Lithium

By Asina C

A hospital sits in the midst of Chernobyl's abandoned red forest. In what was once a town, now devoid of inhabitants, resides twelve-year-old Zurin and her mother, who exhibits strange behaviour until she goes missing. Told to never go outside for fear of radiation poisoning, Zurin ventures into the forest, which inexplicably leads her to the hospital and to a past that hasn't been abandoned. She uncovers a truth that was not meant to be revealed. They are not the only ones in Pripyat, and it is only a matter of time before someone else decides that she needs to be taken to the hospital.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528943772

Asina C

Asina also writes short stories and extracts that dip into science-fiction and horror. She is taking a course on comparative literature in London and is a walking enthusiast.

Book preview

41

Dedication

Asina also writes short stories and extracts that dip into science-fiction and horror. She is taking a course on comparative literature in London and is a walking enthusiast.

Copyright Information ©

Asina C (2018)

The right of Asina C to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788782678 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528943772 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank my parents for giving me the space to write. Also, I’d like to thank Juggi for their continued mutual support during the process of writing this book and after.

Prologue

Crouching on the ground were two humans, indecipherable in the bushes; they were the prey, hiding from their predator.

We have to leave this place now, or else we’re never going to escape, she exclaimed with tangible fervour to her companion among the leafed hibiscus of the forest. It was their only ally in concealing them from the eyes that wanted them detained.

Marcia, you cannot wait any longer, Frederick said exasperatedly, the wounds on his shoulder leaked droplets of blood, slowly leaking away at the seam of his uniform. Slowly, he lifted himself off the ground; his eyes bloodshot with fatigue. You need to leave now, there isn’t much time! the middle-aged man reiterated his command; injured, yet he still held authority in his tone.

How can I go when you are clearly injured and in no state to move, let alone run? she asked.

I’ll stay here, and make sure they don’t catch you, but you can run, get away from this godforsaken prison and start a new life.

But—

Think about the little one, Frederick gestured to the small bundle, wrapped in a white cotton blanket that was cradled in Marcia’s arms. She needs to be raised in a world that can offer life and not just death.

Do you see that track over the bridge?

Where? she asked, confusion dawned on her tired features.

There, just below that pine tree, with the birds’ nest pointing north, he pointed to direct her gaze towards the location. That track holds freight trains that can get you out of here; they travel to the south of the border, then exchange for the next train. That is your escape.

The quaint faith of his sanity was hanging by mere threads. Glancing down at his companion’s face, at the naked gleam of terror in her eyes, the will to survive another day reminded him of the betrayal he had committed. Still, it wasn’t long before they would come and take them. Judging by the way Marcia darted her eyes left and right to view any shadows, she also knew there wasn’t much time.

Borderline of the forest loomed the robust building, inviting to accommodate complex individuals. The stale crispness of the air welcomed the sign of burnt wood in which a rusted door slowly opened, and a mass of people marched out, in unison. Their bare feet scampered across the cobble-filled rocks and annihilated the leaves that fell beneath their feet.

As the impact of the noise increased in rhythm—coming closer, Marcia’s heart plummeted in her chest; knowing she had only one chance to do this.

The air is dangerous if you breathe in too much.

Fumbling through a small rucksack, Frederick retrieved a gas mask that would fit the size of an average person. The steps were monotonous and gaining speed. Anticipating this, he carefully placed the gas mask over her head and grabbed the rucksack to manoeuvre it on to her shoulders. Standing up, Marcia cradled the infant to her chest; and with one last glance towards Frederick, she knew that the time had crept with rapid succession, just like the soldiers who were bearing down on them.

"GO!" he hissed to Marcia behind his back.

Stepping away from the cover of the trees, the wounded soldier slowly ventured towards the people and made his presence known. The mob surrounded him in a callous range of dinged blue fabrics and closed in.

Whirling around, Marcia stumbled in the opposite direction and started to increase her pace into a jog. The direction her feet took her to was the escape route.

She kept moving until the blood-curdling siren registered her distress that Frederick had been harmed. Slowing to a walk, the infant began to wail in hunger, and holding the child’s face to her shoulder, a deadening realisation coursed through her mind.

She had to turn around.

The matte leaves were flat and lifeless with a pure sheen of sweat smeared on them.

Leaves don’t sweat.

They also don’t adorn ten ragged fingernails that were wrenched off and scattered around the ground like ants.

Fingernails scoured a bloodied trail towards the building that bore one warning.

No return.

Chapter 1

Waking up to the droning hum of a mosquito in her ear was not what she expected to be the start of a grey morning. Stretching to lock her joints into place and pausing to smack the insect to its doom—it was acceptable in its own right as it was a blood-sucking parasite. The annoying noise stopped, and Zurin adjusted her limbs that were half-buried in the thin sheet of bedclothes, but the soft thump coming from the next room alerted her attention.

Zurin!

Zurin! the voice had resonated again but with a higher pitch than before.

This time, hurrying to get out of the bed, Zurin swiftly padded out of the room and into an alcove, where corn flour was powdered onto the face of the high-pitched receiver’s voice. Startled in her footsteps, Zurin stood there in the middle of the room, staring at the woman who looked even paler than usual.

Is there something you wanted… or needed? Zurin asked timidly.

Because it looks like you might need some help to get that stuff off your face… and the rest of the kitchen.

"I was just making some pampushky, and it says here that you need plain flour, which we don’t have, so I can only make do with corn flour," she replied.

Zurin frowned and asked, "What in the world is pampushky?"

Turning to a tattered copy of a recipe book that lay on the counter in the small kitchenette, her mother read:

A Ukrainian dessert, that is sweet dough coated with sugar and can be filled with poppy seeds or other fillings.

I see, but Mama, you’re a good baker, why don’t you just make something simpler instead, like pancakes?

Looking up from the recipe book, she smiled and said, If you don’t try something new, you won’t know if you are good at it, and it allows you to develop into a better person. There was a strong light in her eyes as her words rung true; however, Zurin was oblivious to it.

Are we still talking about the pancakes? Zurin asked.

Of course, she said. Now come over here, and help me clean up this mess, her mother entreated, in a false commanding tone.

The room was vaporised with white powder and other ingredients from the food. With a small smile plastered on her lips, Zurin stepped over a puddle of corn flour which had been saturated in a dense brown liquid. It had started to smell and solidify, like a lump of curd that had been laid out to harden but still had the odour of a cow’s presence in a barn. Reaching to the small metallic sink, Zurin pulled out a sponge and a broom and began to clean up the mess on the floor.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

Whilst hovering around the kitchenette, Mama took out what looked to be oven gloves as they were burnt and pulled out a tray from the stone oven. It was the smell of the food that had arrested her senses first before the sight of it had. A gentle aroma had wafted up from the dish in which Zurin could vaguely smell spiced apple, with the sweetness of the dough that had been cooked.

Rising up from the floor, Zurin was greeted with a sight of eight golden doughnuts that were filled with spiced apple sauce. The steam from the food had done some justice from the fire in the stone oven and had collected faint but burnt edges to the dough.

Here we are! Mama stated, with a hint of personal achievement in her tone.

She presented the dish in her oven-gloved hands with a flourish, as if she was an award-winning television chef.

All Zurin had to do now was to eat it and judge for herself if it tasted as satisfactory as it looked. Receiving a plastic fork, Zurin carefully dug into the doughy texture and swallowed it with some spiced apple filling. The hot apple sauce was sharp and burned her throat, but the rare taste of the sweet soft dough masked her pain.

Upon glancing at her mother’s face, she nodded and said, It may have a different name, but I wouldn’t mind eating this for breakfast every day. This is amazing, Zurin added, with a relaxed sigh.

Well, I’m glad that I can make someone proud of my food. You don’t know how relieved it makes me for you to say that, Mama beamed, with a slight rose-tinted colour added to her cheeks.

For a moment, Zurin caught a fleeting glance of despair or regret in her mother’s grey eyes, but it passed as soon as it came… like the beginnings of a thundercloud that hid behind the sun.

Shrugging it off, Zurin reached for another doughnut, eager to satiate her rumbling stomach, but she was caught by Mama, who tapped her hand away playfully.

"No more pampushky until this room is clear," she admonished again; but this time, it was emphasised with a wooden spoon, which was coated with the brown liquid that had congealed.

***

A little while later, after the small array of mixing bowls and equipment had been cleaned, not to mention the floor which was thoroughly wiped and brushed, the kitchenette had resembled its usual appearance of lived in demeanour, simple, yet rustic. However, the white walls were beginning to look beige and faded in the corners. Bits of plaster peeled off from the low ceiling and starting to crack, resembling the withered branches of a dying tree. Also, the furniture itself was a sorry state that had to be replaced, as the couch fuzz oozed out, and the legs of the round table looked like it was about to give way and collapse.

Whistling a tune in her head as she sorted through the vast collection of mementos collected over the past years was peaceful. It was a way to forget the present and focus on the past. The rough exterior of the wooden box felt familiar, a few dents and scratches along the edges although, it still had its namesake of being called treasure. The four side panels of the box had been nailed in shut.

A carved keyhole was engraved into the lid of the box, yet it was opened by pulling the latches on each side of the box.

Inside were a few pieces of paper that had darkened and ripped around the sides, some coloured strings of black, blue and grey, a shell and a photo. Digging into her things until she reached the bottom of the box, Zurin pulled out the photo. Considering the state of it, it had to have been quite old as it looked faded, and it was black and white. No colour.

But that was not all. In the photo was a man of just his head and shoulders. He turned slightly away from the picture and produced a half smirk, almost as if he found it a nuisance to smile. Peering closer into the background, behind the man’s head, was a large building that towered behind him. Although it was hard to distinguish its features as the building was shadowed by the forest, but Zurin could make out a tall turret and a window, but it seemed to have scratch marks on the photo. It stood out as the branches of the tree looked like it was almost swaying in the wind, but it was resolute.

Zurin didn’t remember putting the picture in her box, as it didn’t belong to her. Turning to place the picture back inside, it smelt of something wild and musky, like mildew, which contrasted to the original mothball scent of the other mementos.

A creek of the door diverted Zurin’s attention as her hair stood on her arms. The door stood ajar, and a shadow appeared in the shape and form of Mama.

Zurin, I need your dirty clothes to do the—She stopped and gasped; her eyes were wide and trained on Zurin. Why are you bleeding?

Chapter 2

Huh? Zurin was still sitting on the floor, her legs crossed at an awkward angle, and she knew she had to get up.

Stepping closer, Mama was still staring at Zurin and directed her to the conjoined bathroom, where a dusty mirror hung on the wall. Getting a rag cloth and she impatiently wiped off the excess dust that had gathered over the weeks, so that Zurin could look into the mirror.

There, Mama pointed at Zurin’s cheek. You’re bleeding.

Reaching up to touch her cheek, Zurin noticed a fairly small splatter of blood. Some of it had dried and was beginning to crust, turning dark maroon.

Did you have an accident or an injury? Mama asked worriedly, tilting Zurin’s face to the light to inspect any more injuries that were likely to occur.

No, not that I remember.

Zurin turned from the mirror and turned the tap on to receive a blast of water in her face to clean up the blood.

I woke up and heard the sound of a mosquito in my ear, so I kind of… slapped it against my face, so it’s not my blood.

She shrugged and observed the expression of worry turned to disgust and faint humour on her mother’s face.

That is one of the most bizarre things I have ever heard, Zurin.

What? I was half-asleep, and it was just there.

Still you couldn’t get a book or something to swat it away, she sighed. Anyway, I am going to the market to get some things. I’ll only be gone for three hours the most.

The worry had returned in her eyes.

Make sure you lock all the doors and windows, and don’t answer the door unless it is me. I don’t want any strangers coming here. And don’t peak through the windows too much.

Yes, Mama, said Zurin, rolling her eyes, I know. She had been over this procedure ever since she was a little girl; the first time she was given the lecture at three years old. Her mother would go out and would make Zurin stay behind at home and wait until she would come back. Never had she ventured outside to know what it would be like to see, feel, hear and experience the things outside. It made her curious to want to be able to do it.

Returning from a small bedroom, dressed in a long overcoat—a few sizes too big—and trench boots, Mama collected a brown rucksack from the round table, which seemed to fit accordingly to her shoulders.

Don’t forget to get the plain flour, you know, for doughnuts, stated Zurin, from the living room.

She turned around and said, Of course, I won’t forget. Be good. I’ll be back soon.

Aren’t I ever anything but good?

The sound of the front door banged, jolting Zurin out of her thoughts and made her aware to lock the doors and windows just as her mother has instructed.

It’s okay, she thought. I’m used to being left alone in a house with no mother at all for a few hours. She had to find a way to entertain herself for a certain amount of time. Albeit it was difficult, but Zurin had the help of her imagination; they didn’t have a television, but she still made good time with her pencils and paper. Whilst in her room, Zurin sat cross-legged, staring out of the window; a single glazed window which was wide and well, square. The fog had cleared from the early morning descent into the grey skies. The clouds were still very much ashen and lucid and seemed to clear in slow succession. Looking down, there were multitude of leaves that had flew from neighbouring trees and settled on the complacent ground.

Among the horizon of the skeletal trees was a layer of red. It was very faint and blurred to make out, but Zurin spotted it. In her jurisdiction, that had nonetheless compelled her to want to step outside; was a red leaf that had landed on the ground, directly below her window.

The same window that had a latch which Zurin had locked 30 minutes ago.

Jumping from the bed and vaulting to the tiny indoor closet, which served as a space to hang extra clothes, cleaning equipment and cooking utensils, Zurin scavenged through a navy blue woolly coat and found a pair of ankle boots, in which the tassels had seemed squashed from the weight of the other things in the closet.

Glancing at the clock hanging above the round table, she read 12:45 p.m.

Correct.

One of the commodities that Mama had taught her was how to tell the time, along with reading and writing; that was a luxury gained and not to be forgotten. Re-entering her bedroom, Zurin unlocked her window and pushed it up. Immediately a gust of wind blew into her face, causing some strands of hair to come into her mouth. It tasted gritty and course. Spitting it out, Zurin focused on the task at hand and placed the sole of her boots onto the ledge of the window. Then, she swung her lower body out of the window, keeping her hands wrapped around the latch.

Deep breath.

The veins in her temple beginning to pulse, and with an off-balance motion, she dropped.

The fall didn’t hurt much. It was more like an abrupt awakening of her initialisation into the outside world. That and the beginnings of a bruise on her tailbone. It didn’t hurt as much as it should have because the house itself didn’t possess any stairs; it was more like a flat with a small garden. Brushing off excess dirt and soil off the rear end of her coat, Zurin stood up and surveyed her surroundings. She didn’t know what to expect at first. The trees were losing their leaves with every breath of wind, making them turn chestnut as soon as they hit the stone-cobbled ground. It added to the effect of scrunched up paper when Zurin stepped onto the leaves, crinkled and shrivelled up.

The air itself tasted dense and rubbery, like the helium that left a popped balloon. Zurin didn’t expect it to be so… real, metaphysical, but the regular breaths and the steam produced by her exhalations was proof enough that she really was outside. The wind had miraculously returned, sending an essence of abrupt departure of the red leaf into a frenzy of directions.

For the first time in all of her 12 years, Zurin had stepped outside. Rising to her feet, she immediately set to recover the lost leaf that tossed and turned violently in the wind. It seemed that with every passing moment, the hostility of the wind increased its tempo; until for a second, Zurin thought that she was in the middle in a hurricane.

An icy feeling crawled up the base of her spine as the tension thickened in the air. Remembering that she was still alone outside the bungalow, Zurin looked around and saw a presence at the base of the woods, 50 yards off. The shadow seemed to blur and darken around the edges as the leaves that blew hurtled in her direction, making grit go into her eyes. Rubbing her eyes with the sleeves of her coat, Zurin watched the forest again, but the figure was gone. Pocketing the leaf that finally fell near her feet, Zurin set to return to her window the same way she had got out.

***

Inside the bungalow, the warmth seeped into Zurin’s over clothes that she had discarded onto the floor, as soon as she climbed over the threshold of the window. The tap dripped in the kitchen; it had not been tightened properly, and the watermarks collected in the sink.

Drip. Drip.

Coming to terms