Blight

by Kolin Wood

  The very first callings of dusk had fallen when Becca found and suggested a suitable vehicle for the night; clearly the events of the previous evening had seen her keen to put as much distance between the rats and her as possible. The minibus listed to one side and the body work was severely dented from a car that had ploughed into its’ side, but closer inspection revealed intact glass and doors which all locked. This time John did not complain; even Murphy seemed happy and gracious to be off the hot road. Inside, everything and anything of use had already been stripped out, but some of the seat covers at the back were still present and dry. John patted one and a cloud of dust billowed out, setting a tickle in his nose that caused him to sneeze. It was only a minor inconvenience for tonight; they would all be able to stretch out like kings. Genuinely happy, he set down some clothing on the bench seat to act as a pillow and put a small amount of water in a container for Murphy, keeping the bottle within reach for himself in the night; he would not be using the lighter again.

  Every muscle in his body cried out in apathy as he laid back, the faux-leather coverings creaking under the strangeness of the duress. In order to be able to fully lie back, his legs hung off of the edge at the crook of his knee but, compared to the confines of the previous night, it felt like luxury. He looked up. As before, the windows were frosted green with dirt and algae, severely darkening the space inside and hampering their visibility; similarly it also restricted anybody’s ability to be able to see inside. The bus felt sturdy and safe, and was farther away from the surface of the road. If they remained prone and quiet then they should be okay.

  Soon, a soft, contented snore emanated from the floor where Murphy had curled up on an outstretched shirt and promptly fallen to sleep. John, situated on the bench seat behind Becca, lay quietly staring at the dirty ceiling while listening to the crinkle of her clothing as she fidgeted and struggled to get comfortable. One thing was for sure, he would never be able to sleep knowing that she was awake. He had found himself thinking about her more and more, watching her when he thought that she was not looking, trying hard to make her smile any chance he got. Even though he wanted to see her safe, part of him hoped that Redwood Farm would turn into a wasted expedition; the idea of walking into the Refuge alone did not sit well with him. Then again, the prospect of sidling into town with a girl as young and as pretty as Becca did not seem like the best play either. Sure, he felt confident that he could look after himself should push come to shove, but would he be able to protect her too should the need arise? Part of him guessed that there was a good chance that he would find out, one way or another.

  It took a further ten minutes of uncomfortable silence and rustling clothing before he plucked up the courage to talk.

  “You still awake?” he said, barely loud enough to be heard.

  For a few moments there was nothing. His heart beat a steady thump in his chest as he clenched and unclenched his fingers.

  “Unfortunately,” she said, eventually. “Can’t stop thinking about my mum and brother.”

  Inwardly, John cursed himself. The girl had just left her only family in a town plagued by crazies and rats, and he had not once even stopped to think about how she might be feeling. Instead, he had been trying to make her laugh.

  “I’m sure that they will be all right,” he croaked, but the voice was far from convincing.

  Silence fell once more as John wrestled with his anxieties. The lacklustre comment had left an awkwardness that made him turn his face into the chair.

  What was it about this girl that was making him feel so damn uncomfortable all of the damn time?

  Soon it was so dark that it made no difference whether he opened his eyes or not. Becca’s breathing had become slow and deep, signalling her slip into deep sleep, a state which John found himself envious of. The night brought with it a slight chill, and as its creeping fingers probed at the collar to his jacket, he tilted his chin down inside and pulled it close. The tightening of his body aggravated the knot between his shoulder blades, but still better to be slightly chilly than stifling hot and suffocating in a small car; the previous night had been unbearable.

  Finally, the complete darkness and constant momentum of the sounds of deep breathing began to have the desired effect and John started to drift.

  When he opened his eyes again, a thick curtain of fog had fallen. A banging sound, somewhere close by, increased in fervour, steady as the bass drum from a marching band. Soon, faces appeared, obscured and pasty white, staring at him through the mist, each one dressed head to toe in black and wearing a tall hat, like the waiting footmen of a funeral procession.

  John spun on his heel, unsure as to the reason for his inherent fear but clear in his purpose to escape. But the fog closed in on him for all sides, and with it, the faces drew closer as the drum banged ever louder. Suddenly, the mist came alight with a dappling of bright coloured oranges and reds, causing John raised a hand to shield his eyes.

  The punch to his arm stung painfully, jolting him awake. Immediately back in the van, John sat upright, ignoring the aching of his shoulders. He turned to look at Becca who was now crouched down by his side, her crossbow aimed at the door. For a second, he thought that perhaps he had slept through until the next morning, such was the level of illumination inside the van, but a quick check out of the rear windows showed it still to be dark. Flames danced behind the murk on one side, a single point of bright light which moved slowly toward the front of the vehicle. Something banged repetitively on the side of the bus, creating a dull, hypnotic thud. A whistled tune—both beautiful and strangely haunting at the same time—set a creepy backdrop to the scene.

  Becca pointed to the crossbow on the floor at his feet, and then signalled at him keep Murphy quiet with a hand signal like a fish closing its mouth.

  John glanced down. He could see the black stock of the bow tucked under his seat, but his body wouldn’t respond to his brain telling it what to do; he was literally paralyzed by fear.

  “John!” she hissed, just enough to convey her aggression but not loud enough to be heard outside.

  The light moved forward until it was in front of the windscreen. The banging stopped, but the whistling continued. Still John could not move.

  Becca cursed, turning back to look at Murphy, who was sat rigid with his ears pricked up and his head cocked to the side, fully interested. She extended her hand in his direction and gently stroked his head, whispering “good boy” as quietly as she could manage. One bark from the dog, and the person—whoever it was creeping about outside the van—would know immediately that there were people hiding inside. And who knew what would happen then; after all, it was the middle of the night and they had no clue at all as to what their intentions might be. And that was assuming that there was only one person out there.

  But the light continued to move away and Murphy did not bark. The three of them remained crouched and alert, and soon the bus was dark and the night peaceful once again.

  Becca spun to face John, her teeth bared and faintly visible in the murky light.

  “What in the fuck was that?!” she spat, poking a bony finger into his chest which stung him just above the nipple.

  Unable to respond and with his face burning with shame, John could do nothing but look at the floor. His cheeks flushed so hot it felt like he had a hot washed towel pressed on them. “I… I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I… don’t know what just happened.”

  A thud rang out as her thick rubber sole connected with the metal frame of one of the bench seats.

  “Jesus!” she said.

  John glanced at the front windscreen, desperate to look anywhere but at the extent of the anger and shame that she had for him at that precise moment. And whatever the extent of that was, he was sure that it was nothing compared to the depth of the contempt that he was feeling for himself. He had been tested and had failed.

  “If you are gonna freeze up on me like that, then I’m gonna have to cut you loose, John. Do you understand me? Yo
u will get both of us killed, and I’m not about to allow that to happen!”

  This time when he looked at her, he hoped that she would be able to see the seriousness in his eyes. “It won’t happen again; I promise.”

  In the dark he saw the shadow move as her shoulders sagged. She exhaled deeply and sat heavily in the seat behind him.

  For a few moments, neither of them said anything.

  Becca was the first to break the silence. “At least we now know that the rats have not made it this far down yet.”

  John pondered this for a second, still unwilling to risk ridicule by opening his mouth. It was likely that the torch bearer was simply a traveller on the road, making his way slowly toward the city. There had been no haste or worry to his movements, and the whistled tune hinted at the fact that the composer was either drunk or relaxed enough not to care much about his or her surroundings. He still had legs to walk on after all.

  Although still deeply shamed, the revelation that they may now be in safer lands made John feel slightly better.

  “Should we look outside? Check he’s gone?” John managed after a pause.

  Hair swished in the dark as she shook her head. When she replied, her voice was more steady and relaxed. “No. I doubt anybody is still there. But if he is lying in wait for us then we are better to go out in the morning anyway. That way we can be ready and will be able to see farther than the end of our noses.”

  John nodded, but the gesture went unseen.

  “Stupid seems to be learning though, huh?” she added in an obvious attempt to alleviate the tension. “One bark or whine and he would have given the game away for sure.”

  The distinct sound of Becca’s quilted jacket rustled in the darkness as she lay down once again.

  “You go back to sleep,” she said. “No point both of us being up. I’ll take first watch.”

  12

  Daylight filtered in through the windows. John’s swollen bladder burned painfully, forbidding him any chance of returning to sleep. It had taken him ages to drift off, and when night’s dark messenger finally had come and dropped a cover of unconsciousness over him, the rest had been fitful. Now he felt uncomfortable and groggy.

  Two ears poked up from behind the seat beyond Becca’s, and John put a finger to his lips in an attempt to quiet the dog which, surprisingly, seemed to work. Irrespective of her anger toward him the previous evening, it seemed that she had been right about one thing: Murphy was learning.

  Careful not to wake her, John inched his way between the seats and moved to the space in front of one of the doors at the side of the bus. The sun shone against the obscured glass, painting his skin a strange tint of green. Murphy followed close behind him, nudging his elbow impatiently with the tip of his nose as he drew close; it seemed his companion had an urgent call to nature also.

  He popped the lock as quietly as he could manage, took the handle gently and pushed the door open just a crack, wincing in preparation for the squeak of non-oiled hinges. With relief, no such noise came and as he edged it open farther still, fresh early morning air rushed in to greet him, an elixir to his nose.

  Outside, the day was bright and the air still. Huge grasses taller than he was hung over the barriers on either side, limiting his view, their stems bent toward the cracked and pitted tarmac like drinking giraffes. He listened, unable to pick up anything except the sounds of the insects buzzing in the fields surrounding him.

  Once he was satisfied that they were not in danger, John opened the door and allowed Murphy to drop down to the asphalt. The dog immediately put his nose to the floor and ran a full circle around the bus, stopping to cock a leg against the rusted rim of a deflated wheel. The sight and the sound of the dog relieving itself brought on an almost unbearable desire to urinate. John fumbled desperately at the clasp of his belt as he walked urgently over to the grassy bank. The tips of the overgrown pasture tickled his face and he was forced to grab a hold of his nose and shut his eyes to try and stem the inevitable growing sneeze.

  “Don’t move, boy,” the voice said, as something sharp pressed into the indent on the back of his head.

  John froze, one hand on his privates and the other in the air. In that instant, any desire to sneeze vanished. From behind he could hear the low, phlegmy rattle of somebody breathing.

  “Who else is with ya, huh?” The voice was loaded with gravel.

  A growl sounded from somewhere off to his right, and John twisted his head slightly, drawing pain from the spike at the base of his skull. On the ground near the front wheel of the bus only a few metres away sat Murphy. Black lips were pulled back to reveal yellow teeth and his hackles were stood up on his shoulders.

  The pressure increased as the sharp object was thrust into him with more force.

  “Best you calm that mutt, ya’ hear? Or else I’m gonna skin it and have me a new coat.”

  A tickling sensation started at the bottom of his head and travelled down between his shoulder blades, and John guessed that the object pressed into his head had drawn blood. He lowered his chin to his chest in an attempt to lessen the pressure and ease the pain.

  “Do it, right now, or I swear I’ll gut you where you stand, boy.”

  John winced. Beneath the immediate pain in his head, his bladder still throbbed with his need to urinate.

  “It’s okay, Murph,” he said, struggling to find any words. “C… come here, there’s a good boy.”

  But Murphy did not move. The growling continued, steadily rising in volume. Another flick forward with the wrist and it felt as though he was now being skewered on the spike like a human kebab. His legs wobbled and he felt exposed as a cool breeze blew in, tickling him intimately.

  “Murphy!” John yelled loudly and this time he heard the soft padding of its feet as the dog disappeared from sight behind the bus.

  The pressure in the back of his skull dissipated, just a bit.

  “Now then,” the man said, “I’ll have ya down on ya knees, son, nice and slow.”

  John began to lower himself slowly as the man had ordered him to, but the sharp rubber of a boot suddenly pressed into the back of one knee, buckling him to the floor.

  “I said down!”

  More pain registered as hard, coarse tarmac grazed his skin. John closed his eyes, his mind whirring with fear. How could he have been so stupid? Surely Becca had heard the commotion by now? Hopefully she had used the chance to slip away and run. But what if the man wasn’t alone?

  “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,” the man said, gleefully excited. There was a child-like quality to his voice all of a sudden which made his intentions all the more menacing. “Been a while I tells ya. Been a long time since I had me some nice, young meat. Oh yes, oh yes.”

  A strong hand grabbed hold of one of John’s wrists and twisted it down behind his back. He was forced to flatten his palm on the road to stop himself from falling onto his face. Behind him, the man laughed and whooped excitedly.

  What happened next, set John’s mind spinning into orbit. There was a thumping sound, like an axe chopping down into the middle of a wet stump of wood and the pain at the back of his neck suddenly disappeared, leaving his head feeling weightless. As something hot and sticky began to drip liberally down the front of his face, time seemed to slow down. John wondered if he was dead. Had the wet noise, in fact, been the sound of his own execution? He looked down and, seeing all of the blood, tried to guess where the man had cut him. Perhaps a skewer in the back of his head or a knife to his neck? Maybe his skull had just been staved in by an axe or bat, opening his brain matter to the sky.

  So this is it. More dark liquid splattered on the ground by his knees as the sharp, coppery tang of his life seeped into the corners of his mouth.

  Unable to withhold the symptoms of his fear any longer, John screamed, strangely relieved to hear the sound of his own voice. A sudden heaviness sent him toppling forward and he was unable to lower his other hand in time to break his fall as his forehead scuffed against the a
brasive surface of the road.

  Everything went black.

  For a few moments, nothing happened.

  John lay there, unable to draw breath. He figured that if his body just had died, then he was now just waiting for his brain to snuff out. He wondered how long it would keep on living without the rest of the body to support it. He opened his eyes, looking for the bright tunnel light that he had been told about.

  “John!” the sound was dampened and far away, calling him.

  It was Becca’s voice. Had she just watched him die? He imagined her stood over his pathetic, crumpled form and hoped that she had avenged his death.

  Suddenly the weight from his back was gone and John felt a different pain as something sharp bit into the skin of his arm. Daylight scoured his eyes as he was flipped onto his back. Aware that he was still able to control his body and relieved that he did not appear to be completely dead yet, John raised his hands out in front of him in a vain attempt to shield his face from whatever was coming next.

  “John!” Her voice was louder this time.

  He tried to breathe again and felt his lungs inflate with air. The acidic tang of blood came so strong that it caught in his throat and stung his nostrils.

  “John!”

  With his hands still raised above his face, John forced open one eye. A blurred shape stepped into view above him, close enough to block out the sharp rays of the sun. Strands of hair tickled his cheeks.

  “John, look at me. It’s me, Becca.”

  The sound of her name registered through his confusion. Slowly, he lowered his hands and opened both of his eyes, immediately regretting it as the sting of something salty forced them closed again.

  “Argh! I… I can’t see!” John croaked, rubbing his forearm against his face in a vain attempt to try and clear the blood that had begun to thicken there.