“Ugh…”

In the heart of a damp forest, beneath the soft moonlight's embrace, the day began with words that shattered the stillness. An error of grave consequence, born from my own misstep in Bristol, lingered in my thoughts. A woman's life was inadvertently taken during a fateful robbery, and the weight of it hung heavy on my soul.

Emerging from slumber within my humble tent, a weary sigh parted my lips as I left the meagre mattress that had cradled me through the night. Beyond the canvas walls, a modest campfire crackled, offering solace and warmth in the midst of nature's chorus, accompanied by chirping birds and the distant murmur of a river.

Stepping outside, the moon's unrelenting gaze unveiled my surroundings. A sharp pang in my lower abdomen drew an involuntary grimace. Peering downward, I beheld the stain of blood upon my loose-fitting shirt, and with care, I lifted the fabric, revealing a hastily tended bullet wound. The once-pristine bandage now bears the mark of crimson guilt.

"Perhaps this is nature's reckoning for my past transgressions and for that woman," I murmured, my voice faltering as an emotional lump constricted my throat. Clasping my hands tightly, I drew a deep breath. "What has become of this nation?"

There is no longer a place known as "England." The United Kingdom, too, has faded into history. What remains is a fractured island, the southeast and pockets in the south under the sway of a self-proclaimed "government" after four decades of civil strife that claimed countless innocent lives. In the North, where I now find refuge, the notion of governance has dissolved into a patchwork of colonies, gangs, and warlords.

"Right then," I sighed, my hands coming together and rubbing against each other for warmth as I directed my gaze towards the substantial wooden crate resting near the campfire. I approached the box, lowering myself as I fished the key from my trouser pocket. With a click that resonated through the forest, the lock yielded to the key, and the box opened.

As my eyes surveyed the contents, another sigh escaped my lips, tinged with disappointment. There was a meagre supply of sustenance remaining—just a handful of crisps, hardly enough to sate my hunger.

"Damn it," I groaned, shaking my head in frustration. The lid of the box fell back into place with a soft thud as I rose to my feet. My gaze shifted to the backpack resting against the tent, and I contemplated my next move. "I suppose this means I'll have to journey to the nearest settlement, which happens to be Newcastleton."

The thought of interacting with others made my nerves fray. One could never be sure if they'd betray me to the Southern Government in exchange for a quick reward. The North granted autonomy, but the Southern Government maintained territory in the North, making it simple to capture wanted criminals there. The thought of entering a village that had just been overrun by the vicious MacKenzie gang—who had travelled all the way from Glasgow to track down a fugitive who had allegedly stolen a significant quantity of money from their bank accounts and taken up residence in Newcastleton—was far more terrifying than any human interaction.

The weight of the backpack settled on my shoulders, and I slipped a well-honed knife into my pocket, setting my course towards Newcastleton via the desolate Bloody Bush Road. It was a solitary two-hour trek, with scarcely a sign of life along the way. Despite the biting chill, the wind carried a certain serenity, and the moon shone brighter than I'd ever seen it. Nostalgia gripped me for no apparent reason as I observed herds of sheep, cows, and horses meandering through the untamed fields, where the grass had grown into towering giants, not quite tall enough to spy on these creatures in their natural habitat.

Approaching the village, the atmosphere took a sharp turn for the worse, washing away the tranquilly I'd felt earlier. A silver, unassuming car drove by, and the town seemed to be filled with an unsettling aura. Thankfully, lights from the buildings still pierced the darkness, but my right hand clenched the knife concealed in my pocket as I neared the bridge spanning the river into the village. A few elderly residents lingered on their porches at the bend in the road, their sombre expressions a stark contrast to the peace of the countryside.

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As the elderly residents caught sight of me, a warning glint flashed in their eyes, and they hurriedly retreated into their homes. I rounded the corner, gazing down the long, narrow streets. On one side are quiet neighbourhoods, and on the other are local businesses. It felt as though I'd stepped into the crosshairs of a sniper's scope or found myself in the path of a prowling lion. My unease deepened as the folks on the residential side caught sight of me; they scuttled into their houses, extinguishing lights with haste.

My grip on the knife tightened. I was fully aware that a mere knife wouldn't stand a chance against a gang, potentially armed with firearms. But if I got close enough to one of them, maybe I could inflict some damage. As I cautiously continued down the path towards a junction, I glanced to my left and spotted a cluster of houses further down the road. Something about that scene triggered my survival instincts. A sizable group of people, all dressed in matching black jeans and blue shirts, stood in a line, intently focused on one man who seemed to be issuing orders.

There was a palpable air of professionalism about them, and despite my fear, an inexplicable urge beckoned me to draw near, like the serpent tempting Eve with the forbidden fruit. I knew in my gut that these were the MacKenzie gang, and yet, my legs compelled me forward. I passed the parking area and the assorted buildings, drawing ever closer to the gang. As I reached the beige building with creeping vines along its walls, I spotted a slim, muscular man in a blue shirt and black jeans emerging from a small house two buildings down on the right. He cradled a futuristic-looking assault rifle in his arms.

I pressed myself against the wall, hidden from the man's line of sight, and inhaled deeply, feeling adrenaline surging through my veins. My left hand clenched, and I cautiously peered around the corner, seeing the man with his back to me as he headed towards the group. I waited for a few moments, ensuring he was farther away, and then swiftly made my move.

I gently turned the door handle on the wooden door and pushed it open, the hinges creaking softly as I held my knife at the ready. The moment the door swung open, a noxious odour wafted out into the cold air, curdling my stomach and making me feel sick. I covered my nose with my arm.

"What's that foul stench?" I groaned as I ventured down the narrow hallway, glancing left into the living room.

My heart sank, and I felt numb to the core. The knife slipped from my grip, clattering to the floor. My eyes remained locked on the horrific scene before me. An old man, seated in his chair, lifeless and drenched in blood, had his gore splattered across the walls and floor. Dried blood stained even his bowl of oatmeal, his late-night snack. It was clear that this man had met a gruesome end; his blood had long since congealed.

"What was he doing here?" I gagged as I referred to the man who exited the building, averting my gaze and blocking my nose with my thumb and finger as I ascended the stairs, inspecting each room for signs of more casualties. Thankfully, I found only ransacked rooms and evidence of the old man's torture, especially in the bathroom, where bloodstains marred the surfaces. But none of that mattered now; my priority was getting out.

I hurried down the stairs, my fingers still pinching my nostrils, and pushed the door open. And there he was—the man I'd seen exiting the building. I could see him clearly now, just inches away. His dishevelled brown hair, dirty visage, foul breath, blurred blue eyes, and fractured teeth and blood adorned his chest and arms.

"You damned bastard!" I yelled, my fists swinging at his face. I couldn't explain the surge of rage, but it consumed me. The man groaned as my fist connected with his nose, causing him to stumble backward, blood streaming from the injury. I drew my knife and felt it slice through his Adam's apple, his vile blood splattering across my face.

"Ugh...you..." I choked, my words trailing off as loud voices interrupted.

"Oi, that bastard killed Archie!" a deep Scottish voice bellowed. I glanced towards the group of men, who raised their weapons. I sprinted off, bullets whizzing past me and shattering windows.

"Damn! I need to get out of here."