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Sprung
Matt Hollingsworth
Mara killed the engine. If she ran the tank empty, she’d freeze to death. Ice opaqued the windshield. From the trunk came the sound of the boy’s kicking and muffled yelling.
The door crunched as she shouldered it open. Wind skirled and blew arctic wrath and flurries into the Passat. She got out.
Dark.
On all sides, vehicles were half-buried, headlights piercing the swarming locust plague of snow. Wind tore ice from the ground and hurled it at her. The liquid in her eyeballs tried to freeze. Mara clawed around the tires. For each handful of snow she dug away, the cruel gale piled in twice as much and the undercarriage remained snowbound.
What kind of idiot was she for not bringing a shovel? But this wretched country hadn’t experienced winter for many years, not since stealing the boy from Mara’s people. She ought to have been better prepared. After all, she’d grown up in a land of perpetual cold, a land stripped of life-giving warmth. Even so, she hadn’t expected the blizzard of the century. Her actions must’ve triggered this weather.
No use. Mara brushed off her parka and jumped back into the driver’s seat. When she revved the engine, the wheels spun and whirred and growled. Escape across the border seemed impossible, but she’d make it. At least with this storm, her pursuers couldn’t catch up—no sign of those red-and-blue lights.
The commotion in the trunk lulled her to sleep.
#
She awoke shivering, started the engine, ran the heat.
Still dark.
She turned off the ignition.
Spring flowers colored her dreams.
#
A knock on the window disturbed Mara’s slumber. A man shouted in that incomprehensible language and pointed to the car’s rear, to the noise of struggling.
Mara rifled through her purse for the Glock. The pistol still held three rounds. She wouldn’t surrender. Despite the cold, she was sweating.
Chains clattered.
The Passat was yanked free of the snow and lurched to a stop.
Mara pocketed her gun and got out. It was almost dawn. Overnight, the storm had died and left the sky black and blue, as if recovering from a fistfight. People were clearing snow off their rescued vehicles, the landscape shades of gray.
The man unlatched a hook from the Passat and climbed into his tractor. A butterfly squeezed through the crack of the car’s trunk and, for a heartbeat, hung suspended in midair, emitting a choked-off ululation. With a sigh, it burst like a soap bubble, a spark of vibrant iridescence. Luckily, the man didn’t notice. He hooked up his towline to the next car and wrenched it from the white dunes and into the middle of the roadway.
If these people knew what she was up to, they wouldn’t dig her out. Such a shame the elders couldn’t negotiate an arrangement to share the boy, rather than hoarding this vital resource, denying the other side even a trace of heat.
One by one, the line of vehicles drove off. Mara followed.
When they reached the crossroad, she split from the pack, continued downhill, and slowed to avoid losing control. She steered around an overturned bus entombed in ice. On both sides of the road, snow desert extended to the horizon.
Alone, she basked in her sweet isolation, thinking she just might complete her mission.
Until.
Strobing red and blue cut through the predawn gloom.
Mara floored it and careened down the hill. The car juddered and sent vibrations through the steering wheel, rattling her bones. Her heart pounded.
Behind, the lights drew nearer. Ahead, in the distance, the highway.
At the bottom of the slope, the road curved sharply. She pumped the brakes and took the turn. The Passat fishtailed, spun—highway, red-and-blue lights, then highway, a blur, round and round, until—whump!—the car slammed into a snowbank. Dizzy, quivering with adrenaline, she gunned the engine. The tires caught pavement, and the car launched and sped off.
Onto the highway.
Those bastards chased her. Gaining. Mara reached for the pistol.
She drove faster. The sun rose and pink glared off the icy panorama.
The border approached.
From beyond the checkpoint, the guards for Mara’s homeland leapt around frantically and waved her on as if she were nearing a finish line.
A high-pitched, angelic chorus came from the trunk, interrupted by a loud pop pop pop—her pursuers shooting at her.
Just ahead, a metal arm began to lower across the road, erecting one last barrier.
Mara dropped her pistol, white-knuckled the steering wheel, accelerated, drove through. With a metallic shriek, the arm scraped up the hood and cracked the windshield into spiderwebs, tumbled over the Passat, filled the rearview mirror’s frame, and crashed into the chase car, which skidded to a halt.
The song in the trunk settled into a warm murmur.
Mara drove on and the black roadway snaked through the icebound terrain. Eventually, she arrived at her home village, and a clangor of bells heralded her return. Children on skis tried to keep pace with her. She turned onto the main square and got out. A throng engulfed her and kissed the tears from her cheeks.
Hundreds of people were setting off fireworks, the smoke trailing southward. Ice and mud shellacked the Passat and the trunk radiated warmth, light, wondrous sound.
A hush came over the crowd.
Mara’s elation was tempered by thoughts of the wardens she’d killed to reclaim the boy and the man with the tractor who’d rescued her, now doomed to perpetual winter.
She opened the trunk.
Out erupted a swarm of butterflies, which coalesced into the kaleidoscopic shape of a young boy. He sang and the air shimmered, vital heat spreading in every direction.
For the first time in decades, the land thawed, spring finally returned to his rightful home.
August 24th, 2024
Matt Hollingsworth is a member of the neurodivergent community and an award-winning
color artist for Marvel, DC, and Image Comics, a job he’s done professionally
since 1991. He’s collaborated with the likes of Neil Gaiman, Alan Moore, and
Mike Mignola on titles including Death, Hellboy, and Batman. He
spends most of his free time reading, writing, or with his family and
collection of furry friends. He’s a filthy American, but has lived in Croatia
since 2006. His prose has appeared in Tales from the Moonlit Path and
will soon appear in Interzone.
more stories here
Also look out for:
Karl Dandenell’s Ruby, Throat and Gold – a dark fantasy about the arrogance of a usurper and the sweet revenge of a master of his craft.
Sean MacKendrick’s Keepers: mighty artwork designed to be seen from space -for a very good reason.
Kai Delmas’ Under Fire, Under Steel – robot armies and human dilemmas.
Lyndsey Croal’s – Space for One, a sci-fi tale about hard choices and living with the consequences.
Holley Cornetto’s The Orchard of Dreams, a wistful fantasy.
Or over a hundred and fifty other free flash fiction stories.
Wyldblood 15
Wyldblood 15 is available now
buy from us or from Amazon
Fifteen tales or adventure, intrigue and mayhem in the latest Wyldblood collection. Some are from names you may have seen before – Tiffani Angus, Michael Teasdale, David McGillveray, Kai Delmas – and some may be new to you, but all know how to write a finely crafted science fiction or fantasy tale. Available in print and digital formats.
From the Depths
Our latest anthology is packed with tales of the murky deep. We’ve got fifteen stories stuffed with selkies and sea monsters, pirates and meremaids, intrigue, adventure and more. Available in print and digitally.
ISBN 978-1-914417-15-3
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