... to get to the other side. #4
Chapter 4 - Where we meet tiny Vikings ... who saw that coming!
I think will need to make some more collages - this is far too good.
If this is where you have started - that’s fine, no judgement, but if you are after a more conventional narrative experience, perhaps I can interest you in Chapter 1, Chapter 2 or even the excellent Chapter 3…
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Chapter 4
Thor stood on the road. His face warmed by the rising sun. He knew this was the only time of day his skin would feel the elemental warmth as the heat and energy of Sol slid between the broken earth and ruined sky.
Great beams of light woke the insects from their slumber, armies of ants began their endless march, roaches scuttled, beetles flexed and flew, and the spiders… well, who cared what the spiders were doing? Thor hated spiders and, to illustrate this, slammed his hammer down hard on a large garden variety that dared to move whilst he was sunning himself. Thor considered the spider pancake, now dispersed over Mjölnir’s flat plastic end. One day, Thor would get a real hammer and make people pancakes.
“Booo!”
Thor jumped, instinctively swinging the large toy hammer around in a wide defensive arc, hitting Odin square on the cheek. Odin squealed in pain.
“Why’d you do that, you twat?” complained Odin, forgoing the classic vernacular as was often the case when he was really upset, like being slapped with a hammer or stubbing his toe.
“Cause you made me jump, you twat!”
“You’re a twat!”
“Twat.”
“Double Twat, no comebacks!”
‘Bugger…’ thought Thor, ‘…that’s why Odin was the leader of their gang. He was smarter.’
Thor bowed in defeat, ending their ancient battle for another day.
“Any movement?” Said Odin, deepening his pitch-perfect eight-year-old voice as much as he could. It was important to sound like men when doing man things… his father had beaten that into him, or somebody’s father had, back when there were fathers. Their family had moved on months ago, leaving the two brothers in a locked cupboard with a picture book about Vikings and a toy hammer. Odin may never know whether they abandoned the brothers or simply forgot to eat them before moving. One day, after many adventures, he would ask his father.
Then eat him.
Odin smiled at the thought.
“Good. We wait then.”
The two trainee gods stared at the Victorian terrace house with the shiny black cab parked out front. The wind tugged at their rag-tag collection of thrifted Romanesque fancy dress mixed with open-toed sandals and plastic armour. As Sol disappeared behind the smog, the bright morning turned to murky day, and the mighty duo faded into shadow, being extra careful not to stub their toes.
Inside, Brorwck had finished her breakfast and was pacing up and down on the landing outside the late Mrs Dawson’s bed-tomb. Her tiny tummy was full, but her enormous mind was spinning. Although she knew Charlie meant well, she was confused by his feeding his dead mother to her. She was just a chicken, the last chicken, yes, but just a chicken. Feeding her the maggots who fed off his mother felt important.
That she meant something.
More than just a chicken or a job.
As Brorwck reached the stairs leading down, she remembered the picture that had caught her eye. Chickens aren’t blessed with long memories.
Was it Nina?
She had to find out.
This is easier said than done when you’re 18 inches tall and can’t fly.
She cocked her head to listen for sounds from the bedroom. There were plenty. Charlie was rummaging, ripping, opening drawers, pulling down boxes from wardrobes, and whistling… he was thinking he was busy. He’d asked her to wait outside.
It was now or never.
Brorwck hopped down three steps. The tight curve of the stairs and the steep incline meant she was already out of sight of the landing. She looked up, craning to see the target picture. There were so many. She didn’t remember there being this many. The pictures went up and down the wall. Every frame was different, randomly positioned, a buckshot of memories blasted across the wall. She knew she had to leap at least as tall as Charlie, six feet, which was right at the top end of what a fit, free-ranging chicken could do. Unfortunately, Brorwck was more of a bookish, no-ranging chicken.
She hopped up one stair, stretched her tiny wings and launched upwards. Small white downy feathers flew off in all directions as she crashed into the wall, her sharp claws scrabbled for purchase but found only glass. She looked left and right as gravity took over, and she dropped four steps, landing heavily.
“BKaw!”
Brorwck shook her body, checking herself for any damage as the white feathers floated down. Taking a deep breath (as deep as a chicken can), she hopped back up the steep stairs.
She needed to find the picture.
She needed to go higher.
She needed to flap harder.
On the second stair from the top, she could clearly hear Charlie’s whistling. She knew as soon as Charlie left the room, having completed whatever task he had set himself, they would be off, and the opportunity gone. Despite having made only one attempt, Brorwck knew in her heart she had to make it this time; rule of three be damned…
Inside the bedroom, Charlie considered his handy work. He was never much of a present wrapper, and his latest attempt would not erase years of ham-fisted paper-folding ugliness. However, as Molly once assured him, “It’s the thought that counts. Mum will love it.”
She didn’t, of course. Who could love a box covered with screwed-up wrapping paper wrapped in yards of twisted sticky tape? But she had the grace to lie well, which was good enough for the both of them. White lies wrapped in sticky tape, holding them together until they couldn’t lie anymore.
Is that how all relationships end?
Not that any of it matters now. There were no more lies, only rotting, damp, dead truth in every house, gutter and road. The lies we told ourselves tipped the scales so hard that it would be centuries before anyone could lie again.
Even with all this truth, nothing seemed to make sense. His life since Molly’s death had become a twisted fever dream. Who wraps up bits of their dead mother like a present for a chicken?
When did life get this strange?
Was this strange?
Who cares?
None of this matters, just the mission. Get Brorwck to the lab in Windsor, no matter what. And if that meant wrapping your dead mum’s maggot-filled arm like a present so as not to attract attention (from hungry Londoners) and ensure the chicken ate, well, that’s just what you do, right?
He shook his head to clear the thoughts, making the tune waver as it leaked from his chapped lips. He’d forgotten he was whistling. He’d forgotten what the song was called. But he remembered where he’d first heard it. A toy of Molly’s, a kid’s record player with coloured plastic discs. The Orange one… something to do with London falling but in a jolly way.
More lies.
A sudden crash from the hallway snapped the tune off in his mouth. In seconds, he was at the door with a crowbar in his hand, a weapon left for his mother when she was alive. He’d felt better knowing whoever grabbed it first would make it quick. The world will kill you; your only choice is how.
Today, crowbar…
Charlie carefully opened the door.
…or, stabbed in the dark…
He sweated, his hand started shaking, his heart raced, and breath shortened…
…or PTSD-induced anxiety… the choice is yours.
Odin raised his staff to signal, but Thor had already stopped moving. They heard the crash. Something was happening, and they had to be ready or risk losing the chicken. Thor lifted his hammer and slowly curled a second dirty hand around the moulded handle, ready for battle. Charlie was big. He would need to hit him with everything he had.
“You go first”, whispered Odin.
“Why?”
Odin rested the heavy hand of fate on the warrior’s shoulder. “You’re Thor, it’s what you do.”
Thor nodded. It is what he did.
He crouched low and ran across the rubble, sidling up as close to the cab as he dared. He knew better than to touch it. They had watched several ‘grownies’ make that mistake during the months they had lived nearby. It was a good show, loads of sparks, screams, and sometimes they burst into flames. Funny to watch, not funny to take part in. Thor looked back to see Odin energetically circling his staff in the air.
“What?” hissed Thor.
Odin whirled the staff faster. Thor screwed up his face and circled Mjölnir angrily in response. Odin stood up, arms raised in confusion.
“Wot you doing?” Hissed Odin “I does the signals!”
“Who says?”
“The book says!”
Thor had to take his brother’s word for it. He couldn’t read the book, and he didn’t understand the signals.
“Wot does…” Thor whirled his hammer “…mean?”
“Go round, you twat!”
“Oh!”
Thor skirted around the Cab and positioned himself to the side of the front door. It sometimes bothered Thor that he did all the work whilst Odin watched, but it was written, so it must be done. Those words appeared on every page of the storybook, according to Odin. So here he was, on his knees, hammer in hand, in another glorious adventure: Thor versus the Chicken.
There can be only one winner.
The anxiety was building up. Charlie gripped his wrist to control the tremors. The crowbar, at forty-five degrees to his body, spirographed in the air as he blinked away sweat.
“Fuck, fuck… FUCK!” This was no time for a panic attack. Not that there was ever a good time for a panic attack. A second louder smash and clatter, followed by a distressed… “Buk BUKARK!”…forced air into his lungs as he shoved the door wide and charged across the landing to the top of the stairs.
“You got five seconds to fucking run…” His voice was military clear. Years of brutal training parting the sea of anxiety coursing through his body.
“…buk!”
“AAAArgh!”
Charlie followed his primal scream down the narrow stairwell. Half jumping, half sliding over the wood and glass debris. He was a warrior ready for battle, but as he slid around the corner, he was met not with hungry humans, just a frightened ball of feathers and claws, which leapt up and out of the way.
“BUKAARK!”
Surprised, Charlie loses his footing. His hand goes down first, glass cutting deep into his palm. Brorwck, now above him, kicks away, her sharp claws scratching deep into his cheek. Charlie twists, slips again, before sliding down the broken glass helter-skelter. Crumpling to a bloody halt at the bottom. Brorwck lands unceremoniously next to him, followed by a light dusting of feathers.
Silence.
She cocks her head in concern the way chickens do.
“Buk?”
Charlie slowly opens his eyes and blinks.
“Hi!”
“Buckark, Buk, Buk, Bukark, Buk,” apologised Brorwck.
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Charlie lied. His arm and face were bleeding from deep cuts, and he had glass all over him.
“What happened?”
Brorwck sheepishly stepped back, revealing the picture of Charlie and Nina beneath her feet.
“Ahh… I see.”
Outside, Thor froze at the ominous sounds of crashing and smashing from the house. His heart was racing, his palms sweaty and aching from gripping the hammer too hard. The cab driver was a big guy, a hungry guy. Maybe he was trying to catch their prize and eat it himself. Maybe he was going berserk like the warriors of old, tearing the tasty creature apart with his bare teeth. Maybe…
A tap on his shoulder makes Thor spin around, landing a mighty blow to the side of Odin’s face with his hammer.
Odin’s mouth opened to scream; instinctively, Thor rams his tiny fist into the gaping maw just in time to stifle the sound. Surprised, Odin bites down on the back of Thor’s hand. Making Thor scream. Odin panics and slams his own fist into Thor’s widening mouth.
Thor and Odin crouch in the rubble. Tiny fists in each other’s mouths, blood and spittle dribble down their chins, gag screaming face to face, the way young brothers do.
Inside Charlie sits up. He looks to the front door, did he hear something? He waits a moment but hears nothing, then lifts his injured arm, dripping with blood.
“Bukark, buk buk?” suggests Brorwck. He needed stitches, but her needlework was precisely what you’d expect from a chicken.
Charlie half smiles. “Don’t worry love, Ol’ Charlie’s had worse”.
With a sigh, he gathers his feathered friend and the picture and crosses to the kitchen table. He places Brorwrk down and slumps into the chair.
“What a bleedin mess!”
“Buk, Bukark,” apologises Brorwck. It hadn’t gone to plan.
Charlie looks at the photo.
“I suppose I owe you an explanation.”
“Bukark,” agreed Brorwck.
Chapter 5 coming soon - I promise… I want to know what happens next just as much as you do… hopefully…
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I never knew I needed a post-apocalyptic chicken story.