Chapter 6: Sporadic Movement

“Russell! Russell, come quickly!” Russells face was red, red like the sun set hanging low in the sky, red like the blush on the clouds, red like the rust on the leaves, red like his new damp mittens and coat, red like his full grinning lips as he ran through forest. It wasn't often they got to walk together as a family and he enjoyed every second of it, scrambling through leaves and jumping on leaves and climbing trees and getting caught on brambles – he loved every second of the forest. He loved making hide-outs under the corrugated iron which looked like a fist in winter, and picking conkers and busting his hands trying to pry them from their spiny skins. He loved the forest especially in autumn. In spring, bluebells spread through and he was forbidden to wander from the path lest he crush a single blue dewdrop in the crisp forest floor. In summer they didn't go into the forest – the fields held too much attraction for him, as he could run his fingers along the long grass and pop all the different seeds at their tips and blow all the dandelions into the wind and watch them spiral away. “Russell!” the cry was fainter. It was in the autumn where the forest shined – the day was still long enough to make a proper go of a day in the forest, and it was warm and damp under the leaves piled under trees but the ones on the path were still crisp. He liked when his wellingtons crunched a twig underfoot when all he had been expecting was a leaf – the extra crunch made him jump in an appreciative sort of way. He could spend all day just idling in a particularly seat-like tree (even if it meant his bottom hung in between two branches, as long as he found somewhere comfortable for his arms, that was what was important), waggling branches and watching the leaves spiral down. In his wellingtons and his coat nothing could get to him – he could leap into a pile of leaves if he wanted, and get nothing worse than a leaf attached to a bit of mud to his face, and a twig adorning his hair because his hat had fallen off and got filled up with leaves and mud and-

It was at this point Russell realised he was lost, that he had no idea where he was, and-

-all of a sudden the air was, instead of brisk, very cold. His red cheeks stung in the wind, no longer playful but cruel as it whipped through the trees, trees where he was sure he had seen his parents not a moment ago. The mud on his face was dry and crisped off, leaving little flecks which didn't leave his face, leaving it itchy. The leaves felt wet and stupid beneath his fingers as he crumpled them, the stems folding and cracking down the middle. Russell was suddenly fearful. “Mummy?” he whimpered, then cried another plaintively. He started to walk between the trees, calling for his parents, his wellingtons packing his feet in too tightly and his coat constricting. He felt a sudden urge to flex his fingers and his stupid mittens wouldn't let him. His stomach wound round itself and he felt like the world was pushing in on him. It was worse because he knew it would be night soon, and he knew bears lived in the woods.

Russell thought that there might be things much worse than bears here. The wires which hung like dreadlocks all round him occasionally seemed to tense and untense, furling themselves at the base. Some of them led places, but he noticed some wires which just ended – some sparked and crackled like they had been snapped in two, but others were spiked and rusted, like an iron gate. They glinted menacingly in the lamplight of the moon. Every time something disturbed the peace of the wires, Russell jumped. The massive black coils round him almost felt alive, because he could feel no wind to dislodge them. He wasn't sure if it was the wires or something else, but he was sure he could hear other things in this forest as well. When he stopped walking, which was often, as he had no idea where he was, or indeed, where he was going, he heard skittering along the rubber floor, and the occasional small clank in the distance. These noises came from all around, and they sounded close and they sounded dangerous. There was a constant scratch of metal on metal in this place.

However, this time, when he strained his ears, he heard another noise as well. It sounded like water... Russell was incredibly thirsty – he wanted nothing more than to drink or eat something so he stumbled, gratified, across the rubber floor, pushing twitching wires out of his way like jungle vines, towards the source of the noise. Through a patch of less-dense wires, he thought he could see it and made his grateful way to the river – but when he got to the riverbank his heart dropped like a stone. This wasn't water. From what he could tell, this was fuel. It was a river of diesel. He kneeled down to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him and his nose told him that he was right. He wrinkled it instantly as the smell hit him, and he turned away, plunging his nose into his lapel so his nostrils weren't singed. As he looked away, he caught something in the corner of his eye, and realised that it was what he had been hearing. He peered down to look at the strange creature so he was sure his brain wasn't making things up.

It looked like an engine, a body of tubes and pistons, clamping down on its body slowly but surely with a distinct 'fthunk' noise. The three pistons working themselves in and out of it ran across its back like buttons on a trumpet. It was perched on four spindly legs, which looked barely able to hold it up. They were razor-sharp, and they dug into the ground expertly. He looked up properly for the first time and realised that he could see more of them, clinging to wires running across the 'ceiling'. It looked like they used their legs to grasp the wires rather than to actually walk – he could see the legs perforating the wire as it leaned forward. It was leaning into the river of fuel, using two back legs to steady itself as the two front ones edged closer to the edge. All of a sudden, a syringe came out of the front of the creature with the same 'fthunk' that the pistons made. The syringe started sucking up fuel from the river, and Russell saw the fuel filling up vials across its back. The fuel sloshed backwards and forwards in its vial like it was trying to break out. He ran his eyes along the strange little creature, which he dubbed 'smokers' as he saw their tail-pipe funked out an occasional ring of smoke. The smoker started humming with energy as it filled with fuel.

Russell went to look closer but as his foot moved it pumped the wire, which unstuck the smokers legs and it went tumbling into the fuel, legs flailing helplessly. The delicate gasoline patterns spider-webbed across the surface of the fuel were scattered into paint vomit and then into nothing. Russell gasped, and immediately fished it out by the only leg he could grab, as the river was fast-flowing and the creature was flailing stupidly. He picked it up by its leg, and squinted at it as it flicked itself dry. It sparked as it came out the water, and twitched stupidly – the fuel had affected it in some way. It twisted its camera around and around to try and make sense of the situation – but then it noticed Russell holding it. It suddenly went very still.

Russell didn't quite know what to make of this. It looked almost like the machine had shorted out. However, as soon as he thought that, the little engine curled into a tight ball then exploded with noise – a shrill, high-pitched screech that sounded like concrete smashing, and metal grinding against metal, and a broken police siren. It wailed and wailed and Russell dropped it, slamming his hands against his ears to protect them. What the hell was going on? Before he could act further, more smokers emerged from the dense wires, crawling down like spiders on thick ropes of black web. Some massaged their way through from the wires beneath his feet, and more swathed through from the side. One dropped onto his head and wrapped its long, silver legs around his scalp. He batted it off, his heart racing as more and more little clinking engines emerged from the environment and began to crawl up and over him. He could feel their sharp little legs jabbing into him and puncturing his skin like little compasses dragged all over his skin. He winced, and screamed as the weight of the smokers, heavier than they looked, dragged them to his knees. He ripped one off his arm, and it left a long scar of blood ripped along it. The blood ran free down his arm and dropped to the floor as more smokers leapt up onto Russell. He tumbled to the side as his vision was blurred with tinkling metallic legs crawling across his face. He writhed and stretched, battling with the silver menaces, but it was to no avail as they ripped his clothes to get closer to him. Some stretched wide so their legs covered more of him, and soon he was encased in a writhing, silver skeleton.

Madly, terrified, Russell flailed his arms like an idiot, ripping the points off him – he felt like all that flowed from him was adrenaline, and didn't notice or acknowledge the blood flowing freely from him. He rolled from side to side – but by this time it really was too late. The last thing he remembered was being lifted bodily by something which couldn't have been one of the smokers, His midriff was clenched tight as something pulled him up through the flailing wires, smokers tumbling from him in the freefall. Something tightened round him and he managed to strangle a scream before his breath was ripped from him and something was stuffed down his throat. His eyes rolled back in his skull and he lost consciousness.

Belles head swivelled as they heard the alarm. “Oh no...” she murmered.