They Remain: A post-apocalyptic tale of survival (The Rot Book 2)

by Luke Kondor

  They holed up in the Old Bell Inn, figuring out their options and trying to map out King’s Hill with Quinton’s help. Using beer mats and empty glasses until they got a better idea of the lay of the land. The plan was simple. Keep to cover. Skirt the town. Look for Susie or any other survivors they might meet along the way.

  Colin informed Quinton of the man he’d seen through the telescope standing on the hill. Most certainly alive, although surrounded by dozens of bodies that most certainly weren’t.

  “We have to be ready for anything,” Colin said, directing his words mostly at the foppish boy across the table. “If we come across a scavvie or a rotter, we need to come at them with a bit of bite. Otherwise, we’re all signing our own death certificates.”

  “I can’t believe it’s all happening again,” Quinton whimpered. “Like it wasn’t bad enough before.”

  Colin could hardly believe that a boy who looked as young as Quinton could remember the times before. The first few years of the rot. Perhaps there were some extra years stacked inside him after all.

  “Well, kid, we can either sit and cry, or we can find a way to get out of here and find your mother too. It’s that simple.”

  “But what if she’s already de—”

  Colin stepped back in surprise as Anton slapped the boy around the face. A large red mark appearing on his cheek. “Don’ts you even dare, boy. The moments we give up hope is the moment we let them all win. Now, get your shit together. We’ve lingered too long.”

  They all stood, then, ready to move out. Anton pulled out his Glock, and Colin held his knife. Quinton’s eyes flickered from gun to blade uneasily. “I don’t suppose you have anything in there for me?”

  “Nothing that I trust you with.”

  Suddenly, Colin raised an arm. “Shhh.”

  “What?” Anton whispered. Then they all heard it. The sound of footsteps.

  “A survivor?” Colin mouthed.

  Quinton shook his head, his nose wrinkling. He pulled his sleeve across his face as an odd smell began to work its way towards them all. A putrid scent of decay as the footsteps grew louder. No. Not footsteps, more a singular footstep accompanied by the sound of dragging. Dylan’s body tensed as his eyes locked somewhere outside.

  And then a noise that made them all shudder as a shadow appeared outside the grimy window. A series of low, repetitive clicks.

  ~ 17 ~

  More of the low clicking now, ramping up as its haunting shape formed in the frosted glass, outlined like a sinister shadow puppet.

  “What do we do?” Quinton sobbed into his sleeve.

  “No… sudden… movements. As long as we stay still, and don’t alert it to us, we should be fine.”

  He said the words, though he didn’t believe them. Already the rotter seemed to be sniffing the air, catching their scent. Quinton shook and took a step back, his heel crunching glass so loudly that Dylan flinched.

  They all waited, sweat beading their foreheads as the rotter turned its head towards the Old Bell Inn.

  “Run,” Colin muttered. “Run!”

  The rotter was at them in seconds. It made light work of the bar window, pressing its face against it until the glass crackled and popped into sharp confetti. The stomach matter of its human host caught on the jagged glassy teeth as it climbed over and slammed into the floor, leaving a trail of blood behind it.

  “Evan?” Quinton whimpered, unblinking. “Oh God, Evan!”

  The four of them pulled Quinton back and dragged him out the door at the back of the room. Dylan barked then sniffed at the air before running for the fire exit at the far end of the corridor. A big steel door with a bright green bar across it.

  “Follow the dog,” Colin called.

  Anton aimed the pistol and sent two shots to the rotter’s chest and one to the jaw. The rotter was forced backwards and onto its rump. The open wounds on its chest now spilled out with blackened gore. Anton watched it fall with a smug satisfaction.

  “Anton, now!”

  Anton pulled his eyes away just as the rotter’s hands began to split down the centre of the palms. White tendrils squirming out to feel and sense the air. Colin grabbed Anton’s shoulder and pulled him through the emergency exit just as they heard the explosive screech from the rotter behind them. A terrifying cry that reminded Colin of nails on a chalkboard. It was loud. So loud that, for a second, Quinton paused to clutch at his ears.

  “This way,” Colin cried, ushering them all outside. He closed the door behind him and saw that they had found themselves in a closed-off area that had once been used as a storage and bin facility. There were walls on all four sides higher than any of them could climb, and only one door in and out.

  “Now what?”

  “If we can’t go out or throughs, we musts go up,” Anton said, craning his neck to see a wrought iron ladder on the side of the building to their right. The type of thing designed to lower down from the upper levels if someone was stranded on the first floor and there was an emergency.

  “How do we get to it?”

  “There!” Anton said, pointing at a large recycling bin with a metal roof. “Help me wheel this over.”

  The rusted wheels screeched and dragged as Colin and Anton pushed with all their might. The rotter worked its way at the door, loud thumps of body smacking against metal from inside the pub.

  Anton was the first up on the bin, climbing on all fours, reaching up and grabbing the ladder. Colin turned to look for Quinton, and for a moment he thought he lost him until he saw him knelt in the middle of the courtyard, bent over something between his hands.

  “Quinton, come on! What are you doing?”

  Quinton continued a moment longer before an extra loud thump came from the metal door and he stood up. In his hands were several bottles, each stuffed with a rag that was absorbing liquid from inside. Between his fingers was an old zippo lighter. He stared up at Colin as a young boy might look for approval from his nightly-drunk father.

  “Whats are you waiting for?” Anton was on the roof now, cupped hands calling down to them. “I can see more coming. Get out of there!”

  It was at that moment, as Quinton was hauled onto the bin by Colin, that the door gave way. Some of the rotter’s weight had found the emergency release bar and the creature came spilling into the courtyard. It clumsily scrambled on the ground then stood and hunted with its blind eyes for them.

  Colin heard the flick of the zippo. Quinton’s bottle of turps lit up and he tossed the first bottle at the rotter’s feet. The fire startled the rotter long enough for Colin to throw Quinton up onto the ladder. Anton had pulled his gun out again and tried to fire more shots but found the thing empty.

  “Cover us!”

  “I’m tryings!”

  The heat of the fire began to spread. They were already sweating, now the sweat was pouring. Dylan recoiled with wide eyes at the red and orange monster that was, even now, licking and playing with the timber frames on the outside of the old pub. He growled and whined, back pressed against the bin.

  Quinton moaned with every wrung of the ladder, his hands burned from holding the Molotov for a little too long. Colin called up for another of the bottles and the lighter. More screeches erupted. One from the other side of the fire, where Colin could already see the rotter trying to crawl through. Another from somewhere on the other side of the old pub.

  Colin lit the second Molotov and chucked it directly onto the rotter. The smell of charred flesh was salty in his nostrils. Dylan barked desperately. Colin hopped off the bin, only a few feet away from the fire, and threw Dylan onto its metal top. When he climbed back up, he reached out to grab Dylan, but found that the dog’s teeth were bared, retreating on its haunches, snapping at the air in front of him.

  “Come on, Dylan. Good boy.”

  “Colin, get your ass up!”

  Colin calmed his voice as best he could. The fear in the dog’s face was horrible to see. He knew that he could just leave Dylan there, climb up the ladder an
d escape onto the roof, but something wouldn’t let him. A feeling he both loved and hated at the exact same time. This was why he hadn’t wanted to grow close to another creature again, but Dylan had somehow already stolen his heart. People do crazy things to save the ones they love, and sometimes that could get a person killed. Burned alive. Risking his life rather than going ahead to the safety above with the people that should really matter.

  The flickering oranges cast a golden glow on Dylan’s fur. The dog’s eyes were dark pools of emotion. For a second, Colin saw Wheat standing there, shaking from head to toe. A goofy tongue out the side of his mouth as he scanned the treetops for squirrels and birds to bark at and chase.

  “Please…” Colin mouthed.

  Dylan lowered his head and walked into Colin’s arms. Colin didn’t even register his own tears as he scooped Dylan and began to climb the ladder. All thoughts of the rotter, Anton, and Quinton momentarily lost.

  When he reached the roof, Colin placed Dylan down with a “Good boy,” and pushed his backside onto the flat, pebble-dashed roof, his legs hanging over the edge. Anton came to his side, looking down at the dying creature in the flames and stuck his middle finger up at the rotter that had once been a kind man named Evan.

  As if in response, the rotter crumpled into a foetal position, curling up on itself like a torched spider.

  It was cooler above ground, on the cracked tiled roof of the inn. Already the fire was eating everything in its sight as plumes of black smoke rose and hid the old courtyard from view. They could, however, see the old town. Maybe in a different set of circumstances, the view would have been scenic. But now they were hurried. Now they could hear the sounds of several rotters screeching from somewhere below. They followed the flat roof around the main building and hopped down onto the building fixed to its side. The roof was wet and a deflated football sat in the corner.

  Colin peeked over the roof’s edge and saw five rotters desperately clawing at the window and doors. Their primitive minds unable to see the place the first rotter had entered. Only able to seek the spot where their brethren called. They were haunting to behold, each rotter wearing their host’s skin like a loosely veiled puppet. Threads of white waving from various entry points on their body, sensing prey.

  One of the rotters paused, craning its neck to look up.

  “Colin. Now.”

  Anton pulled at Colin’s arm and led him onto the next roof. Too late. They know where we are.

  There was a small gap between the two buildings. A thirty-foot drop which Dylan cleared with ease. Quinton, however, did not, pausing, sweating, stumbling as he took the leap of faith.

  The rotters followed on the ground.

  “They’ll find a way up,” Quinton said. “It’s only a matter of time before they find a way up. Why are we even bothering?”

  Colin held back the urge to follow Anton’s footsteps and punch the boy in the mouth. The flames were high behind them now, making their way across the roof of the Old Bell Inn. They could still feel the heat. The thick black smoke pouring into the sky like a curse over the town.

  “He’s right, Colin. It’s useless,” Anton called, coming to the furthest edge of this roof, and pointing.

  There was no way out. Behind them, the fire roared. Ahead of them was a straight drop down to street level. A fire escape ladder leading straight into the waiting mouths of the rotters.

  “So, we’re fucked!” Quinton bawled, arms slapping at his sides.

  “No… no… there has to be a way…”

  “It’s useless. Fried or digested. We should pick ones now and call it quits. I’m sorry, Colin. I shoulds never had led us here.”

  Four of the rotters waited patiently, circling like hungry sharks with the scent of blood in their nose. One rotter clawed at the brickwork, its white strands threading higher into the sky, seeking for something for which it could grab and haul itself up. An intelligent little thing.

  Colin watched with horror as the rotter found the bottom wrung of the ladder, some ten feet from the ground. It took hold with its threads and took a step up the wall, eyes fixed on Colin.

  A sound cracked through the town. Thunder and lightning in the distance as the clouds that Colin had mistaken for the plumes of dark smoke began to dribble rain on them all. It had no effect on the roaring fire, but it did a lot to soothe their skin.

  And then they heard a bark.

  “Is that…?”

  Standing down by the fountain that Anton and Colin had spotted from another rooftop earlier that day, was someone that they recognised, and were very glad to see.

  “You guys need some help?” Byron boomed through cupped hands, his grin wide on his face as Whisper tugged on his canicross harness.

  Despite himself, Colin couldn’t help but smile.

  “Who’s the topless guy?” Quinton asked.

  “He’s our way down.”

  Byron took a few confident steps forward, put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The rotters turned as one and immediately began charging towards Byron. Even the climbing rotter twisted, hopped down and began bounding towards the shirtless man.

  Why does he insist on taking his shirt off so often?

  “Colin?” Anton asked uncertainly. “What is his plan?”

  And then it hit them. The smile left Colin’s face.

  “He’s going to try to outrun them.”

  They all stared as Byron waited for them to come closer. Beaming. Waiting.

  Closer now.

  Turn… Go…

  They were twenty feet away and still he stood there.

  Colin put his hands to his mouth. “Run, you bastard! Run!”

  It was at the last second that Byron waved at the three on the roof and turned. Whisper was already raring to go, straining against the lead in the direction away from the rotters. They ran, Byron’s arms pumping by his sides. His strides wide.

  Colin watched in wonder as he began gaining distance from the screeching rotters. He was a runner alright. A true runner. He probably used to run marathons in his spare time. For fun! And now, here he was doing his best to run a race, not for some pink-flavoured charity claiming they were saving lives, but for his own life. No bullshit.

  In it to win it.

  The fire roared. The rotters pursued. Whisper led him onwards with the same urgency as if she were well aware of the tightrope they walked, a panicked whine escaping her as she went, terrified barks erupting with each step, no longer living up to her name. Knowing that one stumble or trip could end it all. Could spell disaster, and all Colin, Quinton, and Anton could do was watch.

  “You crazy bastard,” Colin murmured as Byron took a hard left and disappeared down a side street, taking the rotters with him.

  “Quick, this way,” Anton hissed.

  They were on the ground floor in moments. Anton and Colin hopped straight down, absorbing the impact by crouching as they landed. Quinton was less graceful, clinging to the ladder for dear life until his own sweat betrayed his clammy palms and he landed straight on his behind. Somewhere in the town, they could still hear the screeches of the rotters.

  “That’s good,” Colin said to Anton as a shrill screech rang out somewhere far to their left. “As long as we can hear them we know where they are. We know that Byron is still winning.”

  “How is he ever going to outruns them?”

  “Idiot,” Quinton piped up, a foul expression on his face. “He should have ran straight away. If he dies, it’s his own stupid fault. Why the hell did he hang back like that—”

  Anton turned and socked the boy in the mouth, pulled back like cocking a shotgun and fired off a second one to Quinton’s nose, releasing a steady faucet of blood. Dylan exploded with several barks. “Shuts your pie hole! He was tryings to help us you goddamn idiot… He saved our lives.”

  “Oww! Sorry. Jesus. Today’s just a tough day is all.”

  “It’s going to get a whole lot tougher if you don’t learn when to shut up and focus. Com
e on, let’s not wait around to get caught again. Byron is a big boy, I’m sure he’ll lose them soon enough.” He grabbed Quinton’s shoulder and pulled him along like a teacher dragging a student to the headmaster’s office. “Let’s not make all this effort count for nothing.”

  Another screech, closer than before, but far enough away for them to pause a moment and consider their options. “Which way, Colin?”

  Colin looked around. They were in the middle of a crossroads, buildings and shops lining the pavements in all four directions. Down three of the roads all was relatively clear (minus occasional cars and dried corpses). Down the road to their right – which Colin was sure was the way back to the carpark – the road was blocked by a heap of cars piled together into a jagged broken mound.

  “Looks like we keep pushing onwards. Byron can either find us or meet us back at the carpark. Quinton, which way to this wonderful kingdom on the hill?”

  Quinton looked all but ready to protest, his knees practically knocking together until he saw the determined expression on Colin and Anton’s face and instantly resigned.

  “This way,” he said, dragging his feet as he started walking.

  Colin’s ears pricked up as he heard several more rotters crying somewhere in the maze of the town.

  ~ 18 ~

  The camp was a shantytown of caravans, cars, and tarpaulin pulled taut to create a plastic slum. The fences that lined the camp had fallen down like dominoes during the chaos of the raid.

  Colin could almost guess the epicentre of where King’s Hill sprouted from. A large wheel-less caravan in the middle with a tent fixed to its side like some fabric annexe. Those who gravitated towards the caravan chose to park up nearby and the whole residency seemed to spiral outwards. They must have had their pickings of the place when they first arrived – not just of the camp, but the abandoned houses all around the field. He could picture a small group of five or six scruffy survivors, eyes bright with wonder, stepping over the bodies on the floor and claiming old food-tins and bottles from the hollowed husks of what had once been family homes, a community. Colin wasn’t exactly sure how long ago King’s Hill had formed their camp, but it must have been peaceful at one time. Nothing like Hope, of course. But certainly a ‘safe’ spot for all.