

Photo by Todd Diemer on Unsplash

Relentless gusts of wind tore at them, chilling them to the bone. Samson took the lead. He knew the ice better than anyone, and Bee wondered how he could find his way through the thick snowfall. It was impossible to see anything. They had tethered themselves with a piece of rope to avoid losing one another in this white wasteland.

After they had left Stoer, the weather turned from bad to worse as they made their way north along the coast until they could no longer see a nose’s length before them. For two days, they marched through the storm with no sleep and no rest. Part of Bee was glad Samson had come. Another part wished him safely back home, but she knew better than to talk Samson out of something he had set his mind to.

“How much further,” asked Vee, her voice lost in the howling wind.

Samson raised his arm and pointed at something invisible in the distance.

“That’s Scapa,” he replied. “Almost there.”

She looked but saw nothing except endless ice stretching before them.

When they stepped onto Scapa Beach, they had been on their feet for over two days and could not go any further. The few standing buildings had long been abandoned and reclaimed by Mother Nature. They entered one of the ruins, its walls high enough to shelter them from the wind.

“We need to get a fire going,” grunted Samson as he heaved his stiff body to his feet, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

Bee blew into her hands and rubbed them together in a vain attempt to regain a modicum of feeling in her fingers. Vee nodded in acknowledgement and followed Samson to look for firewood. When they returned, Bee had already built a fireplace from the rubble. Before long, they huddled close around the flickering fire as the storm raged through the night.

Early next morning, after not nearly enough rest and stiff as icicles, they continued north towards Kirkwall. The sun rose in a steel-blue sky, the air was crisp, and the plains were covered with a sparkling blanket of snow, making what was supposed to be a short two-mile hike long and tedious.

“A kingdom for snowshoes, eh?” Samson tried to lighten the mood, only to draw the ire of his companions.

“This Black Betty friend of yours better have some good grub,” Vee said what was on everyone’s mind: warm food and a place to melt the chill from their bones. Her skin was pale, her face thin and sunken, a shadow of her former self. Bee looked at her, tired and weary, nodded and marched on, driven by a hunger burning deep inside her.

“Aye, she does. Oh, the mere thought of that ale…” Samson smacked his lips and quickened his stride, compelled by the promise of sustenance.

When they arrived at the Triple B, the doors were barred shut. Samson called out but received no reply.

“Blimey, where’s everyone?” Samson muttered.

“We haven’t seen a soul on our way here. Maybe they’re all gone. Another ghost town,” said Vee, scanning the rooftops for signs of movement, ready for conflict. So was Bee. She listened intently, slowly walking further up the road, signalling them to follow her.

“What is it?” asked Samson in a whisper.

Bee held a finger to her lips and leaned against the wall, peeking around the corner of the building as the sound of church bells echoed across town. They looked at each other in surprise and stepped into the street leading up to the cathedral, its door wide open. There, they saw a bent woman and a man disappearing within.

Before Samson could stop her, Bee followed them, and together they entered the cathedral. It looked as if the whole town was assembled there. Betty was on the pulpit, surrounded by her congregation, shouting, angry and scared.

“QUIET, ye lousy lot!” Betty’s voice boomed. She was a shrewd, sharp-witted, small woman with a voice like thunder, dressed all in black, wrinkled and weathered by the elements, and steeled by the tempest of time.

Samson smiled. “That’s Betty.”

“Unconventional way to address your flock,” said Vee.

Bee wondered why Betty was the leader of this town, but Samson was as surprised as she was. In the sudden silence, they realized all eyes were on them.

“Some nerve, showing up here after what ye pulled last time,” Betty bellowed, pointing at Samson with a gnarly, long finger.

Samson went purple and smiled nervously in defence. The mob parted, and they found themselves in front of the leader.

“I should have ye flogged and fed to the pigs!” Betty snarled.

“But Betty…” Samson stammered.

“Ahh, come ‘ere, ye big oaf,” Betty grinned as she stepped down from the pulpit and opened her arms. Samuel let out a short laugh and submitted to the bony embrace.

“Ye haven’t lost yer touch, I give ye that! —Ye have pigs?” Samson said with questioning eyes.

“Wish we did! Trying times, ole fren. This ‘ere’s all that’s left of us,” her voice trailed off, then her eyes narrowed. “Scavengers,” she cursed and continued. “Bastards came with the storm last night. I’m sorry, Samson. I didn’t have a choice,” she said, her eyes darting to the entrance.

“Betty? What choice?” Samson frowned.

“They knew ye were coming.”

“What have ye done, Betty?”

“They took our young ones, Samson. Ye have to understand…”

“Ye sold us out?”

“Oh please, they’re hunters, Samson. Hunters! They’re not our kind.”

“You don’t believe that, do ye? They are bloody scavengers, Betty. They can’t be trusted!”

“There was no other way. I wish there were. They took our children, Samson!”

“There’s always another way—” Samson began when the doors to the church swung wide open, and a group of rough-looking individuals, swinging all sorts of makeshift weapons, came down the aisle towards them.

“Well done, old crone! You really delivered this time. I’m impressed!” said the leader of the pack of scavengers.

Stay tuned for Episode 07 next week! Will Bee reach Brae, or will the Scavengers take them to meet their Unmaker?

I wanted to revisit this little story for some time, and in between insurance woes, sending out CVs, Spherean draft zero work, and weekly progress updates (I broke the 50k word barrier!), Bee kept buzzing around in my head. So I caved and sent her on her merry way to Kirkwall without a clue what would happen once she got there. It seems obvious now, doesn't it? Let me know what you think of the latest developments concerning Bee’s journey.

As for her future, her journey is far from over. That much is clear. Meanwhile, I was playing around with book cover ideas. Here’s a first draft.

The Chronicles of Samuel Carter – Update

I have finished editing all of Carter, which is roughly 30k words. Book layout is next, and once that is done, I will post preorder links here. I am still finalising the book cover. Here’s what I have thus far.

The above is a mix of my own design and AI, edited. Thoughts?

AI can be useful for concept iteration, no doubt, but it often isn’t good enough for the final product. Not yet, anyway. I am actually contemplating removing all AI-generated images from all my posts. I have enough photos in my archives I could use, like the one below for “Monster,” a shot I took a few years back when I was in Malta.

How do you feel about AI images in fiction posts? Looking forward to your comments!

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