That Cracking Sound

Liam sighed, sweat stuck to his skin, packed in to the back seat of the small, silver bus. It wasn't that busy, but he felt as though he were crammed. He knew this wouldn't end well. He knew where he was. What he was. What he was meant to be. And it scared him. He was meant to be tortured. The sky outside was red, and a brown shadow cast over the city streets. Liam swallowed tight and shuffled off the bus, unable to look anyone in the face. Someone was standing by the door holding on to the bar above, and he barged past him. He wasn't ready. The bus sped off. He had arrived in a post-industrial limbo. The brickwork, the weeds, the lot were all cast in brown by the red sun. He walked a little further down a side road to a carpark. It got darker as he went. He was trying to escape. But he can't escape me. 'Oi!' a young man shouted behind him. 'Oi!' Liam couldn't raise his head, but in the corner of his eye he could see two young men in puffer jackets walking closer to him, shouting. He started walking a little faster to get away from them. There were two other men further down the road, he hoped they would protect him. 'Oi!' The youths were gaining on him. Liam caught up with the two, dressed in hiking gear. They stared straight ahead. No sign of a single thought in their heads. They clicked as their hands opened and closed. Liam knew they were one of them. The first that he would see. He wasn't ready for this. The youths caught up with them, and grabbed one of the things by the shoulder. 'Oi!' He had a knife in his hand. Liam didn't stop, but the other thing did. He couldn't raise his head he couldn’t bear to hear it. But he had to. One of the things placed his hand over one of the youths' face. The child tried frantically to stab it, but it didn't leave a scratch. Between his eyes the thing's fingers tightened. The crackling sound, the muffled scream. Liam knew he didn't have much time. He had no plan. But instinct told him to run. He couldn't accept his fate. He saw another bus coming down a street up ahead and caught it. He wondered what had happened to the London buses. Silver outside. Purple seats. The bus was identical to the last one, only this time there were no more people on board. Just them. Liam knew it would hurt. But he did it anyway. He reached out for the bell to stop the bus. Wrapped his fingers around the button. He didn't remember there being seatbelts on the London buses, but it was buckled around his lap tight. It sucked his fingers inward, his middle, index, and ring fingers of his right hand snapped and popped and blood sprayed everywhere, all on the seat, all on his face. He didn't expect the blood to be so red and splurt so fast so much. It hurt and he screamed. Someone had left a burger half-eaten on the seat next to him. With his left hand he picked it up and ate, and as he did, the button let go of his hand. Time to get off the bus. He struggled to unbuckle his seatbelt with his dangling bloody fingers. He didn't know how he could keep the burger down. But he did. And got off the bus. There was nothing here, under the bridge. Just the incessant sound of brick scraping brick. And cracking noises. And red sunlight. Liam lit a cigarette, more to burn his fingers than to enjoy the smoke. It was dampened by the blood and every draw stung the wounds more and more. He walked to the train station. The only thing nearby. The station was completely empty, save one ticket seller all the way at the far end. The cracking sound was coming from his machine, tied around his neck, dangling, a turning lever which produced tickets from the mouth of the silver box. Liam jammed his mangled hand into his back pocket to pull out the tight-fitting wallet. He moaned and shouted as he did. Only coppers. No notes. Nothing useful. Shrapnel. He tried to run from the station but it was too late. They were waiting for him. Two men - not things, yet. Large, dressed in nylon green. One of them grabbed Liam by the head and dragged his body over the concrete out of the station. Over the brickwork. It was bumpy. Then they started jumping on his body, kicking his face, punching his legs. Back on the streets Liam felt his abdomen with his left hand. It was wet and hot with blood. Slippery, like a slug. He threw up now. As he did he saw a crucifix in the distant sky, shining beyond the red. He remembered the feeling of dry, crisp paper. Of eucharistic wafers. Of golden cups. He remembered the quiet prayers. The whispered liturgy. He remembered his Lord. He suddenly had a strong urge to give his money away. All the shrapnel. A homeless person slept under the bridge, and he came to them. But the closer he got, the more he came to realise that it was a mannequin. The mannequin looked at him expectantly, Liam's wallet held in his bloody hand. But he couldn't give money to this thing. He tried to cross himself with his mangled fingers. But the mannequin got up and started following him. Liam started to run. So did the mannequin. He ran down London streets, ran down hills and highways, his stomach crying for its scars and bruises. The mannequin ran franticly, as though it had nothing to lose. A pub. At last. Liam ran in to the pub and ordered a drink and sat. He remembered his friend Kieran. He remembered what he said to him. 'I don't know what's happened to you man but you're so fucking weird now. You think you're so much better than us. Grow up you cunt. Just fucking grow up. It's pathetic.' Kieran left him. No one seemed to care that blood was dripping from his seat. The barman didn't ask any questions. The pub was busy but not a single conversation was being had. The only noise was the tapping of his blood on the floor, and no one paid it any mind. He was an obstacle to be avoided. Cracking again. Cracks and pops all around him. Liam tried to cross himself again. It was black now. The only thing before him was the ticket barrier. Liam limped over to it. 'But I don't have a ticket,' he whimpered to himself. He turned the other way. A crucifix shone, far, far away.