Blight

by Kolin Wood

  Something banged inside the empty reception on his right and he froze. Murphy, his ears pricked up, also turned in the direction of the noise, his shiny black nose sniffing at the air.

  “Who’s there?” John called out.

  No reply.

  He patted his leg for Murphy to follow and walked slowly over to the large set of smashed glass doors.

  “Hello?” His voice carried much louder than he had expected in the vast space of the wasted foyer. The lack of natural light left it dark and gloomy. A corridor on the far side of the reception perpetuated even farther in with doorways on either side of it like black mouths, intimidating and full of the unknown. Behind him, the bright light from the afternoon sun reflected off of the broken glass on the floor of the foyer, further hindering his view inside.

  John waited in the entrance and listened. He was sure that in the background of his hearing that he could just make out a constant sound, like running water but more abrasive.

  Murphy let out a low growl and John shuddered.

  Sure that Becca was over-exaggerating the extent of the danger that they were in, John tapped his leg once again. “C’mon, boy, let’s go and wait for her in the fresh air.”

  Soon the two of them were sitting out on the pavement, John with his back against the fully-deflated front wheel of the car and Murphy at his side. For the first time in days, John felt calm, almost to the point of relaxed … almost. The air here was still and warm, almost humid; very different from the constant wind that carried in off of the sea. The smell came again, something odd that he couldn’t place. It hung like an off-note in the air; pungent and damp, almost akin to wet dog. Only the occasional tweeting of the birds interrupted the complete silence of the open space.

  With a deep breath, John closed his eyes.

  The clamped hand over his mouth startled John awake. His eyes flashed wide and he tried to cry out but the resultant sound was muffled. Emerald green eyes stared down at him, their intensity burning the serious nature of the beholder into his own. Soft hair tickled his cheeks and ears. Beyond the head blocking his view, the sun had dipped lower, painting the sky a hazy orange and hinting at the onset of dusk. It felt as though he had only just shut his eyes but clearly he had been out for some time.

  “We need to move… now.”

  Becca’s voice was hushed but commanding. She withdrew her hand, releasing the pressure from his mouth and then reached for his elbow, dragging him up to his feet. Once John was standing, she picked up his staff and bag from the floor and thrust them into his hands. Then, with a finger over her lips, she nodded down to Murphy, who already had his muzzle retied and was looking back once again with saddened eyes.

  That was twice that the dumb animal had failed to alert him of impending danger. Maybe Becca was right; maybe Murphy really was just a stupid animal.

  John glanced back at the reception of the hotel which was now almost black with shadows. The darkness inside seemed to move, and his eyes were unable to focus. Suddenly, a loud, broken howl sounded from somewhere close by and he spun to look at Becca’s face as her eyes widened and the colour drained out it.

  “Run,” she said.

  7

  The faster he tried to run, the bigger the gap between him and Becca seemed to grow. The girl moved like a rabbit; impossibly lithe and nimble on her feet, dodging around the rusted wreckages of abandoned vehicles and hurdling any obstructions without the need to stop or even slow down a little. Beside her, tethered to her wrist with twine, Murphy easily kept pace, his tail wagging and his ears up, enjoying the burst of spontaneous exercise.

  “Wait!” John cried out. The air burned in his constricted lungs and the muscles in his thighs and calves boiled red hot under the skin.

  But the girl ignored him, ducking through a gap in some foliage before turning down yet another slim alleyway between two shops. Behind them, howls and screams rang out—harsh sounds that rebounded around the shells of the derelict buildings. The shadows inside them all seemed suddenly to be moving, adding to the sense of menace and making it impossible to tell how many people were chasing them, not that John cared. Judging by the way Becca had taken off, and with the words of Harrison ringing in his ears, he had absolutely no intention of turning around to find out.

  The alleyway seemed to stretch on forever, with no doorways or routes in or out. Just as John’s lungs felt like they were going to burst through his rib cage, Becca skidded to a stop in front of him. Sharp bricks grazed his hands as he collapsed against the wall, his face pinched tight with pain.

  “Who the hell is that?” John panted as he leaned forward with his hands on his hips, in an attempt to catch his breath.

  The alley had ended abruptly. Beyond lay a vast, empty space resembling a town square, a bronze statue of a man on a horse situated in its centre. All around them, the screams continued, more regular now and louder with every passing second.

  Yet still the girl ignored him. She glanced one way and then the other, repeating the process again and again, her body crouched low, her expression one of genuine fear and worry.

  “Now,” she whispered and took off across the open space at the same break-neck speed as before, pulling Murphy after her. She never once looked back.

  Despair returned in spades as John realised that he was going to have to run again. It felt at that moment as though his legs had already seized and he was not sure how much more he had to give.

  Just then, an animal-like wail rang out from behind him.

  Spurred into action, John pushed off the wall, ignoring the tearing pains covering much of his body, and stumbled out into the open space. Becca darted diagonally across the square, hurdling over any obstructions and using whatever foliage that she could find as cover. John followed, mimicking her footsteps as much as possible but ultimately unable to copy her movements; he had no idea how she could run at such a pace and still stay ducked low like that. He was struggling to run standing up, let alone bent over. The gap between them increased with each step.

  Another scream sounded out; this one much closer than before.

  This time John, with sweat dripping from his face, chanced a look behind. A dark figure burst from the cover of the buildings, hunched over almost on all fours and moving at a remarkable speed. From that distance, John was unable to make out any detail except that the person looked filthy, as if covered head to toe in dirt or mud.

  “For God’s sake, John. Move!” Becca cried out from in front of him.

  The urgency in the tone of her voice spurred him on. He faced straight ahead again, turning just in time to avoid tripping on the spilled carcass of a partially-melted, plastic litter bin. Darkness closed in again as he sped into another alleyway—a wider one with fractured doorways of boutique shops cluttering its walls—and he welcomed it.

  Becca was now more than twenty or so feet in front of him. More than once he lost sight of her as she weaved and turned down the maze of side streets and alleyways, catching a glimpse of her for brief moments before she’d vanish again. But somehow he managed to keep up enough. Suddenly, the claustrophobic walls of the townscape ended, and the sprawling green of parkland came into view. On one side, a huge wall ran perpendicular to the road. John rounded the side of a building just in time to see the girl and his dog turn down a gentle sloping ramp on the side of the park. The sign over the roadway read ‘Private Parking’.

  With hope rising that it might mean the end of the chase and that he might soon be able to stop running and rest, John pushed himself hard, crossing the street in a few quick strides and taking off down the ramp after them at full speed. He could not remember having run so far or so hard ever in his life.

  At the bottom of a short incline, the road turned left, following a subterranean route under the parkland. John followed it and, upon reaching the corner, he skidded to halt. The huge, black entrance to the car park was covered by a thick and sturdy-looking, metal trellis which had been pulled down to ground level. From where he
was stood now, he could see the glint of a solid steel padlock, locking it in place and holding it shut. The sky above had turned even darker and now harboured a moody orange colour, flecked with red and the occasional flash of yellow. Night was coming. In response to his thought, a barking yell echoed from the top of the ramp behind him.

  John looked about desperately. There was no way that Becca had had the time to pull down the gate, lock it in place and disappear—even if it had been standing open already. He’d fallen behind, but not that far. With the gate locked and no way out but back up the way that he had just come down, John realised that he was cornered. Suddenly, all of Becca’s warnings that he had internally mocked and paid next to no heed came back full circle to haunt him. He had no idea who it was that was chasing them, but he knew enough to know that they were not about to throw him a welcoming party.

  The whistle made him jump. It was sharp and shrill, practiced in its projection.

  John spun, subconsciously swinging the club up in front of his body.

  On the far side of the road, a railing ran along the pavement and continued all the way up until it met the barrier, and on the other side of the railing stood Becca with her arm in the air, waving frantically. Relief washed through him as he saw her and he sprinted towards her, his heart jumping wildly in his chest. At the barrier he stopped, looking for a way round. But the railing ran back for metres, so he awkwardly hurdled it instead, almost falling on his face the other side.

  “Come on!” Becca hissed, clearly annoyed as she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

  Almost at the point of full exhaustion, John cried out and pushed with his legs, trying to help. A few hunched-over steps and the sight of somebody’s feet in dark boots appeared as they stood aside to let him past. The sound of metal slamming against metal rang out, and suddenly he was encased in almost total darkness.

  As the pressure on his arm released, John made no attempt to stop himself from falling. He slumped down to his hands and knees and then rolled over, gasping for breath. The rucksack obstruction on his back held some of his skin off of the ground, but the rest was subjected to the cool hardness of the concrete beneath him. It felt amazing. With his eyes closed, he sucked in huge lungful’s of air, tasting diesel oil.

  A big, wet, warm tongue licked up his face from his chin to his nose. The sight of the big dog brought tears to his eyes and John hugged the hot mass of fur against him, ruffling the greasy mop of tangled hair on his friend’s head. “Hello, boy.”

  “We need to move,” a man’s voice said.

  John was hauled to his feet, but this time he could tell without looking that it was not Becca doing the tugging. The grip was strong, vice-like and painful on his bicep. Somewhat fearfully, he allowed himself to be led without any resistance.

  The small section of corridor ended abruptly and they continued through a heavy steel door surrounded by damp looking sand bags. Beyond it lay an open space, the size of a small hall or large meeting room. A good number of candles were placed around the floor and on any free surfaces available, their effect heightened by an odd, gas powered camping lantern hung from one of the various hooks higher up. A block of fabricated, plastic bench seats occupied the middle of the room. Around the edge, piles of various items lay stacked against the walls: clothes and blankets, tins, buckets, and other assorted, useful survival tools and utensils.

  “Who’s this, then?”

  The shadow before him was tall and looked to be holding on to some kind of weapon. With his eyes bleary with exertion and his body wrought with pain, John was unable to make out any features on the man’s face except for the fact that he looked to be sporting a full, dark thatch of beard.

  “This is John, brother. I found him and his mutt out there on the edge of town. He’s looking for his friend.” This time the voice was Becca’s and, not for the first time that day, John was happy to have her nearby.

  Silence.

  “That right?” The deep voice again.

  John looked in the direction that he believed the man’s eyes to be and nodded. “That’s right. I’m looking for my friend, Ryan.”

  A pause then suddenly the shadow before him disappeared.

  There were another three doors leading into the room: one on the same side of the room where he was stood now, and the other two on the far back wall. A woman was stood in one of the doorways, her body crouched over. She was staring at John with a scared expression on her face and her shawl pulled up to cover her mouth.

  “Who is it?” came a frail voice.

  “It’s okay, Mum. The boy’s just lost is all. Go back to bed.” And with that, the man walked over to a stack of bottles by the wall, picked one up, and returned to him. “Hands!” he barked, unscrewing the lid.

  Worried, John looked over at Becca, who nodded and smiled. Then, seeing as he had no choice, he put his hands out in front of him. The man upended the bottle, liberally covering John’s hands in a thick shiny liquid with a strong chemical smell. It was then that John noticed that both he and Becca were wearing gloves.

  “You can dry them on that towel over there,” he said.

  Twenty minutes later and with a belly full of dubious tasting water, John sat perched on one of the bench chairs in the middle of the room. The heavy steel door had been locked with a key—which the brother had retained—and two or three huge sandbags piled against the bottom; a defence which seemed a bit of overkill, but John said nothing.

  All he knew was it hurt to move. Now stationary, it felt as though he had torn every muscle in each of his pulsating legs. His feet throbbed terribly. If the dash across the town had taught him one thing it was that he would need to improve on his fitness going forward; the past few hours had been a wake-up call.

  In one of the off-shoot rooms, a fire had been lit underneath a make-shift grate, on top of which a large, cast iron pot was busy bubbling away, filling the room with the rich aroma of something intense and glorious. John’s stomach growled. It hurt right up under his diaphragm, and he was unsure as to whether it was due to the hunger he now felt or the exertion of the run. He had not eaten anything all day after missing breakfast. Murphy whined at his feet.

  Nobody had spoken to him since he’d been brought in; it was as though he were now invisible. Becca and the man that she had called brother were busy answering to the call of their unwritten rota, falling in to line to prepare the meal with an efficiency which John admired. They stepped and parried in and out of each other’s space, always aware of what the other was doing. Things had been much the same way with Ryan; each of them knew their own and the others’ responsibilities, allowing for jobs to be done in a timely manner. The world was tough. There were no man-made machines to help out, making even the most mundane of tasks something to dread. Seamless communication between the team just made the process of this daily grind that little bit easier to tolerate. But right now their efforts made his lack of input all the more obvious, so John kept quiet, wishing that they would assign him a task to do.

  After disappearing into the room with the cooking stove, Becca returned with a steaming mess tin full of the fine-smelling broth. John’s eyes lit up as he saw lumps of something solid floating around next to the greens in the deep, rich brew. He took the tin by the large metal handle, swiping away the wet dog nose that suddenly popped up at the rim.

  “Thanks,” he said, nodding up at her.

  Becca returned the gesture, her face depicting an amused frown.

  “What?” he asked, wincing as the bottom of the hot tin burned through his jeans and scalded his leg.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” she said, sarcastically.

  John rolled his eyes. “Helpful.”

  “I’m afraid there’s none for you’, stupid,” she said down to Murphy who was sat attentively and as still as a statue. She sat down on the chair next to John. “You have food for him?”

  John shifted in his seat and set the bowl down next to him to cool. “Yep,” he said. �
�Found some old tins of cat food in a small, flooded town not too far from here. Murph loves them. Although, I think there’s only one left. I’ll give him some before he sleeps; it’ll keep him down for a few hours.”

  A shadow appeared beside her, blocking some of the candlelight.

  “What did you see at the flooded town?” the young man said, his face was still cloaked in shadow but his voice sounded interested.

  John shrugged. “Nothing. Empty shops, houses, few birds. I didn’t see anybody from here all the way to the coast…” He paused, aware that he needed to be careful not to betray the location of the farm. Compared to the squalor that these people were living in, his own home would be considered a paradise; a wealthy resource that he needed to protect.

  Even without sight of his face, John could sense the disappointment with his answer from the drop of the man’s shoulders. Clearly, he was affiliated with the place in some way, but John did not care to push the matter.

  “Who were those people chasing us?” he asked, in an effort to change the subject.

  A pause. Becca and the young man looked at each other.

  “Crazies,” the man said abruptly, and then, without offering anything more, he turned away and walked to the other side of the room.

  “Don’t mind him,” Becca said. “He’s always like that, grumpy fool. Don’t take it personally.”

  John picked up the bowl and blew down on the boiling tin, eager to satiate his hunger but unwilling to burn his mouth in the process. “Who are the crazies?”

  Becca frowned. She paused to think about what to say. “There’s always been crazies… the people on the edge… the ones that don’t wanna return to the way things were… the wild ones. Some of the crazies that lived around the town already had a taste for human flesh; they’d been making people disappear for years. When the water sickness hit, it thinned us out so much that there was almost no way for us to fight back against them. They moved in and picked the place clean, eating anything and anybody that they found… alive or dead.” She paused and shuddered, as if reliving some awful memory. Her eyes were like steel mirrors. “Eating the plague flesh, it did something to them; it turned them even wilder, made them even more…”