The Cull - The Forest of the Forsaken

Photo by Bradley Dunn on Unsplash

I took a step forwards, ready to confront her, but she never looked in my direction. It felt like I was invisible – a nuisance – prying into matters I wasn’t meant to know.

I couldn’t have made up the memories of her leaving the psychiatric ward. She was discharged. I was positive. I didn’t see her back when the bus arrived, either. How did she end up here?

I wanted answers but the young girl averted her hazel eyes, shutting all my attempts to get through to her. Something about her felt off. She had no reason to ignore me yet this was exactly what she was doing. Did she know more than she let on?

I shifted my focus to the others as this question crossed my mind. Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen these people either. None of them wore hospital gowns like me.

From what I could gather from my brief observation, the father and daughter duo seemed like immigrants – perhaps Arabs.

The boy, a bony thing, seemed to be autistic and too loud for his own good, and the elderly woman sitting in the corner looked like the only English person here. She was also the one who acknowledged us.

 “Come in, hurry. They shouldn’t find us.”

“How long have you all been here for?”

“Must be half an hour at best. Noor?”

The Muslim girl stepped forwards and checked her watch. She wore a black and gold-patterned hijab, which concealed her chest and forearms.

Her loose, pearl grey abaya was soiled, it reached all the way down to her ankles and hid her womanly curves. Her eyes sparkled even in the dark, perhaps as excited to find another survivor as she was worried about who I was or could be.

“Twenty-three minutes, to be precise. Who are you? Is that your son?”

Ali seized my hand and hid behind me as she leaned over to greet him.

“No. No, that’s… It’s a long story. I’m Elin. And you are…?”

“That’s Yudes over there. Her son placed her in a nursing home a decade ago before she ended up here. The boy you see at the corner speaking to himself is Niclas. He’s autistic. Other than that, I couldn’t get much other information out of him.”

She then pointed at the man with a long and unkempt beard, who was probably in his mid-60s.

“This is my dad. His name is Khalid. We’re both from the Gaza Strip and applied for asylum in the UK five years ago due to, you know, the genocide. And I’m Noor. His only surviving child.”

I smirked. “Basically we’re all what the rest of the society perceives as the lowest class possible, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look around you,” I said. “We’re all a burden to society. At least, that’s what they tell themselves to get rid of the guilt. They want us gone.”

“But those who brought us here said it was a rehabilitation programme. That it is supported by the government.”

“I don’t why or who was sick enough to call this death sentence a ‘rehabilitation programme’, and I don’t want to know either. All I know is that we need to find a way to survive until daybreak. This isn’t the first trip this bus has taken.”

Khalid joined the conversation. His accent was thick and the way he pronounced each word was hardly fluent, unlike his daughter.

“You say this happen before?”

I sighed, unsure of how to explain myself or choose my words. The last thing I wanted was for these people to panic.

“I’ve studied human biology. Those cadavers outside the bus are at least a week old. Even if we consider the frigid weather, those cadavers are not fresh. These people have been doing this for at least two weeks. If they’re truly supported by the government, the chances of our survival depend entirely on whether we make it to sunrise or not.”

I glanced at Amina without really meaning to at that moment. Her back was still turned to me, persistent and unrelenting, shrouded in mystery.

Another notification came through. All eyes were turned towards me as I picked up my phone. When I noticed the staring eyes, I shifted my focus from the birthday notification to the survivors.

“It’s a phone…” Noor said, her voice trailing off briefly. “We- we can call the police!”

I backed away. “Listen, I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But it’s not picking up any signal. Besides, even if it did and we somehow called for help, we wouldn’t get any.”

“How can you be so sure without even trying? They can’t just- just let us die like this! This a crime against humanity!”

“And yet isn’t this exactly what happened in Gaza a few years back?” I couldn’t help but smirk. “Crime against humanity? There’s no such thing. Not if you’re backed up by the world’s largest and only superpower.”

Noor dropped her eyes. “I- I don’t want to die. It’s… it’s not fair.”

“That’s the kind of world we get if a bunch of derailed people run it. I wish I could tell you something else. But this programme… It’s a death sentence for all of us.”

I regretted these words as I looked around and noticed how everyone grew quiet all of a sudden, their eyes bloodshot and misty.

This wasn’t good. Once these people lost hope, there was no going back – no second chances.

I shouldn’t crush their hopes, even if the chance of survival was close to none. That was how human nature worked. The only way it worked. Through hope.

I looked up at Noor carried on, a real warrior who had seen hell on Earth and come back alive.

“Even if that were true, let’s say it is, shouldn’t we at least try to call the police? Don’t expect us to just surrender and let those people have their way! Not again!”

I bit my lips and averted my gaze. I didn’t want to ignite false hope. Calling the police was a waste of time. Our best shot was to wait for daybreak and then make a break for it. If we were lucky, we’d find a car along that roadway or a safe place to spend the night.

There was no way those cowards would be here past sunrise and risk getting caught red-handed.

“She’s right,” Yudes said, adding before I could interject. “We should at least try. That way, we won’t have any regrets.”

“We don’t even have a signal.”

Noor looked at each of us in turn before speaking her mind.

“I saw a watchtower further up the slope.”

 “A watchtower?” I said. “In the middle of nowhere?”

“I- I’m not sure but we could be near a military base. That would also explain why there are no passing vehicles.”

“What if it’s guarded?” I said.

“I don’t think it is. We would’ve seen light coming through if that were the case. It’s so close to the roadway that we’d surely see it.”

“Which means this is an abandoned military base,” I muttered to myself, before adding. “Don’t you think that’s inconsistent with how there’s no traffic here?”

“It must be at a secluded place, at least a few miles from the nearest civilisation.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

“How can I trust you?”

“I’ve studied military history. I know every single military base in this country, both active and abandoned. This place isn’t one of them. It must’ve been inactive for at least a century – if not more.”

“I see,” I said, before returning to face the others. “Do you all agree on this? That we should seek help?”

Everyone but Niclas nodded. He was too deep into his own world to listen. Even Ali agreed.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll go and see what I can do. But don’t get your hopes up too much.”

“I’m coming with you. I told you about the watchtower and I know more about these kinds of constructions than you do. I’ll be of help.”

Her father, with a sense of urgency, said something to her in Arabic. Even though I couldn’t understand what he was saying, his voice held a distinct undertone of concern.

He was probably begging her not to go. Even if this place was a temporary solution, it was the only haven at the moment. No father would want his daughter to risk her life for him.

But Noor stood steadfast in her decision. We left the vicinity twenty minutes later.

The Cull - A Cry in the Darkness

Photo by Brad Helmink on Unsplash

I hesitated for good reasons. Whatever waited for me outside the bus I didn’t know. Bringing a vulnerable child with me was a great risk.

But the woman clung to my feet and wouldn’t let go, pleading with me to stay, desperate, and then she prayed to the god she so dearly believed to change my mind.

Sighing, I momentarily closed my eyes to think things over, to shut her praying voice away from my abysmal mind devoid of emotions.

It was too bothersome.

For a fraction of a second, I wished I had never turned around to find the woman there. Why would she even want my help?

I was a stranger to her, an unfamiliar face, what if I hurt her child? Was she too blinded by dread to consider all options and the consequences her choices would bring?

I reopened my eyes to take a second look at her pallid and hardened face fraught with worry.

I found the boy staring at me out of the corner of my eyes then, cautious, yet much to my surprise, probing as well.

He was clinging to his mum for dear life. I could tell right away that he didn’t share his mother’s misbegotten sentiments and would rather stay here with her than follow me. As he indeed should.

But he was also curious about me, this person his mum wanted to entrust him to.

I wasn’t a good person, though, and certainly not gifted with handling children. I never thought of myself as a maternal spirit. Perhaps he could see that too and was therefore wary of me.

Of course, Helen would have disagreed on that point and said the opposite. She and I were more than just aunt and niece, after all. Ee were close friends.

In the end, the woman didn’t give me a choice. She wasn’t going to let me go, and I wasn’t about to abandon a pregnant woman, whose only purpose was to protect her offspring.

I sighed, then nodded to show her my resignation. Only then did she let go. I rubbed my sore ankles.

The woman was in such pains to keep me put that she dug her nails into my skin and engraved a small, circular mark on it.

She pushed the reluctant boy into my arms. I snatched him as he was about to lose his footing and brought him closer than I wanted.

He smelled of jasmine and vanilla, a combination of fragrances, which was pleasantly surprising.

I never used perfume and otherwise found any kind of smell unpleasant. But this one surprised me in a good way despite the dire circumstances we were in. It smelled like innocence.

He looked up and stared at me like a lost sheep in need of shelter and protection, like a baby still suckling his mother’s sore breasts, too good for this evil world filled with filth, sex and weeds.

I pitied him. I didn’t even know why. I forced a half-hearted smile so he would become at ease, and much to my surprise, he returned my smile.

As I turned around to face the woman and bid farewell, I didn’t know it would be the last time, even though I did doubt she would make it out of here alive.

I also wondered at that moment, as our eyes locked and we made a silent pact, whether we would ever be rescued or simply succumb to our ill fates.

But I couldn’t ask these things to the poor thing, who clutched to her belly and wished upon the stars for a miracle. A sparkle of hope was all she needed to keep her sanity intact.

Even so, I didn’t consider for one second that she truly believed – blindly so - her own beliefs. We were as good as dead.

One only had to look around the gore and mayhem around to know this. Yet she seemed so hopeful and full of gratitude.

I wanted to puke my gut out.

While heading to the front door, the boy seized my hand and hugged it tight.

I didn’t like it. I hated to be touched, especially this abruptly. But it didn’t feel right to tell that to a kid, who may have just lost his mother forever.

I could cope with this much physical contact. It wasn’t going to kill me. I was the adult here so I ought to play my part.

His palms were sweaty and cold. His rigid veins contracted to supply his hammering child heart. Scared.

Callous I sure was but heartless I was not, and never had been throughout my entire life. I was just… weird.

Helen used to do that too at that age, clinging to me like a moth in search of light whenever we went to a playground a few blocks away.

Unlike her peers who’d run around freely with no care in the world, she would keep close to me – far more afraid than anyone her age should be and an absolute coward.

She reminded me of a combination of my big sister and me; split in half, almost, shy of strangers yet unbothered if left alone.

Then again, blood was thicker than water. Had I not known better, I’d say my sister had borne herself – duplicated herself, if you will, into this world but put strains of my genes hither and dither while at it.

I think I was the reason Helen was such a coward. I used to tell her scary stories about child abductions and bestial wolves disguised in human flesh to keep her from talking to strangers lying in wait for sweet flesh.

But I only wanted her to be safe in a world filled to the brim with evil. I had to.

She was kind and gentle at heart, a sacrificial lamb for those who purposely lurked in the darkest hours of the night to take her innocence away, if not her life, from the face of the earth.

I’d rather she fear me and everyone else than fall victim to the hands of those pieces of shit.

She was the most precious thing in this entire world in my eyes. She was the last drop of innocence that reminded me of a time long gone and past, of my own childhood and my lost dreams that vanished along with it.

No, I’d rather she live as a coward forever and be safe than turn stiff and cold somewhere where I could never find her.

“Don’t look,” I told him as we stepped out of the bus and found our surroundings riddled with dismembered passengers as far as our eyes could see.

A lot of them wore gowns, but it was far from the majority I had to admit. Some were severed in half, others decapitated so that their heads lay inches away from their mutilated bodies, while others were shot and then purposely disfigured.

Moreover, from what I could gather in that short period, some cadavers had been lying there for weeks – if not for months. This wasn’t the double-decker’s first trip to this place.

The antsy kid closed his eyes as I instructed and buried his face in my shielding arms.

Now and then, a blood-curdling shriek would emerge from within the forested area to the right of us. Then we would hear laughter and see flashes of lights from the depths of the forest, where the screams reverberated.

I didn’t know where to go at first. My immediate thought was to hide. Yes, hide, but where?

I couldn’t possibly trek miles on no end with a kid stuck to me. I didn’t even know where the roadway led or which direction to go.

I couldn’t risk anything. I promised the woman I would keep her son safe. There was no way he’d make it to the nearest town – wherever that could be.

After considering every possible course of action, I decided to venture to the opposite side of the roadway.

This side of the woods was denser, and I hadn’t heard a single scream come through from it.

It looked as if most of the passengers ran straight into the nearest place possible when the massacre broke out. That is, the right side of the roadway where the forested area was less dense.

I call it a massacre for a reason.

Those black-capped men, whoever or whatever they were, didn’t bring us here for rehabilitation. They brought us here to slaughter us – bump us off and blow our brains out.

These people were not acting on a whim either, no, nothing like that. They were fully equipped to spill blood.

It was a systematic death toll – a death sentence from the higher-ups to cleanse society of people like us.

“Is anne die?”

I was helping the boy climb over the slope at the side of the roadway when he asked me this. This was the first time I heard his quivering voice without an ounce of malice and could tell right away that he had pondered on this question ever since we left the bus.

He knew. He knew that he would no longer be able to see his mum alive. But he wanted me to confirm it, perhaps comfort him with a lie like adults were supposed to do.

But I wasn’t that type of adult.

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

“She- she afraid, there, it dark.”

I followed his gaze to the double-decker bus. He was only five years old, so why did it feel like I was looking at a grown-up?

“I know. Let’s go. We shouldn’t stay here for too long. I’ll go get your anne later. Hmm?”

He nodded. I couldn’t tell the truth in the end. I couldn’t bring myself to do such a cruel thing to a half-human.

I caught up with him as he advanced through the bushes. Something about his dejected gait and slouched shoulders kept bothering me.

“She’ll be okay. I promise.”

He glanced at me but didn’t respond. He knew I was lying. That was when something in my pocket buzzed. I reached into my pocket.

I had forgotten all about the phone. It was a notification from my calendar – a notification of my niece’s upcoming birthday next week.

There was no reception, though.

The boy stopped short, his eyes were wide with utter disbelief as I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.

I lifted my eyes off the screen. This was the first time I saw this expression on his face.

“Phone! Phone!” He jumped up to snatch it from me. “Call police! Anne need help!”

“It’s not working, buddy.”

“Not work?”

His wide eyes turned sad in an instant. I patted his shoulder to comfort him.

“You want to go home that badly, huh?”

He nodded.

“Me too. But we can’t do that if we’re too loud, okay? Do you understand what that means?”

“Police come and help anne if we quiet. And little brother.”

“Little brother?”

“Anne say he come soon and play with Ali. He come and play, right?”

“Why not? He’s got such a great big brother. Can I play with you too – even if he doesn’t come?”

He leapt into my arms and hugged me. It happened so suddenly that I wasn’t even prepared for it. I didn’t see it coming.

As I hugged him back, memories of my niece flooded back to me. I missed her. She must’ve grown so much these past fourteen years.

I’d probably not be able to recognise her if I were to see her again. But it was okay. I had no right to complain after what I did.

I had it coming. Helen was better off without someone like me. She was an angel. I was a demon. I would corrupt her.

As we ventured deeper and deeper into the forest, we found a cave at an outcrop. The entrance was hidden by tangled vines and moss-covered rocks. If it weren’t for the kid, who let go of my hand and dashed towards it, I would’ve completely missed it.

Without knowing what caught his attention at first, I scurried after him and found myself amidst a group of other survivors. Five of them.

Amina, she was there too. But she wasn’t supposed to be here.

The Cull - The Last Stop

Photo by Anna Berdnik on Unsplash

The bus was vacant when I made my way downstairs. Each step heavier than the one before, chary and on alert. The windows were marked with dark streaks of blood.

All around me, I found traces of mutilation and decay. Pieces of flesh riddled every nook and cranny, the smell of iron stuck to my dry throat.

But these things, these horrendous these, didn’t disturb me. I felt nothing in particular, neither sadness nor despair, angst or anger, disgust or shock, just emptiness for lack of a better word.

Like a shell without a soul, like the undead in their bottomless tombs – nothing. Was I even human?

I approached the chauffeur’s seat with careful steps, making sure no one else was inside the bus with me.

I must’ve spent a good five minutes studying the poor thing, then dropped my eyes in an attempt to show my respects to the unfortunate man.

His severed head hung loosely from his neck, a clear cut, deftly amputated. He was slashed from behind when he least expected it.

I wondered, at that moment, if he had any family and how devastated and heartbroken they would be to see him right now, lifeless and cold, and far away from everything familiar and perhaps never found again.

Repositioning the chauffeur, I placed his loose head against the window. If his relatives were to find him against all odds, I wanted them to find him whole.

That was the only way I could turn around then and there and abandon him. That was when I noticed something I had missed the first time around.

The impeccable chop revealed two things to me: it was either done by a skilled surgeon, who was mad enough to showcase his talents or someone with exceptional swordsmanship – perhaps a butcher.

I opted for the latter since the former required, not only madness, but a certain amount of daredevil no professional would engage in for the sake of some messed-up kicks.

Of course, as was inevitable, I could be wrong. There was an exception to every rule and someone like me, someone so wicked in my own right, knew this better than anyone.

I wouldn’t know for sure until I laid my eyes on the murder weapon and the one who wielded it.

As I was having these reflections, engrossed in my calculating mind seeking the indisputable truth, I heard a hush.

It was the kind of noise one would hear in a cramped space, like in a library, to quieten down another person – often a noisy kid living in his own world, where dragons were real and every story ended with a happy-ever-after.

It came from the back rows.

I was positive that none of the black-capped guys were inside the bus – not when I decided to go downstairs at the very least. I knew this for sure because I saw them leave from the second floor.

Whoever this was, it could be none other than another passenger. I was right. Only I did not expect to find someone so vulnerable and so helpless, and in so much pain.

I came face to face with a Muslim woman with wide open, gazelle eyes. Her beauty was mesmerising, like a real-life Shahrazad from One Thousand and One Nights. Most people would’ve described her as a natural beauty with her long and dense eyelashes, scarlet plump lips, and flushed, high cheekbones.

She wore a black hijab; a symbol of her faith and the people she belonged to. And, although, it didn’t catch my eye at first, most likely due to her loose flowery dress, she was hiding a baby bump.

The woman, as I was about to find out, couldn’t speak English. She kept asking me if I knew Turkish, which I did.

My family immigrated from Türkiye in the late 1970s. My paternal grandfather was promised a ticket to the West – an exorbitant life in an urban city – but was forced to work at a chemical factory instead for a low salary.

He brought over my grandmother and two of their younger children, my aunt and my dad after a few years. But he wasn’t able to bring my oldest uncle, who was already an adult at the time and thus had to stay behind with our relatives.

My grandfather died from gastric cancer after years of inhaling chemical fumes. He bit the dust a year after I was born. I had never known him, but my parents told me he loved me dearly and would let me jump on his stomach despite the excruciating pain he was in.

I was told that we were similar, my grandfather and I, that we were reserved by nature and unbothered by this material world most others would kill another human being for.

My dad was fourteen years old when he immigrated from Türkiye.

No matter how many years he lived abroad, he never quite thought of this place as his home – he longed to return to his home country his entire life, and told us, me and my older sister, to bring him to where he belonged should he die in these foreign soils.

A decade later, my dad also passed away. He caught what seemed like a harmless cold and passed away overnight due to sepsis. He refused to go to the hospital because it would cost an arm and a leg. He was the only breadwinner back then.

I was in my early twenties when it happened and my big sister was married and had her own family to care for.

Our mum became crippled soon after his death. They amputated both of her legs because of an uncontrolled blood sugar level.

I became the sole breadwinner after all this.

My mum and I had no one but ourselves to rely on. I became her arms and legs, her everything, and she became mine. Yet, I was never comfortable in my own skin and ethnicity. I never thought of myself as either Turkish or English – or both for that matter.

Among my relatives, I was this compliant young woman everyone thought was celibate and overly religious, while I listened to death metal in secret and found religion to be nothing less of a cruel and sadistic joke.

At the same time, and I couldn’t deny this, I was once very religious indeed. I was brought up in a religious household, after all.

I was a kid back then, and I just wanted to please my parents. But I drifted away from my roots, eventually.

Truth be told, when I used to blindly believe and thought I was protected by something beyond and above meek humanity, I was the happiest.

To have faith gave me a reason to live, even if life was rough and the path ahead difficult. But when I lost my faith, as I so bitterly did as a conflicted teenager, I got lost.

Just breathing became hard – for there was no reason to breathe, no sin to be forgiven or good deeds to be praised for.

I was going to rot in my tomb, either way. And if I could return to that time, I’d choose to have faith again.

I think it all began when I realised how different I was from other people. Following a faith I couldn’t fully grasp was harder for me than for those around me.

I didn’t know if this had anything to do with my interest in metal music, Shaitan’s music, as my mum used to say, but I’d like to think it wasn’t.

I was too logical for my own good, overthinking, and always seeking the truth to simply surrender to God – to become a Muslim in its true sense.

I was an imposter, someone who pretended for the sake of belonging somewhere – anywhere. And so I decided to commit suicide at the age of thirteen.

I prepared a rope, learned how to tie a hangman’s knot, and even contemplated subduing myself with pills to muster up the courage to let go of everything.

I almost succeeded.

But my mum had legs of her own back then and broke into my bedroom when I didn’t reply to her at al-fajr.

I failed to crack my throat in time. The knot was looser than I expected because of my lack of experience and, of course, young age.

Something came in between my mum and me after this failed attempt. I couldn’t really tell what it was or could be even if I wanted to.

My only recollection of that day was embarrassment, shame and remorse. I didn’t want her to see me like that, so weak and helpless, and it never crossed my mind that she would find me so soon, either.

I was so sure that I’d die by daybreak that I was bewildered by her antsy eyes and frail arms, swearing to keep me alive at all costs.

She wanted me to see a psychologist after this. But I refused to go. I went to CBT before my failed suicide attempt and I knew that no human being could bring this dead child within me back.

I should’ve heeded her words. If only I had sought help back then, maybe none of this would’ve happened…

The Muslim woman glanced to her right, which was obscured from my immediate view.

I couldn’t help but smirk, dumbfounded by what appeared out of the corner as covertly as possible. So this was why, I thought to myself, this was why she wanted my help.

A kid. A little boy. He was probably only five years old if I had to make a guess.

His tiny eyes were round and wide, curious, as oval as the moon hovering in the night sky and yet terrified beyond himself. Then again, who wouldn’t be in this kind of situation?

I knew what she wanted from me yet I desperately wished I was mistaken.

I was the last person in this wicked world to come to her rescue, and at the same time, she and I both knew that that was exactly what she wanted from me.

“Onu da al yanına, nolur.”

‘Take him with you too, please.’

The Cull - Passengers of the Abyss

Photo by Brandon Holmes on Unsplash

I descended the spiral staircase, taking each step with the utmost care. Reaching halfway down, I caught a fleeting glimpse of one of the fair-skinned guys gathering the discarded phones. I ducked my head.

That’s when another gunshot was fired. I flinched and cowered in place. What the hell? Another peal of laughter reached my ears not long after. It sickened me to the core. I had never heard anything like it before. It was a sickening mix of delirium and victory.

Taking a deep breath, I mustered up the courage to glimpse at whatever had aroused such a bizarre reaction.

Blood. It dripped down from the driver’s seat. One of the black-capped guys stood there. He was the one laughing his head off.

His face was covered in blood. The other guy, the one collecting the phones, was telling him to shut up and focus.

But that was only the start of what soon unfolded. I jolted as a severed head thudded against one of the windows. My hand instinctively covered my mouth to suppress a scream.

I crouched as low as I could. But it was too late for regrets. Right at that moment, the one who was collecting the devices, looked up at the snaking staircase and briefly met my gaze.

I made my way up and slipped in between two rows of seats at the end of the aisle. It didn’t take long before I heard the approaching footsteps. With bated breath, I reached further under the seats, contorting my body to occupy as little space as humanly possible.

I couldn’t see anything from this position. All I knew was that it was game over the second they found me. The footsteps, however, grew fainter and eventually ceased before they reached me.

Things remained like this for a few seconds, but the lingering stillness gave the illusion that several hours had elapsed, and whoever had come up here, went downstairs again.

A wave of relief washed over me. However, deep down, I knew that this blissful moment was fleeting. Something really, really bad was in the offing. But before I delve into the ensuing events, I must tell you how I ended up here.

Fourteen years ago, I made a decision that went against all reason. It was a deliberate decision. It happened because I desired it. I did not regret what I did. It was survival of the fittest.

I either had to succumb to my monstrous instincts or bear witness to my beloved’s excruciating suffering. I couldn’t bear the thought of causing her such pain in her last moments, and then still go on with my own.

No, I did not regret what I did. I’ll never forget and I’ll never forgive myself, but I refuse to regret what was bound to happen sooner or later.

I was working as a janitor at a large hospital, doing the same chores time and again. Physical to the core and mentally demanding, but I had grown accustomed to it. I had to.

It wasn’t really my call to serve those I had once studied alongside. That didn’t mean I did my job half-heartedly and spitefully. On the contrary, I worked until I dropped dead in my childhood chamber every single day.

I didn’t belong anywhere. The unwritten rules of the neurotypical world wore me out. I decided to play mute and shut off my senses to the world of the wicked and vicious.

Eventually, it was this folly game of pretence that afflicted me and led to my downfall. It was my forte, it was my Achilles heel.

Moreover, I didn’t see it coming. I still wonder how things would’ve turned out if I knew beforehand that all hell was about to break loose.

However, all of this was now a distant memory, a mere echo of the past. It was too late to turn back time.

Presenting myself as a pushover had both advantages and considerable drawbacks. As long as I didn’t have to engage in meaningless conversations, I was more than happy to be given orders and carry them out.

However, everything changed that fateful day.

I received an order to stay overnight and set up the rooms for the influx of patients from the ER since the infection ward I worked at had a limited number of rooms available.

I had just finished cleaning one of the single rooms, room nine when I decided to take a breather in the canteen.

When I say cleaning, I mean that I changed the bedsheets and took out the overflowing garbage bags. That was the routine in our ward and anyone who did more than that was met with shrewd looks from the regular janitors.

I, on the other hand, was an hourly worker and had to be careful not to look desperate.

The patient in room nine was a nine-year-old kid, whose mum had left the room when I arrived. Even as I finished my tasks and left, she never showed up.

Shortly after I left the room, one of the nurses entered, and I went to the canteen to grab some well-deserved coffee.

It was half-past two o’clock in the witching hour when one of my co-workers found me sitting there sipping my black coffee.

It was a habit of mine to do that during the breaks solely because I had nothing else to do. All my coworkers knew this.

This co-worker, however, wasn’t the type to strike up a conversation with me. That day, or maybe I should say that night, he slammed his fists onto the table and raised his voice at me.

His name was Jamal, and he was from Somalia. He was one of the regular janitors in this ward, and I had worked with him enough times to know that he was a decent guy.

He wasn’t the type of person who’d cause unnecessary trouble. I knew immediately that something was off.

“You clean room nine?”

I remember not wanting to answer because I couldn’t grasp why he was seeing red. It wasn’t like Jamal to raise his voice.

While I didn’t respond in the same distraught manner as he did, I made sure to sound as firm as possible.

“I did, why? Did something happen?”

“The kid dead.”

He said that without skipping a beat. I couldn’t help but frown. The kid was perfectly fine when I was there. He was watching a cartoon and having a great time. There was no way he could’ve passed away this suddenly.

“Someone cut oxygen, you know what means this.”

Though Jamal said nothing else, I could still hear the whiff of accusation in his tired voice.

I could even hear the voice inside his anxious mind asking – directly and with no filter - if I had killed that poor thing, either on purpose or without meaning to, by cleaning too close to the oxygen supply.

He asked me, in his own way, if I had done something irreversible and fatal - even if it wasn’t my intention.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence. That was why our instructor warned us to avoid any contact with the instruments, cylinders, or any other objects inside the patient rooms while cleaning.

I wanted to defend myself, but the opportunity never presented itself. Following his distraught entrance to the canteen, a group of nurses entered.

My words, no matter how carefully chosen, held no weight or meaning in this kind of situation.

In this uniform, it was evident that I belonged to a lower social class. I was insignificant, a mere speck of dust, and the nurses were prepared to do anything to put the blame on me to conceal their own mistakes.

This marked the beginning of the end for me. I just didn’t know it yet. Looking back now, I realise I should’ve stood my ground. I had legal rights just like everyone else.

But I guess I was exhausted, too drained and burned out, from living without purpose. This incident provided the perfect justification for me to bring an end to everything – a perfect opportunity.

From a young age, I displayed a solitary nature and was a lone wolf. I immersed myself in the world of books, finding solace and comfort in secluded locations, where I could read undisturbed while remaining invisible to others.

I never desired or longed for anything. I was living yet I was far from any living being. I never felt the need to engage in social interactions, to connect with other people, or to cultivate meaningful relationships.

Even as a young woman, at the height of my youth and beauty, with suitors who hankered for my attention, I felt dead inside and nothing else. My heart was sealed and so was my mind.

That I did not succumb to my dismal mind sooner was nothing less of a miracle. I always knew that suicide would be the end of me. Still, I clung to life for a reason all these years.

I lived for her. She was the one whose existence was so dear to me that I couldn’t bring myself to leave this wicked world. But more of that another time. Let’s return to the main topic.

The Cull - Waking in Chains

Photo by Michael Mouritz on Unsplash

I woke up in a bucket of sweat only to find myself tethered to a hospital bed. But I wasn’t in my room any longer.

I was… on the move. Confused, in a delirious state of bewilderment, I struggled to break free only to find myself staring at a pair of ocean-blue eyes upside down.

I didn’t recognise the orderly but knew he was one since he wore a red cardigan and a pair of black, loosely fit trousers. He was bald and had dark blemishes – or spots if you will – from old age on his scalp.

“What’s going on? Where you taking me?”

The orderly didn’t reply. A lopsided smile played on his thin lips. Still trying to break free, I looked around myself and couldn’t hide the surprise in my widening eyes. The basement? What were we doing in the basement? And what was up with all these people?

I wasn’t the only one tethered to a hospital bed and on the move. Several of the patients admitted to the university hospital were on the move underground.

This realisation made my blood run cold. I shifted my gaze to the orderly once more and demanded an answer.

“What’s going on? Where are you taking all these people? Did- did a fire break out? What about Amina? Did she—”

The orderly placed his hand over his non-existent lips, hushing me into silence as the surrounding patients screamed for mercy. I gulped and looked around myself again, taking my time to search every nook and cranny.

Amina wasn’t here. She must have been discharged from the psychiatric ward before—I twisted my neck as the orderly turned right and ventured into a long and narrow corridor.

Several other orderlies did the same. Like clones, they headed for the exit at the end of the drafty corridor in a bizarre beeline.

It was dark outside the massive building and the moon was high up in the night sky. The air was crisp, and the roads frozen as our beds lined up at a secluded part of the hospital vicinity.

There were no cameras or passersby here since this particular exit led to a parking lot reserved for medical staff.

Usually, the orderlies had no access to this place due to their limited authority. This wasn’t, however, half as strange as what happened next.

I turned my head in the direction of the approaching din as did the other patients. Our dismal surroundings bathed in a blinding light as the headlights approached. I couldn’t see anything at first, but then I saw it.

Emerging from the fading light, a double-decker bus made its entrance. I held my breath. As the bus parked in front of us, a brooding murmur filled the air.

The orderlies returned to the basement and left us there. No one noticed them leaving due to the growing commotion.

The chauffeur stepped out of the lofty vehicle. He was followed by two men in black caps. I couldn’t see their faces, but the chauffeur was in his mid-fifties and had grown an unkempt beard for at least two years.

His lined, hollow face was easy to read: ‘What on earth am I doing here? And who are these people?’

I wanted to ask him the same questions, but something told me he wouldn’t know the answers. He looked just as bewildered as the rest of us, to be honest.

The two men in caps unfastened the patients starting from the front row and escorted them to the double-decker bus.

Some resisted. It didn’t take long before the two men knocked out the most troublesome ones so that no one else dared to make a huge scene out of this.

I observed in silence under the moonlight, mute as always and compliant like a meek sheep. Eventually, they came for me as well.

I was one of the last ones to enter the vehicle before it drove us into the unknown ahead.

Given the circumstances and my young age, I was seated on the second deck along with a slew of other people roughly the same age as me.

There were already passengers inside the bus I noticed, but my observations did not go further than this. One of the capped strangers pushed my head down and told me to not look around.

What arrested me immediately was the fact that none of us on the second deck was a day older than thirty.

But there was something much more disturbing than our young ages. The majority were not patients. That’s when something else dawned on me. The people downstairs.

The passengers I passed by before my sight of vision was obscured were not patients at all. None of them wore hospital gowns. Some seemed to be immigrants, others physically or mentally challenged, while yet others looked as old as time.

Why were so many people, so different and unrelated people at that, crammed into this vehicle? Moreover, where were we being taken to?

No matter how hard I twisted and turned my head to come up with an answer, a reasonable one that is, I could not. All I could think of was that we weren’t supposed to be here.

I couldn’t tell how long we had been on the move even if I wanted to, perhaps for a few hours even if it felt longer than that, when the bus came to a sudden standstill in the middle of a roadway in the suburbs.

The headlights turned off. The uphill roadway itself was located in a deserted and forested vicinity so that either side of the bus was obscured by the view of tall trees and dense thickets.

We all glanced at one another. No one dared to make a single sound or move. Time stood still and so did we. This lasted for a few seconds I think, but it was bound to be broken sooner or later.

An announcement was made soon after. It was the chauffeur speaking. At least I think so. He had this slight Middle Eastern accent, which was in line with his exotic looks. It could be Hebrew as well.

His grammar was excellent though. It was apparent that one of his first languages was English.

The two other guys, on the other side, had a much thicker accent, especially the one who took me to the second deck. He had a fair complexion and blond hair. It wouldn’t surprise me if he or both of them were Scandinavian and in their late 20s.

“Dear passengers, I hope you’ve enjoyed your ride so far. Unfortunately, your journey ends here. Please discard all your belongings and put them in the grey basket before departing. Cell phones, credit cards, and other electronic devices included. Thank you for your cooperation.”

It seemed like a few couldn’t understand what was being said, so the speaker repeated himself.

It sounded like Arabic to me at first. Then he changed languages and spoke in Spanish, Urdu, and later in Chinese.

I could tell from the way he pronounced each word that he knew Urdu the best. My first thought was how strange these language-pairs were. I had never met someone who spoke such vastly different languages so fluently before.

Only an interpreter would have this much control over a foreign language and easily change between them.

But what in the world was an interpreter of this calibre and skill-set here as a chauffeur?

I reached into my pocket to grab my phone as people around me dropped everything they possessed and went downstairs.

We weren’t allowed to carry our phones with us in the psychiatric ward, but Doctor Lee made an exemption for me. He said I looked like his estranged daughter.

I used it to read books and keep up with the news, and occasionally, to look up my niece and find a trace of her in the world outside far away from the four walls I belonged to.

There was no way I would discard it – definitely not without being given a sound reason – and I wasn’t the only one having these thoughts. Only a fool would obey a command from a stranger without questioning it first.

While contemplating whether to go downstairs or stay put, a resounding disturbance broke out from the first deck.

From what I could gather from the commotion, people refused to comply unless the chauffeur told them exactly what was going on.

I could discern at least three or four different languages being spoken at once, if not more.

That was when a handgun was fired, abruptly, and by the instant silence that soon followed, undeclared. The passengers all fell into a trance-like quietude along with the first of several thudding blasts.

Then I heard another announcement. This one, however, wasn’t from the chauffeur. The eloquent voice belonged to someone much younger, someone with clear diction and great communication skills.

I watched soundlessly, rather startled, to be honest, as the passengers in my aisle descended the stairs one by one.

I was fraught with opaque terror by how quickly they were all convinced, like marionettes I thought, controllable and under the spell of a wicked wolf disguised as a sheep.

“I think there was a miscommunication, which I’m very apologetic for. We were informed that each of you, dear friends, had agreed to join a new rehabilitation programme supported by the government.

“Again, I’m very sorry. Please follow the instructions and leave all your belongings under your seats or in the metal basket by the driver’s seat. We’re collecting all electronic devices to ensure that you’ll abide by the rules and re-enter society as respectable citizens.”

I was still contemplating what to do, on the fence about whether to become a lamb for slaughter like the rest or figure a way out of this predicament.

Something about this entire situation was off. I had never agreed on anything like this. Rehabilitation programme? Was this some sick prank?

Minutes later, I found myself all alone inside the poorly lit bus. Some had left their phones and belongings under their seats as instructed, others took them downstairs.

As I was having these ruminations, a strange laughter reverberated throughout the empty bus. It came from the first deck.

Compassion

Photo by Casey Allen on Unsplash

A single-lane road stretches far into the depths of the mountain pass. The headlights swivel in the suffocating darkness, piercing the road ahead as the engine roars and a loud hum vibrates through the barren highlands.

In the picturesque scene emerges a deadly scenario.

The car speeds up, and its movements turn erratic and out of control.

In a blur of motion, the car flips and smashes into the iron barracks that separate the abyss from the narrow road winding uphill in a circular motion. As the barrack buckles, the overturned car plummets down the cliff and into the void.

What’s intact of the wrecked car is the ominous headlights still switched on, like a token of what has transpired in the witching hour. But it too soon dims and plunges everything into darkness.

The driver’s seat unlocks and swings open seconds later. A severed hand tumbles out from the gap and lands on the ground – neatly cut, perfectly flat to be the craftsmanship of the crash. Following it is the swollen head of a person with grimy hair shrouding the unrecognisable face full of shredded, cooked flesh.

A ring with the initials ‘F.H.’ is stuck on the ring finger, teetering between the tip of the finger and the damp ground threatening to swallow it.

Somewhere in the distance, at the mountain peaks, a griffon vulture croaks and unfurls its majestic wings towards the carcass. It descends near the crash site and observes the low moans of another passenger pleading for help.

It approaches the severed hand and prods it with its beak, testing its edibility before ripping it apart piece by piece in a haunting tune, consuming each shred after months of enduring starvation in the mountain ridges.

The moans weaken before ceasing altogether.

The vulture grabs the ulna, now stripped of flesh, and hurls it further down the cliff, before approaching the cooked head, ready to devour it, when it retreats as the grimy hair mixed with blood obstructs its effort.

It seizes the radius with the hand still attached and soars to the heavens.

The flesh on the radius and hand sustains its chicks, which stretch their beaks wide upon seeing the vulture return to the nest perched at the top of the mountain. The happy occasion soon draws other vultures in the area, and they descend towards the crash site to satiate their hunger.

One of the chicks, happily gnawing at the ring finger now stripped of flesh too, then snatches the ring. The vulture growls a warning as the chick’s about to swallow it, and the ring settles to the bottom of the crowded nest.

In the distance, a sudden din pierces the air and swells with each passing second.

The vulture hops to the edge of the nest and peers down at the crash site as the other vultures squawk and scatter to the cadence of an approaching engine.

It hushes its chicks and dives into the night sky, hovering above the mountain road and the broken iron barracks as a vehicle skids to a stop just inches from it.

As the headlights dim, a neatly dressed figure in a suit steps out of the car. He adjusts his tie and crouches in front of the broken barracks, peering down into the crash site.

The vulture tracks the stranger as he descends the cliff until he reaches the overturned car and yanks open the driver’s seat door. Another head rolls out on top of the cooked head, but this one is attached to the rest of its body, still restrained by a seatbelt.

The man hoists the head, studying the woman still alive despite the force of the crash. He then shoves her back onto the driver’s seat and flicks the engine on and off until a loud bang erupts.

Both the man and the woman ignite.

Watching this unfold, the vulture is blasted several feet into the air by the force of the explosion and barely recovers control.

The dancing flames consume everything in their path and reduce it to ash before they vanish as abruptly as they appear. The vulture returns to the crash site as the last flames smoulder out and creep closer.

The overturned car is burned down to nothing, but the strange man remains, unscathed by the crackling flames or the explosion of the engine. He unfastens the lifeless, badly scorched woman and cradles her in his arms. As he does so, he locks eyes with the shaken but curious vulture.

He kneels with the woman in his arms and motions for it to come closer. The vulture doesn’t budge, too afraid and on high alert to heed a creature it has no recollection of ever seeing before. Seeing this, the man rises again and passes by it.

The lifeless woman’s white dress billows in the whistling wind, like it has a life of its own. It’s at this point the vulture notices the man’s hand, adorned with the familiar ring on his ring finger. But before it can react, the bride and her groom dissolve into dust.

A newspaper clipping plummets between its legs then, carried by the troubling wind surging and howling with unprecedented speed. On the headline, these words emerge, but the vulture deciphers nothing except the happy smiles of the newlywed couple:

News of the abduction and subsequent murder of the young couple has shaken an entire nation. The bride’s stepfather, Henry Woods, is accused of child abuse, rape of a minor, and the abduction of the newlywed couple in his absence.

The police are searching for the motive behind this horrific case that has tragically claimed the life of… Any tip on the suspect’s whereabouts and the location of Hanna Woods' remains are important for the ongoing investigation.

Chief officer, Jensen McCarthy, implores the public to help them lay the young couple to rest and provide solace to the remaining family members. Authorities are now searching a seven-mile radius around the stepfather's last known phone signal…

Remains of human flesh and body parts are also confirmed as one of the findings in the stepfather’s apartment, along with the missing Ford 2014 Mustang… For more information, turn to page 4.

The vulture snatches the newspaper clipping and carries it back to its nest. It wraps the ring with the newspaper and lifts off from the jagged mountains, heading towards the nearest town. It doesn’t grasp what emotions drive it, but it can’t shake the feeling that it must deliver the ring.

As it glides over the city square, it spots a milling crowd of people protesting. It perches on a nearby truck and studies the people marching, holding up placards with something written on them. It doesn’t comprehend what the humans are saying, but it senses the urgency and the need for closure.

Amidst the crowd of people, it then locks eyes with a young girl. She points at it, desperately tugging at her mother’s clothes to get her attention. The vulture releases the wrapped ring and ascends back to the welkin, but it doesn’t depart.

The girl retrieves the ring and newspaper clipping and then shows it to her mother. The woman pauses her shrieking and asks the girl something. The girl gestures to the vulture again – this time, the woman spots it too, and her eyes widen.

The vulture croaks eagerly, striving to make its voice heard through the crowd of people. The woman entrusts her daughter to another woman nearby and then climbs into her car down the road on the other side of the city square.

She follows the vulture to the site of the crash.

As the vulture ascends back to the mountain peak and joins its chicks, it collects the bones stripped of flesh scattered around the nest and brings them down to the woman, who has collapsed near what remains of the car and the scorched body of the missing bride in her white dress – crying.

The two mothers then share a knowing smile, and the vulture rises to never return.