?nrrrghhhhh
Scratching, skittering, gnawing, gnashing. Teeth and bones and flesh. A sharp squeak, a scuffle, and no more.
?aaaagh
His awareness gathered at the edges, not wary, but slow, steady. Like the sun rising. Tendrils gorged, nutrients and protein fuelled spindly vine-limbs, thickening and strengthening them. Tips fed into concrete floor, searching for earth, for father.
No, for the ground, solid and rock hard. Warm and damp.
Only cold here.
Warren?s eyes opened slowly, yellow depths flicking with tiredness, with age. He sat up or tried to, and fell back when his arms weren?t where he thought they were. In fact, they were lodged in-between the gaps in the concrete beneath him, twisting and working their way deeper.
Surprised, Warren went to yank them out, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind they relented. Coiling up like young ferns beneath his palms. That was when he noticed the greenery, and the rest of his surroundings.
He was in a sewer, no doubt about that, but it was unrecognisable. (Not that he made a habit of frequenting sewers, but one generally has a good idea of what they are meant to look like.) It was like a forest, vines and creepers crawled the walls and ceiling, hanging and swooping across the width of the narrow passage. Tufts of grass erupted at infrequent intervals through the ground, where the rock had obviously been worked away by time, and given opportunity for nature to take over.
He lay at the centre of it, where the grass was lush and plentiful. A small path of sunlight was pleasantly resting at the centre of his forehead. Warren sat up, and felt tired in the dark, his head pounding suddenly and without warning. He shuffled back to let the sun rest at the crown of his head, and truly observed his appearance.
Green skin, fingers, and long, coiled, limbs like the creepers above; twisting into knots and untwisting without whim. He was naked, and his body was thinner than it had been since he was a teenager. Hips and waist abnormally small, larger shoulders though, stretching to accommodate the length of his arms. Which, he estimated would hang down to trail at his heels when he stood.
As he rose the vines above him tangled and supported his unsteady steps, kindly, gently, like his wife or sons when they would help him in his garden-
His wife! Marie! Where was she? Was she safe? She?d left for work a few days ago and?
And what? His house had been overgrown, like this place, but brighter somehow, more like home. Even more than when it hadn?t been. Yes, like his magnificent garden? ahh, the orchids in bloom, the magnolias, the roses. How he valued them and their soothing presence in these troubled times.
Yes, there times were bad, and his wife worked for the worst, the McNeil?s and their regime. So where was she? And where was he? And his garden, his family?
All this time he?d been standing the feelers had crept up his legs, strengthening his limbs and alerting him to sounds far away. But no human sounds. No, this was something? else. Something alien, and dominating, but also calm, soothing. Warren eased into the sound, his eyes closing. His feet grew tired and he began to settle down for another nap, just a short one?
Fire! Pain! It?s burning, burning and fire and death and they are killing us and oh god help help us no it?s comingpleasehelpus.
His eyes snapped open, fury rolling off him in palpable waves as the fauna roiled and whipped about in frenzy. There was no time for rest. His family was in trouble.
Follow the sun? rise above the earth? grow and dominate?
?Yes,? he whispered, mouth cracking open into a vicious snarl that echoed beneath him with hundreds of tiny mouths. ?Yes, save our family, save our garden of delights.?
He raised his hands, fingers uncurling and reaching to the sky above. They found the iron plate that bound him into this green prison and hurled it up and away. He stood beneath this circle of sunlight and let it fill him up, invigorating the last few joints-that-were-no-longer-joints and consuming him as he rose up and out of the sewer, the vines lifting him where his limbs couldn?t support his body on the slim ladder that usually served as the path to the exit.
Drenched in the light now, Warren turned his head to the sun, to stare directly into its life-giving glow. Then the screams of his family brought him back to earth, and into it. His roots tore down and out, seeking out true earth, not the hardened, blackened rock he found himself on, and sought the area of most carnage, of most pain for his precious children.
There, streets away, but not too far. He stepped forward, and fell flat on his face. His roots bound him to the ground, strong and unyielding. He swiftly recalled them, and the came, chattering in his head and whispering and sighing gently about the sky and the wind. He was forced upright once more, and moved on his way.
Soon enough he arrived, not without a few more stumbles as he checked and rechecked his location through the roots. 4th avenue. He knew this place, nice houses, nice gardens. He?d complimented the yellow one often enough to know the scents for each time of year. Wonderful composition, an all-around beauty.
But not anymore.
Tyre tracks marred its once pristine lawn, discarded shells littered its earthen walls, and a small fire silently consumed a young tree that stood in the corner. Warren felt its screams, and echoed them. Wailing roots dragged him off the main road and around the back, out of the warzone. But his anger still raged. The grasses behind the houses and apartment blocks grew, coiling and writhing like snakes. He stalked to the back of the yellow house, leaving a trail of aggressively growing plant-life in his wake. That?s when he saw the people, one with a firearm of some description, and others without, huddling together. Warren rolled forward on vengeance, aiming his ire at the most aggressive looking one. He would die first.