Watching from behind the large rock, Fern felt safe. She was small and felt invisible from their view. She recalled their eyesight was not very good or at least that was what she’d been told. She reflected that she shouldn’t believe everything that the others said, it was easy to speculate when you didn’t know, and how could they know anymore than she about these people? Still, she felt safe as she looked down at her clothes, shirt and pants that were a blotch of greens and blended well. Her clothes were form fitting so they did not catch on branches or bushes as she ran. They followed her lithe body and small curves like the bark around the trunk of a tree. Her shirt was long sleeved to protect her from the biting bugs. Bites that left more than marks that would fester to puss filled infections. The colours could fool the bugs most of the time as they were made from strong stretchy leaves, she could easily be mistaken for a long sinewy plant when she stood still.
With interested green eyes she watched them stumbling over tree roots and through bushes. They didn't normally come out this far. Why were they out here now? Although she knew she was safe and could escape silently and quickly, leaving them with no clue as to her ever having been there, she was uneasy about their presence. She could see they were uncomfortable and a few of them kicked in anger at the roots, and spat in disgust at the forest floor. They didn't want to be here, so why were they? She shifted to the other side of the rock and peeked around, following their movements as they trekked on.
Their leader was a large boy, she guessed around eighteen the same age as their leader Oak. His hair was dark and wild; he had a look of distrust and anger. His black eyebrows hooked together in a frown and his dark blue eyes were filled with concern as he led his troop along. He had the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen, covered with a black coat that touched the floor and dragged upon the undergrowth and twigs. It hung open and he pulled the collar back from his neck as if it were too hot to wear. Why did he wear it in this heat? She stealthily moved to a tree to get a closer look.
Now she saw why he wore the coat, she saw the glint off of something silver, shiny. He wore a rifle; it was strapped to his side, and hidden beneath the billowing coat. She leaned closer to get a better look. It had been a long time since anyone had had a rifle; this one must be very old. It shone as it reflected the sunshine that sprang through the trees. The wood had sheen to it, as did the metal receiver. He’d carefully restored this one.
Guns, rifles, revolvers had been confiscated by the Regime many years ago. No one had been allowed to have them, only the military, and to have one in your possession had meant immediate arrest to the interrogation camps. Some had hidden away antique relic rifles and guns because they thought as a part of history they shouldn’t be destroyed. If they were discovered the guns were taken and the families removed to the camps and never seen again.
Gazing upon the boy she knew he must be carrying ammunition. She saw it now the bullets were pocketed into his belt, lots of them encircling his waist. She looked up again at his face; it looked grim by the set of his jaw and the tightness of his lips. He looked cautious. He was dangerous.
She left, nothing more than a whisper on the wind. Hastily she ran through the forest along the ground she loved so much, seeking out her own to warn them and prepare. Prepare for what? She didn’t know. Her light feet touched the floor briefly as she ran. Her breathing remained regular, unchanged from her exertion. Most Woodlanders were athletic and could outrun almost anything. Branches lightly touched her as she went by and she breathed in the scent from the different trees.
As she sped past a large silver birch she erupted into a copse filled with a puissant of colour, small bell like flowers grew everywhere, their various scents strong and aromatic. The violence of the smell hit her nostrils in an almost blinding shock wave. Her senses reeled momentarily (she still had problems not succumbing to the nastramus poppies). The nastramus poppies were their first line of defence along the west of the camp and kept just about everything, if not away, asleep for a very long time. “Soften your eyes Fern, see all as a blur, listen but hear little, feel the air as nothing more than a caress, slow down your breathing.” She softly chanted in her head. Only by reducing the rate of your breath could you pass through the fields, once you opened your mouth to the spores it would only be a matter of seconds before you lost consciousness, and probably never wake again.
Fern ran out from the poppies and through the tall grass. She was coming to the second line of defence. Taking a deep breath, she leaped into the air, reaching as high as any deer or gazelle. She didn’t look down at what she was jumping over but concentrated on the safe landing she was aiming for. Had she looked down she would have seen what looked like giant mushrooms (these were the tariniums, a mutated fungus). Their smooth flat surfaces gave the impression of nothing more than a beige mushroom head but below, the stalks were seven feet long and contained a sticky substance that clung to whatever touched it. They had been placed into a seven foot ditch that was deceiving since only the head of the tariniums could be seen. The stems released a powerful chemical that caused paralysis within 10 seconds. Unless you were pulled out by another who hadn’t touched the stalks, you wouldn’t be able to move to escape and would slowly die. The decaying bodies were absorbed into the ground where they fed the monstrous fungus.
At the six foot mark the tariniums ended and Fern’s feet lightly landed at six and a half feet. She paused momentarily and then ran on. She let the huge breath she had taken escape her and focused on her next obstacle.
The third line of defence was the most dangerous and her heart beat rapidly as she concentrated on what she had to do to get through it. Regulating her breathing into calm smooth breaths she softened her eyes so that her peripheral vision was enhanced and she could practically see behind her as well as in front. She let go of all her thoughts, filling herself with peace and tranquillity. You couldn’t jump the burneam bushes. They rose up to seven feet high and were a mass of gnarling, twisted black branches, the thorns a shining dark navy blue, stretching to an inch in length. Their height was not the problem, if you tried to jump the bushes the thorns would release, shooting up into the air to impale you with poison. Your skin would turn deep purple as your blood rushed to the surface in enormous swollen bruises, the lack of blood to your organs would slow down the body system and you would go into cardiac arrest and die. Only if all the thorns could be taken out quickly enough could you survive. However, once hit by a thorn you were no longer able to do anything but succumb to your fate, which like the tariniums was to decay and feed the mutated bushes.
The branches grew outwards only three feet in their width and the separation to the next bush's branches was four and a half feet, giving only one and a half foot clearance between. Fern, like a fluttering feather weaved through the bushes careful not to touch the lethal thorns. She couldn’t focus on the thorns because of her widened peripheral vision but even so she could sense them with her body. By keeping her body relaxed, she was less likely to cause a body reaction, a slight cough or hiccup would be deadly as the thorns would release. Fern had performed meditation many times to be able to release her mind and body, so as not to stimulate these bushes that responded to sudden vibrations and the movement of air above them, to release their thorns. Weaving in a dance with danger, Fern very slowly and gracefully passed through the bushes.
The defences hadn’t been created by the Woodlanders. The nastramus poppies, tariniums and burneam bushes had been there long before they arrived. They’d decided to use them to protect the west side of their camp. The plants had been made by scientists many years before, employed by the government to produce biological protection or at least that is what they called it. Scientists, who had played with the genetics of seeds, adding from one plant to another, playing with more dangerous entities such as bacteria, tumours from plants and a product they had created from their studies of snake and spider venom, using these substances they had created these deadly, poisonous plants and fungi.
The whole ten kilometres had been surrounded by twenty foot high metal fences at one time but those had been destroyed in the explosion. The terrible products from their research should have been destroyed but they weren't, they had survived. They ran side by side from the south to the north. They separated the Woodlanders from what was left of the city and the Citans. The Woodlanders had turned evil into something that would provide them safety but at a cost; the defences destroyed not only the dangerous but the innocent.
Sequoia, their leader, the founder of the Woodlander clan had been the only one who dared to venture near the paradoxical, peculiar plants. He had sat at night, safe, high up within the realms of the branches of a tree and watched what happened to the creatures of the night that ventured into their depths. The cries from them had made him cringe and he had shut his eyes at first. Since he was twelve at the time, he had wondered at his bravery to seek out more knowledge on the plants and their lethality. He had forced himself to open his eyes to see what occurred and how the creatures died. Then he had become fascinated by how the plants managed to stop the creatures in their tracks and kill them.
To the consternation of the clan, he spent many nights in one of the trees nearby, studying the plants, figuring out how they killed and what set off their weapons of destruction. The burneam bush had been the most difficult to understand, he’d seen creatures travel through and not touch the branches or stems and still be impaled with thorns. It was many nights of surveillance until he discerned the plants felt their vibrations; a grunt was enough to cause the changes that triggered the thorns to eject. Armed with this knowledge, he set out to find a way to be able to get through the terrible plants unhurt. He had succeeded and trained some of the clan members, thinking it would be useful for them to go through the plants if they required a quick route to the camp or to escape danger. Fern had been trained by one of those members.
The forest and grasses that had grown soon after the Devastation had been a surprise, especially because of their rate of growth and abnormally large size. Everything was different now. Everything had morphed into something else, mutated…no, not everything. They had brought with them the old seeds and they had grown normally and provided them with food. The mutated vegetation was only used for clothing or to make objects of use but they dared not eat it. The Woodlanders were normal, they had not mutated after the Devastation.
Only children had survived the Devastation. Older brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts and uncles had died before their eyes. They had survived because they were inoculated as babies with the SM2. No one knew for certain but the surviving children proved the reason to be right. The inoculations had started eighteen years ago. No one over the age of twelve had survived the Devastation, none of those older than the SM2 inoculation. They had lived their new life for six years, a very different life from what they had known.
It wasn’t understood why but only babies could be inoculated with the SM2 and no one was really sure why it was enforced that babies have the shots. The scientists had tried to produce a safe strain for children and adults but no one survived them. They must have known what was coming to have developed the SM2. It was the only reason that humanity survived.
Still even those inoculated died under the falling buildings and destruction, including Fern's own brothers and sisters. Adults, who had escaped the collapsing concrete and stone or managed to scramble out after the shock waves, had dropped dead within seconds of walking into the open air, to the horror of the children.
She gathered her thoughts once more and went over the sight of the boys in the forest. She had no doubt they were Citans. Although, she’d never seen Citans, she’d heard many stories about them. They were survivors too but they were very different from the Woodlanders. Why were they so much larger? Were they evil? Mutated? They were all young so they must have all had the inoculation just as she had herself. That is why they’d survived but she wondered; did they use the chemicals left behind in the city? Did they follow in their forefathers footsteps? If they had, they were not to be trusted–ever.
The Citans never left the city, so, why would they now? She was passing through more of the long grasses, the tops with seeds and long strands of awns tickled under her chin like fingers. She considered the size of the Woodlanders as opposed to the Citans who were bigger and heavier and it crossed her mind that should the defenders from her clan need to fight them they would be dwarfed and out-weighed. Weight could make a difference but as long as you were quicker and more agile, your chances would increase. She hoped it wouldn’t come to a battle between them.
Fern had no friends other than Abacus, her mutant snake. He would protect her from the Citans but who would protect Oak. He must be kept safe, he was their leader, her saviour, her...she pursed her lips and swept any further thought of him away.
The aroma from the camp was wafting toward her. It gently nudged her nostrils. She breathed in the smell of mint, parsley and cilantro, they swam through her senses. Herbs helped them, not just for food but for health, healing and aiding vitality. Although, they were all young, they still needed help with their bodies when they did something foolish and became injured, strains, cuts, sores or becoming ill from too much work required assistance. The Almist would make up a poultice of bread, oil and water for strains. He’d dress cuts or sores with devil's claw or turmeric and administer drops from oregano and other herbs to help the lungs clear from the clutches of sickness.
Herbs were a main part of their diet, not only did they protect them but they flavoured their food in special ways that even now made her mouth salivate at the thought. She hadn’t tasted meat since she was eleven and now she couldn’t even remember the taste. The creatures were not safe to eat. She wondered what the other survivors were eating from this new world.
“Why do you run Fern?” she heard from a voice above. “I saw you when you entered the fields. What’s your hurry?” asked the sentinel at his post. He was high up in one of the gigantic pines. His voice resonated off the massive branches to the ground so easily that he barely had to raise his voice.
“I must seek an audience with Oak.” She replied. “I’ve seen Citans in the forest; everyone must be warned of the danger.” She was slowing her pace as she approached the base of the tree.
“How would you know they are Citans?” He was staring down at her. “You’ve never seen a Citan!” Throwing his head back he gave a short laugh.
Fern pursed her lips and kept herself calm. “I’ve heard enough about them to know. Excuse me, I must leave, we have little time.”
“Little time for what?” he questioned but she was already running at a sprint.