The M6 Southbound – Hannah McIntyre

Rain pours into the dry soil, trickling in through the crevices. Dry roots, hiding like ants in the ground, now burgeon with moisture. Upon my trunk, yellow blooms of fungi quiver as beads of water form on their flat tops. Amongst the irregular vibrations of the road traffic, I feel the familiar bubbling of cells as we expand symbiotically. For days I have been wilting with thirst, but as water disperses throughout me, I feel suppleness return to even the spindliest of branches. I sway alongside my sparse brethren in the man-made gusts of the motorway.  

The vehicles buzzing along the dead-soil slow under the downpour. Soon, the surface is covered in worm-like queues, wriggling forwards as one entity. Wipers carelessly flick water, my leaves burn from the acidic droplets. Faces contort behind glass panes as engines emit blaring howls, ignorant of the wildlife trying to sleep beyond the road. But rest will not come for me until the air cools. All I can do is watch the humans and their confounding behaviours. 

A motorbike bolts down the middle lane, travelling towards the teeming traffic at a great speed. The slit of their helmet turns toward the roadside advertisement, the carcass of an old lorry bedecked with a mannequin and pram. 

The humans are often distracted by this spectacle. The weather-beaten plastic head looks back at them as they hurtle past, holding up a single hand to see them off. 

The motorcyclist seems unaware of the glaring brake lights ahead, another common occurrence. With each turn of the wheels, the impact becomes inevitable. Cars at the end of the traffic’s tail shuffle anxiously in the sludgy air.

The motorbike maintains its speed. The eyeless faces watch each other, their expressions immovable atop their hard skin.  

I’ve seen it so many times. I have learnt to calculate the moment of impact based on the way the drag-wind buffets my outer leaves.

Three, two, one. 

The bike hits the back of a blue lorry. 

The cargo bed of the lorry jerks to the side, lurching towards the barrier at the edge of the motorway. Its heavy load sweeps vehicles across the road as effortlessly as the wind blows leaves. Glass tinkles and metal crunches, both are compounded in a tumble of cars. 

As the road is littered with cracked plastic and spilt fuel, the rider of the bike is flung into the air. Faster than any vehicle the body rises above the carnage. 

The engines’ roars return with more urgency and even the little cars chirp from amongst the wreckage.

A small figure clad in scuffed, black leather flies through the air towards me.

Drivers swerve around the crash-site, desperate to get away.

The human falls head-first upon my roots. She spits out air as it is forced from her lungs. Golden tresses of hair spill out the mangled helmet, the shattered visor is covered in a dark, viscous liquid. She doesn’t move. Her lips shudder as she sucks in air. A gash on her forehead pumps blood across her face, clots form between the hairs of her eyebrows. 

I wish I could move. I want to help. I’m sorry about the gnarly root which destroyed her helmet. I’d fix it if I could. 

Her eyes are open, the pale blue pigments revolve sluggishly around their sockets, unable to focus upon anything. The lids droop slowly, the muscles around her eyes straining as she forces them open. Her fist slowly unfurls atop the fungi on my side, one finger, then another, until the palm lies flat facing up towards the sky. The pulsating of her blood slows synchronously with the trickle flowing from her head.

Each breath grows raspier and shallower, the electrical stimulation of her internal organs fades. She grows cold and her skin becomes taut across her face. I shake off some leaves to keep her warm as the sun sinks out of view. Her hair flutters gently in the wind as the rest of her body lies motionless. Warm blood pools at my base, choking me with bitterness as it passes through my permeable roots.

Flashing lights fill the night as the emergency services arrive. The traffic filters away until a few cars are left parked in the middle of the motorway. Humans wrapped in metallic blankets hang their heads as they point toward the wreckage. A pack of humans in bright jackets check each vehicle, yelling about a missing driver. 

I would tell them that she is over here, but of course, I can’t. If they would look in this direction maybe they could find her, they could help her. Instead, they trail around uselessly, searching in all the wrong places.

The sun peeps over the ridges of the land before someone spots her. Morning rays light up her body, shrouding her in the white glow of the Sun. Hoarse voices overlap each other as feet thunder towards me. Hours late, they act without a moment to spare. Hands search her wrists for a pulse, others wrap her frozen body in a creased blanket. 

Her hand is quickly dropped to the ground as the leader shakes his head morosely. A plastic sack is brought over from an idling ambulance and the woman I watched over all night is zipped into the human rubbish bag. 

 The scene is cleared quickly after the discovery of her body. Humans in white suits sweep the area, picking up odd pieces of debris and bagging them up. The road is swiftly reopened. New cars soar past, unaware of the tragedy which has barely faded. The rain slackens into drips which drizzle lazily down my trunk into the ground, too meagre to wash away the congealed blood. Birds land on my branches pecking at the acorns, but I am unsympathetic to their flapping. I hide the acorns behind my leaves and flick my branches until they fly away. 

The sun rises and falls several times as I think about the woman. I marvel at the lack of stillness upon the road. Time, it seems, is a malleable concept here. I begin to fear I am the last to remember the woman until a teary-eyed figure limps up the dirt embankment towards me. She has the same eyes as the dead girl, although, they’re so swollen I almost didn’t notice. 

In the old-woman’s hands she holds a photo of a crumpled body lying in a heap upon the ground. She casts her discerning eyes around, searching for the correct bend in the trunk, the lumpy knots in the bark. Her gaze lands upon me and she stops still, straightening herself up and raising her head higher. Without checking her photo again, she stumbles over to me, hands outstretched. A candle nearly falls from her loose grip as she makes her way through the scrubby roadside woodland. Prayers are mumbled under her breath as she moves, but her face points downwards towards the earth. 

With a shaking hand she places the candle encircled in glass between my roots. As she does so, her hand brushes against a bloody stain. The woman loses what little balance she had and falls to the ground. Just like her daughter, I can feel the hum of her heartbeat. She buries her face into me, clasping her arms around my roots to feel that same embrace her daughter had received. Wet soil clings to her trousers as she laments in the mud, raindrops pelt her bedraggled hair, but the woman does not move. 

For hours she waits here, clinging onto me as if to save her from meeting the same fate. Her fingers trail the outline of her daughter’s blood. Her hand reaches absently into her pocket to pull out a lighter, a flame ignites the fresh wick of the candle. Raindrops sputter into the fire trying to put it out, but the little light continues on, unphased. 

The sky fills with violent colour, red slashes into orange and purple bruises the shoulders of the hills as the sun slinks back to its hiding place. The woman notices the waning sunlight and comes to, gathering herself and her few belongings up to leave. She turns back and places her hands upon my trunk to recite a Hail Mary, her face shows no conviction in the words she utters.

Each morning they come. When the dew settles on the blades of grass, people begin their pilgrimage to me. They bring with them offerings: flowers, letters, teddies, even food. Like a tomb prepared for the afterlife, I am entrusted with the items required for Vanessa’s life beyond this. That’s her name, Vanessa. I finally learnt it between the sobbed words and broken sentences. Vanessa, whose blood I spilt and consumed, whose last breath I stole. Vanessa, rest in peace, as the humans say.

The seasons pass quickly as seasons always do. One by one, the withered flowers and soggy teddies are dashed away by the winds. The rings around my middle fatten and my curved leaves fall again to form a wreath around my trunk. 

When the sun finally shines warm again and I feel the budding of new leaves springing out from my branch-tips, I sense another movement amongst my roots. New shoots spread out in the empty basin where great tangles of my roots once lay, driven away by the contamination of the bloody soil. It grows slowly, unsure of itself, hardly daring to peek above the dirt.

I strengthen it with water and nutrients directed through the fungi. I wait patiently for the heat of the Sun to lure it out. Slowly it develops. 

I feel its roots deepen and curl towards mine, grasping hungrily at the earth. In a burst of confidence, one day it surges upwards. Green stem emblazoned with a bright red bud, it rises through the air in search of sunlight, wobbly in the breeze but steadfast in its quest. 

It grows bolder each day. 

Bees fuss around it as its stem thickens, bud expands, and colour deepens.

When the bud unfurls itself to form a flower it is the most beautiful thing in this barren wood. The crimson is so familiar to me, yet now I can hardly remember why. The petals undulate in the wind so delicately, I am reminded of the fluttering of a human’s hair. When the seed pods rattle in the wind, sometimes I mistake it for a rasping breath.

---

If you enjoyed reading this story and want to help us to continue to provide free Science Fiction and Fantasy, please consider supporting us on Patreon.

Emerging Worlds is a Zealot Script Publication.