by Luke Kondor
Quinton led them towards the caravan, hand over his mouth. His eyes red with tears as he passed the bodies of his friends and townsfolk. It was worse up on the hill, where the bodies hadn’t been burned and were still very much raw. Each reveal of a new face brought a fresh wave of pain for Quinton as he mumbled the names of the fallen. “Sandy… Dennis… Micky…”
Anton patted Quinton on the shoulder, for the first time showing some kind of empathy. “Lets it out, kid. Lets it aaall out.”
Despite Colin’s previous sight of a man at the top of the hill, they looked around and could see no one living.
“This place is cursed,” Colin whispered to Anton as Quinton dropped to his knees and rolled over a young girl on the grass. Her face was paper-white and her lips blue. The boy sobbed and kissed her head. “An entire town mowed down by bullets twice? Why would anyone even choose to stay here, surrounded by these bodies?”
“This wasn’t what I was hoping to see,” Anton said, running his hand over his nose and turning to look back upon the great fire now obliterating the town centre. The smoke was all-encompassing, looking like a wet brush of ink had been clumsily drawn against the cold and darkening sky.
“I can’t leave them like this,” Quinton called out as he ran his fingers down the girl’s eyes, closing them. “So vulnerable and alone.”
Neither of them replied. A rotter screeched far away in the town. They remembered Byron and hurried up their search. It was already growing dark again, and the last thing that Colin wanted was to be out in the open and still in this cemetery when night fell.
If only we could find the figure we saw from the rooftop. Where the hell are you hiding?
They went separate directions, staying within earshot of each other as Colin wove between tents, cars, and caravans, and Anton explored the central caravan. After ten minutes or so, they reunited at the spot where Quinton was still mourning over the loss of his familiars. At least now his tears were silent, no longer a beacon for any nearby monsters to follow.
Colin said, “Any sign?”
“Nothing. I don’t get it. We saw someone.” Suddenly he took a deep breath and exploded. “Hey! Anybodys there? We’re the good guys!”
Colin grabbed Anton and placed a hand over his mouth. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What other choice is there? Why are we hiding if they’re hiding? We needs to take active steps. I don’t care about rotters anymore. I don’t care about scavvies. I just want…”
“To kill us all?” Colin’s eyes burned bright. Anton must have seen something dangerous in them because when he spoke next, all his fire had extinguished.
“I want to know that she is safe.”
Anton collapsed into Colin’s arms, silent sobs racking his body. Quinton stood and joined them, falling into them both and wrapping his arms around. It was only when they heard the growls from Dylan, and Colin turned to see the dog sniffing the air, tail pointed up, that they broke and looked around.
“What is it, boy?”
Dylan looked left, then right, then fixed his eyes at Quinton.
“Quinton, there something you’re not telling us?”
“Like what?”
The sound of movement on grass behind them. Dylan looked straight through the boy’s legs at where one of the fallen bodies had begun to twitch, then to push itself upright. It clumsily stood, knees buckling, then locking.
“Colin?” Anton said, the first to turn. Colin and Quinton joined a moment later, all their mouths hanging open in horror.
The rotters eyes were closed, its bottom lip looking like it had been hooked and pulled downwards. The full length of his bottom row of teeth were on show.
Colin’s shoulders dropped. “Oh for fuck’s—”
Something whipped through the air, millimetres from Colin’s ear. He felt the air disturbed by its presence as it darted into the rotter who swayed for a moment, staring at them all with empty eyes. A long arrow now sticking out the front of its head. Where the arrow had entered, the skin bubbled and boiled, making the wound appear larger than it had moments ago. The rotter tried to make noises, tried to produce its trademark click, but all that came out was an irregular staccato beat as if some internal gears were grinding up against one another.
“You’re welcome,” came a soft voice from behind. They turned as one to see a woman stood at the far end of the field, bow in hand, blue eyes, and hair shaved almost down to its roots. She stood in a power pose, arrow already loaded in her bow in case the rotter decided to get up and try again.
Although Colin didn’t see that happening any time soon.
Colin looked at the strange woman with wonder. In all his years since the rot had destroyed his world, he had never come across a woman looking so brave, strong, and beautiful all at once. She was a warrior of old, the envy of all independent woman, she was—
“Mum?” Quinton breathed in disbelief, a wide smile stretching across his face. “It’s you? You came back?” He clambered to his feet and ran towards her. Anton watched the pair with his own tears in his eyes, a hand over his mouth.
“Susie K?” Colin asked Anton from the side of his mouth.
Anton nodded.
When Quinton reached Susie he threw his arms around her neck. It seemed strange to Colin then that Susie did not seem to respond with the same fervour, leaning into the hug, but her hands still very much fixed on her bow and arrow. She hissed a few words at Quinton and he took a step back, his face falling at once.
Colin was about to speak up and introduce himself when she raised the bow and aimed it straight at his face. His eyes met hers, unblinking.
“Hey, hey! We’ve just crossed half the town looking for you. Do you have any idea—”
Colin ducked as the arrow flew, lodging itself in the eye socket of a second rotter that had silently risen behind them. Colin turned now to see several others begin to move, beginning to twitch and rise.
“You’re welcome,” Susie said again, loading another arrow. “Come on then, fools.”
Without another word they ran down the hill to the other side of the camp, leaping bodies and dodging tents until they finally left the patch of green and felt the hard concrete beneath their feet. Behind them, the rotters’ numbers were growing, although they wouldn’t wait to count them. Not yet at least. Susie took a dash to the left around a shrubbery that had long since overgrown its pruned duck shape, and they made their way down the nearest alleyway, disappearing into the estates.
Colin focused only on running, placing one foot after the other, wide strides and deep breaths. There really wasn’t much else to it. Dylan ran at his side, keeping pace. Colin looked longingly at the dog, already regretting not strapping the pooch to his harness when he had the chance. Susie waved them over a battered garden fence, passing a grimy greenhouse in an old residential estate. Nearby allotments with fruit and veg long-since rotted carried their stink of putrescence and fizzy sick. Dylan made short work of the fences, barking angrily at them as he jumped, only needing a bum-push here and there to help him all the way over.
Eventually, the clicking began to fade. They entered an old house that was all gloom. Stale pictures of young ginger family members framed the walls, ornamental cats, and a glass cabinet full of shattered whisky tumblers. They made their way into a dank living room that smelled of damp and each took a moment to catch their breaths.
“Thanks,” Colin managed after a few moments, trailing Susie with his eyes as she strolled through a set of double open doors and stood by a large window with doily-style curtains shielding the grey light of day.
“Yeah, thanks,” Anton added.
But if Susie heard their words, she showed no sign at all. Colin craned his head around the door to see Susie bending to kneel in front of what appeared to be an old man in very bad shape. His outline was silhouetted next to the window as he rocked steadily in an old armchair. His grey tufts of hair sticking in all directions as though he’d been dragged through brambles.
Susie turned and flashed Colin and Anton a half-smile devoid of conviction. “Here you go, Dad. We did it. We found help.”
~ 19 ~
Keaghan limped around to the back of the Ranger and popped open the boot. He rummaged through the Hopefuls’ bags, ferreting through until he found what he was after – a weapon. Well, not just any weapon. Right at the bottom, as if hidden away for some final boss round, was a flamer.
One of Hope’s own. Keaghan had seen one before. Back when the first trade routes were set between King’s Hill and Hope, Henry had used it as a bargaining chip. A way to seal the arrangement. He called the hand-crafted flamethrower the ‘key to destroying the rot.’
Seemed like a great idea at the time.
The design of this flamer was almost identical to the one they had at the camp. Pieced together from the flotsam of the old world. A marvellous thing crafted by marvellous hands, far more advanced than anything King’s Hill had ever produced.
But hey, King’s Hill is home.
Was home, his mind corrected.
Keaghan stood in the shadows of the carpark and listened. There had been some surface activity a while back now. About half an hour after Byron had told him to stay put while he went to see if he could find the others, there had been some kind of animal screeching (Keaghan knew the sounds of the rotters, but was reluctant to admit their return even to himself), but all had fallen quiet. Keaghan had begun to grow nervous.
What was the plan if the Hopefuls didn’t come back for him? What then? He could hardly drive all that well with a gammy leg, and even if he could somehow master the controls and get the vehicle moving, had he any idea of the direction to the fabled town of Hope?
Nope?
No Hope.
At least he had the flamer. At least he had some protection – whilst it lasted. The last flamer that King’s Hill had lasted all of a month. Not through any poor construction on the creator’s part, but simply through overuse. Unnecessary overuse. A group of them had used it to burn out a spore-cluster hiding in the trees along one of the junctions of the A228. It was small, weak. All it needed was a quick spray of flame, but Chani, a wild girl with a nose ring and raggedy old baseball cap, held the trigger down and wouldn’t let go. She howled tears of laughter until the nozzle melted. The foil, designed to absorb some of the heat at the tip could only stand bursts of 10 seconds with 5-second intervals. But after a minute of constant fire, the flamer was pronounced KIA.
They struggled to find safe alternatives after that. Although they never tried too hard. The rot was, of course, receding into the dark memories of peoples’ minds. It was all but gone. Everyone knew that. There’d never be a need for Susie’s bleached arrows again.
Still, the flamer was reassuring in his hands. Keaghan lifted the fuel container onto his back, which was heavy and full and made a gloop sound as the fuel shifted inside. The straps dug into his shoulders. He felt like a schoolboy carrying a soldier’s excursion kit. He rummaged through one of the bags in the boot and found two cigarette lighters and a small handful of birthday candles – candy cane stripes with a long wick. He fixed one of the candles to its cradle in front of the nozzle and lit it.
Captain. This is boom-niner-six. We are prepared for take-off.
With a gentle test on the trigger, the flames burst out in a fine arc that forced the dark shadows to flee like scurrying beetles. There was nothing down in the carpark other than tarmac and yellow lines painted on the floor. He released the trigger as he felt the flamer heat up his hands. The carpark plunged once more into darkness.
He took a few steps forward, more confidence in his step now. The power in his hands was mighty. The power in his hands was the fire of the devil himself.
When the gun was cool he pulled the trigger again. A dancing spiral of yellowy reds exploded from the tip, this time illuminating an abandoned car, doors smashed open, empty inside.
Another step and his leg buckled. He wobbled dangerously, catching his balance just in time to avoid a fall.
“Careful, Keegs. The last thing you need is to make yourself live bait.”
He made his way to the place where he knew the ramp would lead cars out of the car park. Moving forward only after each burst of flame reassured him that he was safe. By the time he found the smooth upwards slope, he was surprised that the daylight was gone. He knew the open sky was somewhere above but struggled to see it.
The flamer was cool.
As he readied his finger to pull the trigger, a sound exploded around the carpark. A sharp bark that hurt his ears. He strained his eyes ahead and could just make out the dark shape of a dog running towards him, eyes glinting in the dark – a husky if he wasn’t very much mistaken.
~ 20 ~
“Who are you people? What are doing here?”
The old man’s voice was thin, raspy. He sounded as though he’d run a marathon without an asthma pump.
Colin answered. “We’re from Hope. My name’s Colin, and this is…”
“The Dutchman. We’ve met before. A long time ago,” Susie interrupted, causing Anton to glow red in the face.
“We were sent here by Henry LeShard after reports of gunfire from your camp. We came with a mission to discover what had happened, and to find out if there was any help we could offer. It wasn’t until we arrived in town that we saw how dire your situation was, and took it upon ourselves to hunt the town for survivors and to try to fathom what had happened here.”
“How many survivors have you found?”
“Four. Quinton, Susie, a young man currently camped out in a safe place called Keaghan, and yourself, Mr…?”
“Beckett.”
Quinton’s ears pricked up. “Keaghan? He’s alive?”
Anton nodded. “Yes. But he’s not ins the best of ways. We found him on the outskirts of town, his leg bloodied and cut. He needs some medical attention, but our people at Hope cans give that to him.”
“Where is he? Take us to him,” Quinton urged.
Susie rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Quinn. We can’t just go rushing off into the town now without a plan. We don’t know exactly how many rotters there are out there. I don’t have enough arrows for the entire town if it suddenly decides to raise and march at us.”
Quinton looked from his mum to his grandfather. Beckett’s face looked pained, as though even just the act of breathing hurt. “She’s right.” He studied Colin and Anton for a moment through milky eyes. “You say LeShard sent two of you to help? Surely it would have been better to at least fill the damn car? Then again, that’s LeShard through and through. Use the few to protect the many.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anton flared defensively.
“There was another,” Colin interjected, glaring at Anton. He couldn’t understand why the Dutchman wouldn’t rein in his emotions. It was understandable that he wanted to defend Henry, but at what cost?
“Where is he?” Susie said.
“We don’t know. He saved our lives, using himself as bait to distract a group of rotters that had us trapped on the top of a burning building. He was supposed to be watching over Keaghan and the car but took it upon himself to find us. Last we heard, the rotters were still screeching and chasing him.”
Beckett sat back, shaking his head. “Impossible. No man can outrun a fresh rotter.”
Colin looked down at Dylan who had taken refuge on the floor. “There are ways.”
“What about yous? How did you escape?” Anton asked.
Susie shifted onto her backside, resting her back against the wall beside her father, and told them about their journey. How the moment she heard the gunfire she had dragged Beckett down the hill and away from danger. She was not at all proud of abandoning those in the town to their fate, but her priority had been her father, the ageing leader of King’s Hill. They had trodden the same path the band of scouts had just taken and found their way into this house.
“It wasn’t until the world was quiet outside that I tho
ught I might chance a trip to see if there were any survivors myself,” Susie said, her face pained with guilt. “I didn’t want to leave the townsfolk. There were just so many of them.”
They spoke some more about the scavvie raid and what their options were. Quinton ever eager to make a mad dash for the car and to drive back to Hope, the rest of them keen to properly assess the situation and take it slow. By their count, there were at least five rotters currently wandering the town. Yet who knows how many more in the hill had begun to rise, tiny spores spreading from the near lifeless forms of those just clinging to death.
As they talked and planned, none of them seemed to notice Dylan cocking his leg and pissing in the corner of the living room until it was too late. The sloshing against the damp carpet was loud enough to break them from their concentration for a moment. All eyes went from Dylan to Colin.
“Sorry,” Colin said. “He’s… well, he’s not had much chance to do the whole house-training thing.”
Anton shook his head.
“Whatever we do, we need to do it tonight,” Beckett said between coughs. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m sure I’ve earned some of LeShard’s famous moonshine. I can’t remember the last time I whet my appetite with a cup of that paint-stripper.”
Quinton asked, “What’s moonshine?” His question was innocent, yet it made Colin wonder how such a naive, scrawny kid could have been born from such a strong woman. It seemed to be completely out of balance that Susie mothered Quinton. How had the kid made it so far in this world?
“Your mother will tell you when you’re old enough,” Beckett said.
“I’m eighteen!”
“Mentally, I mean. When you’re old enough mentally.” Beckett lifted himself from his chair, arms shaking with the effort. He was pale in the face, looking ready to pass out at any moment.