Blight

by Kolin Wood

  Once at the top, John set Murphy down and surveyed the space. The attic was huge. It took up the entire length of the roof at the top of the house. Assorted plastic boxes of varying sizes and shapes, some open with their contents strewn about, lay stacked along the walls, leaving the middle of the room clear. Two, double-width, bay windows were spaced an equal distant along the front, allowing the flickering glow of the fire outside to light up the swirling dust in a haunting, almost mystical way.

  “John, help me with this,” Becca called out, her voice loaded with exertion.

  John spun. Behind him, she had already managed to pull the staircase most of the way up. He ran over and took hold of the thick length of chain. “Pull!” he yelled and together, the two of them managed to close the door.

  “Get the latch!” John said. “I’ll hold it!”

  When Becca let go, the chain cut deep. John groaned with exertion under the extra weight of the heavy, wooden door.

  “Quickly, Bec!”

  “There is no latch!” she shouted back. “I… I can’t find anything!”

  The pain increased, biting at the flesh of John’s palms. There was no way that he would be able to take much more. “There’s got to be something!”

  More frantic fumbling.

  “There isn’t, John, I swear it. It was obviously never designed to be locked from the inside.”

  Below them, a faint sound could now be heard beneath the constant crackle and pop of the inferno outside. It sounded like high pitched whining noise accompanied by the scratching of something sharp against wood.

  When Becca glanced back and up at him, her face was a white beacon in the gloom. “They’re in the house.”

  John leaned back, straightening his arms in an attempt to ease the load on his hands. Desperately he glanced around. Above him, the attic was a crosshatch of roof beams, easily strong enough to hold the ladder. But how would he lift the chain high enough to attach it? And what would he attach it with?

  He cried out in pain as a few links slipped through his fingers, dropping the loft hatch open slightly.

  “Quickly, Becca,” he said. “Grab the bottle of spirits from the bag!”

  Becca looked at the pack and then back at him, her face showing confusion for only a mere second. She moved frantically, yanked down the zip, and tossed aside any clothing she pulled out.

  John’s now sweaty, and most probably bloody, palms let loose another few links as below them, the crack in the roof space increased, offering up darkness from below. Desperately, he squeezed with his fingers, creating pain like fire that ran all the way up to his elbows.

  “Got it!” Becca shouted as she held up the crumpled plastic bottle in front of his face.

  “Pour it… on… the stairs… quick, Bec… My hands… I can’t hold it any longer!”

  Urgently, she fumbled with the bottle. She dropped the lid which John heard spin off in the darkness. She upended it, liberally covering the wooden balustrade with the contents. He recognised the same pungent smell from the forest.

  “The fire stick… It’s in my pocket…”

  Becca reached down and began patting the front of his trousers, first one side and then the other, before thrusting her hand inside right hand pocket. Time seemed to stand still as her warm fingers searched and groped against his leg, sending a rush of heat from his groin. His stomach filled with butterflies and he suddenly felt weak as he realised he was going to drop the ladder. Desperately, he sucked in a breath and locked it in his chest. The pain in his fingers was now so unbearable that he tried to detach his thoughts from his body.

  Hold on… just a little longer.

  At last, Becca found the ignitor. She pulled her hand free.

  Sweat ran rivulets down John’s face and his whole body began to shake. Completely unable to speak, he could only nod in the direction of the stairs.

  One… Two… Three.

  The bright spark lit up the dark, sending red fireflies across his vision. For a split second nothing happened, and then whoosh! The entire staircase exploded in a ball of almost invisible flame.

  John felt an intense heat on his face and could smell the burning of his hair. He leaned back as far as his body would allow. At this angle, he was no longer able to support the weight in his hands. The chain slipped like spaghetti through his molten fingers, and at the same time, he fell with a clatter onto the rough boards behind him. For a few seconds, the flames remained, surrounding him in a fiery inferno before they were gone, sucked away down through the hatch by his feet.

  A muted crunch was accompanied by a shrill squealing sound from beneath. His ears began to roar.

  When he opened his eyes, Becca’s face filled the space above him, the look fearful but determined.

  “Move!” she shouted, but her voice sounded muted. “That stuff won’t stay alight long!”

  He felt her grip him tightly by the elbow.

  “We need to get out onto the roof, right now!”

  Even in his moment of delirium, John did not need telling twice. He scrambled to his feet, his limbs like jelly, and glanced around for Murphy who had cowered in a corner with his tail tucked between his legs.

  “Murph! C’mere, boy.” His throat rasped and John remembered how thirsty he was.

  Behind him, Becca was already at the window. Her fingers worked hard at the lever. “John… It won’t move!”

  Below them, the noise had intensified to an almost constant shrieking sound which chilled John to his core. He ran to the window and began yanking frantically on the lever next to hers, ignoring the pain in his fingers, which felt slippery.

  But his did not move either. It held fast.

  “I’ll try the other window,” she said, already running to the next bay.

  A single, loud bark caused John to look back. The light coming up through the hatch had started to dwindle. Murphy had moved to the centre of the room and now stood facing it, low on his haunches, growling continually.

  “I got it! It’s open!” Becca cried out, as the noise and light from outside suddenly intensified. People screamed over the thick, invasive stench of smoke and diesel fumes.

  John felt relief as he followed her over to the open window, shouting over his shoulder without looking back. “Murphy! Let’s go!”

  When he arrived at the bay, Becca had already climbed half way through and was straddling the frame with one leg still inside. Outside, the sloping roof led to a sheer drop below. Beyond her, the sky was alight with the glow of the flames from the barn.

  “Careful,” he said, taking hold of her arm. “I’ll help you.”

  She nodded and swung her other leg out, grabbing the frame to support herself.

  “Can you climb up?”

  “Yeah, I think so. There’s a gutter.”

  “Then go!”

  As she began to climb, John turned back into the attic. “Murphy! Come. Now!”

  But the dog did not move. He remained crouched, his teeth bared, hackles up as high as John had ever seen them.

  “Murph!” John cried, using the firmest voice that he could muster, the one saved for the very odd occasion that he had really needed to control his companion—normally to stop him from killing livestock. “Come! NOW!”

  But still no response came.

  By now, Murphy had started to bark continually, his jaws snapping, drool flying. Something moved in the backdrop of dying light and John could only watch, rooted to the ground with horror, as a large black shape crawled through the hatch. The rat was huge, slick and shiny black. It moved cautiously into the attic, its nose twitching with the promise of food. Once clear of the hatch, it stood up on its back legs and hissed aggressively.

  “Murphy!” But the cry was too late. The rat suddenly launched itself into the air, teeth bared, claws outstretched.

  Murphy sprung forwards to greet its attack with one of his own. John watched relieved, as the dog caught the rat cleanly in his mouth and shook his head, snapping the animals back in o
ne movement before sending the body skidding away into the darkness. But his relief was short lived as, immediately, another one, equally as big, crested the summit of the stairs to take its place, followed by another.

  “John!”

  Becca’s voice sounded faint behind him, but John ignored her as the second rat launched itself at his dog, closely followed by the third. Immediately, another two filled the ranks behind.

  Murphy dealt with the second as expertly as he had the first. He caught it head on and snapped it in his jaws. There was a squeal and a crunch. The third rat landed on his face but was unable to find purchase and was thrown off by an aggressive shake.

  “Murphy… please, mate…”

  John’s legs felt as though they had been frozen to the ground. Murphy began to back away, his growling intensifying with every step. But still they kept on coming, an unstoppable black carpet, flooding through the hole.

  “John!”

  By now, the room sounded like a den of hissing vipers as the same, feral stench of damp hair and urine filled the air. Tears streamed down John’s cheeks as he watched more of the pack close in. One by one, they began to throw themselves at the dog. In only a few seconds, Murphy was swamped. The mass of hair bucked and moved as the dog shook his head back and forward in a last ditch attempt to save itself.

  “No… Please Murph…” But this time the voice was barely less than a cracked mumble.

  Something caught his eye through the blur, and John glanced down to see a rat approaching him. The animal was huge, engorged on flesh and far bigger than any other rodent that he had ever seen. It moved confidently, its devilish red eyes showing no fear as they sized him up with killer intent.

  Consumed with rage, John stepped forward and swung his leg as hard as he could manage. The toe of his boot connected cleanly and he felt a satisfying crunch of tiny ribs as it flew away into the shadows. A few metres away, on the edge of the frenzy, another pair of eyes turned on him. Followed by another, and then another. By now, Murphy was just a shape, a shape that was barley moving and completely covered under a moving black blanket of glistening fur.

  “John. You’ve got to come out. There’s nothing you can do.”

  This time Becca’s voice was closer. John managed to pull his eyes away from the slaughter, glancing back at the window to see her holding onto the frame, looking in. Sadness glistened in her eyes.

  When he looked back again, Murphy had stopped moving completely. The whole room was hissing at him.

  Heartbroken, John began back away in the direction the window. His arms and legs shook violently as the adrenaline and anger of only a few moments ago dropped off, leaving him hollow and weak. The low sill bumped the back of his thighs. He stopped as a hand touched down on his shoulder and gave him a gentle pull in the direction of the outside.

  “That’s it, quickly,” a voice said.

  The darkness moved towards him. A thousand pairs of eyes filled the space of the attic like a cloud of death sent up from hell.

  With steady control and almost on autopilot, John dipped one shoulder and allowed the half-empty pack on his back to drop down into his hand. He knew that if he moved too quickly then he would be completely overwhelmed in a matter of seconds. Behind him, he was sure that he heard a whimper. The pungent stench burned his nose as he breathed in and counted down from three in his head.

  Three… two… one…

  He launched the pack into the gloom and spun, at the same time lifting his leg and stepping out through the window onto the sloped roof with relative ease. The bag sailed through the air and disappeared beneath the writhing mass which swarmed it immediately, attacking as one. The decoy was only momentary, but it granted just enough time for John to pull his other leg clear and for Becca to slam the window down shut behind him. Multiple thuds sounded on the glass as the furious pack launched themselves against it, cracking the thick pane in several places.

  Empty and consumed with grief, John could only just manage to hold on to the guttering. The pitch of the roof was severe, and his hamstrings burned along with his aching fingers. Tears obscured his vision as the thudding continued.

  “I’m sorry, John.”

  But he could not listen; he was not capable of taking anything in. He stood, head hung low between his shoulders, unable to move; his eyes squeezed shut and his forehead resting against the cool, red tile of the mossy roof.

  It was not until the thudding had stopped completely that he felt something tap on the back of his hand. He looked up to see Becca sat astride the apex of the bay window above him, her hand outstretched in his direction, a small, sad smile on her face.

  John took a few long, deep breaths, coughing on the smoke as he felt the gentle ebb of his strength returning. The steady crackle of the barn continued below, but he breathed in the fumes, uncaring of the taint. When he felt able, and with heavy movements, he reached up and took hold of her hand. Every muscle screamed in heartbroken apathy as he hauled himself up the side of the bay roof and shimmied his way along to the peak where Becca was sat astride the rough tile looking at him with a sorrowful expression.

  “I really am sorry, John,” she said again.

  This time he nodded, sniffing loudly and wiping his nose on the sleeve of the filthy, damp jumper.

  “Murphy was a good dog, the best.”

  It was the first time that she had called the dog by his real name and the sentiment was not lost on John. He looked up into her face and forced a smile. Gunfire popped inside the barn but the shots were random and inconsistent, almost as if the flames had discovered an ammo stash.

  Becca reached out and took hold of John’s hand, but he barely registered it. For a time, they just sat watching the fire, neither of them saying anything. Black smoke pumped into a clear night sky lit orange by fire; the smell of death and diesel hung thick in the air.

  “Do you think anybody is still alive?” she asked, her voice empty and hollow-sounding.

  Inside the ring fence, the compound floor was littered with dark shapes, some of which were still moving, others that simply glistened in the firelight. The entire wall of the barn had buckled inward, granting them a limited view inside. Everything John could see, from the floor to the walls, was burning.

  “No,” he said, finally. “There’s nobody left in there.”

  They sat and watched throughout the night. At some point, John must have dozed off because when he woke, the barn had almost completely burned out and the first glimmer of morning sun licked at the clouds in the distance. A few fine drops of morning rain splattered against his face and caused a hissing sound as it beat down upon the smouldering husk below.

  “Morning,” a tired-sounding voice said from behind him.

  John adjusted his position and looked back to see the shadow of Becca smiling down. Small drops of water clung to her messy hair, shimmering in the sun like tiny diamonds. Her eyes were dark and hollow, like those of a long serving, battle-scarred war veteran and her skin was pulled tightly over her face, making it seem more angular in the light. But even now, covered in dirt and blood, she looked beautiful. She gripped him tightly, her arms draped around his neck. Even through his thick jumper, John was sure that he could feel the heat from between her legs. He bolted upright, the stiffness in his limbs immediately apparent with the flurry of his arms and legs. He winced as sharp pain triggered all the way down his front, immediately wishing that he had not acted so impulsively. Where her arms had been draped so reassuringly around his neck, it suddenly felt cold, as did his shoulders and upper back.

  Sure that his face was alight with shame, he looked away and down into the compound, noticing immediately that all of the dark shapes of fallen bodies were now gone.

  “They must have moved them in the night,” she said, answering his unasked question.

  “Who? The crazies?” John croaked, turning to look at her. His brain pounded; not surprisingly given that he had not drunk anything in twenty hours.

  “No, the ra
ts,” she said, without looking at him. “The crazies will have died in that too.”

  John simply stared down at the scene. “Moved them where?”

  “To the nest, I’d guess. Rats always return to the nest. Saul told me that they even have a leader… an alpha.”

  John frowned, licking the dry salt from his lips with a sticky tongue. The idea of a common consciousness amongst the rodents unsettled him. “They go all the way back to the town? The one where I found you?”

  For a minute, Becca said nothing, but her stare was one of a thousand yards, almost as though she was looking straight through him. When she answered, her voice was distant and detached. “No. They would have moved… once all the food ran out.”

  John quickly realised the implied nature of the statement, and for a moment he did not know what to say. He fidgeted awkwardly and looked away.

  “I’m sure they’re okay,” he offered after a pause. “Your brother seems like a pretty useful guy.” The attempt at making her feel better was weak and John cringed at the sound of his own voice.

  Becca did not respond; she simply continued to stare, and John decided not to push the subject. In truth, there was no way of knowing what had happened to her family. All he knew was that he had never seen anything like what he had witnessed last night. An image of Murphy writhing under a blanket of killer rats popped into his brain, and John quickly pushed it aside. He would mourn his friend, but not yet.

  “How do you propose we get down from here?” he said, in attempt to change the conversation. The drop from the rooftop looked far more treacherous than it had in the dark and smoke of the previous night.

  The tactic worked. Life returned to Becca’s eyes. She smiled, albeit sadly, and looked back in the direction of the tree line.

  “I was thinking that maybe we could jump to one of those tree branches there.” She pointed at a large oak whose thick branches looked to be within striking distance. “Even though I’m pretty sure they’ve gone, I don’t think we should risk the house.”

  John nodded. He didn’t fancy going back through the house either; not with Murphy still inside. That was if he was still inside, or what was left of him anyway. His eyes itched, and as he reached up to wipe a hand across his face, the front of his stomach burned raw.