by Luke Kondor
Well, pooches. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, eh? Colin thought, looking around at the four remaining dogs in the kennel. Two huskies and two collies. For the first time since he had been thrown in the cage, Colin noted the absence of Indie and Flynn and wondered whether they might still be with Ria somewhere in the camp. Where Dylan and Whisper were, he could only guess.
The blows to the head had come hard and heavy but he remembered that Dylan fought for him. He remembered that Dylan had chomped down good and proper onto the calves of one of the Millers.
A smile found Colin’s lips as he heard the Miller cry out in his mind but quickly disappeared as he remembered what happened next. The sound of his new companion’s whine as another of the Millers slammed something down into Dylan’s rump. A shiv of some variety. The memory alone made his gorge rise, made his brow fill with sweat, his eyes fill with tears.
Not again, he thought. Please, not again.
It was all too familiar. Another companion lost. But he’d screamed for Dylan to run, to let go, to leave his master, no, his friend. And that he had done. He’d backed away, slowly, with trepidation, until Colin screamed once more for his dog to “Get the fuck out of here!”
The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach began to turn warm and sour. Colin clenched his fists as the anger began to swell. His knuckles turned white.
Dylan had ran away. He remembered that much now, but the Millers had still taken in Whisper. She’d fought too, but was wrestled down by two scavvies Colin hadn’t seen before. One of them a woman with a look that sent a cold stream of water running through his system. Dirty blonde hair clinging to her face and a sharp tattoo framing one eye. She had laughed and mentioned something about how a husky would make for a good down-dog for their catchweight pit bulls. Words and terms that Colin hadn’t heard for a long time but knew their meaning. Chew toys.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Byron standing outside the cage, gently commanding the dogs to “Quit their yapping.” And, for a second, the dogs seemed to acquiesce. A quick whine and a yawn and they became silent. Allowing Colin just a few moments of peace. And here Byron smiled down at him, leant forward and unlatched the cage. He then reached inside, offering his hand to Colin.
Before Colin could reach up to it, though, a tumescent lump appeared on Byron’s palm. It swelled and bulged until a single silky white thread burst forth, cracking the skin. Byron chuckled deeply as a geyser of blood spat forth. Colin looked up at the face of the former kennel owner, as dozens of rot strands pierced the skin, making him look like an underwater coral reef, doused in crimson, eyes like ivory.
Colin forced his eyes shut and buried his face in his knees.
*
There was movement outside. The sounds of stones cracking against one another followed by the bubbling of boiling water. A while later, the smell of cooked food found its way into the kennels, teasing Colin’s nostrils and sending the dogs into a frenzy.
Colin forced his head up. He swallowed what seemed to be a mouthful of dry blood and blinked his tired eyes. He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, and had even less of an idea what time of day it was, or who might be playing chef outside the kennel. From where he was sitting, he could only make out a thin sliver of the outside world.
Whistling now. The person outside was whistling.
Colin glared at the wall, then shifted his body to get comfortable – or as comfortable as he could be in the cage. He gently padded his ribs to check, glad to find no breaks that he could feel, though the bruising would more than likely be an incredibly colourful display come morning. He felt groggy, almost as though he were simply waking from a night at the Electric Bar in St Katherine’s Dock with Darren. Expensive drinks and late nights, but when the boss was paying they were all the more tasty.
“Stick your money up your arse, Bolton,” A familiar voice said. “Tonight’s on the company card.”
Time seemed unending. It was still daytime, he knew that much. Though the sky had darkened and he could hear the patter of rain falling on the ground outside. He felt something soft against his arm and found that one of the collies had taken to lying down in the neighbouring cage beside him. He reached a finger through the mesh and felt the soft fur beneath his fingers. Logan (or was it Drew?) turned his head and began licking Colin’s fingers.
“They’re an affectionate bunch, ain’t they?” Colin froze at the sound of the familiar voice. When he looked up he felt his heartbeat double. “Here yer go, Colin. This might make yer feel a tad better, eh?”
The figure stepped forward, brandishing a steaming hot mug that made Colin’s mouth water. He looked up into the eyes of Thomas J. Miller.
“Come on, then. It’s burning me fuckin’ hand.”
The smell was of Chicken Super Noodles – a scent he could recognise a mile away from days of low pay and big expectations for a young couple living in the city. The dark broth that had kept him and Rachel fed and breathing during those early years of cohabitation and the dreaded council tax.
“The cage is locked,” Colin growled.
Thomas placed the mug down on the desk – the same one Byron used to store his maps and leashes – and sat down on the floor. His hair had grown some since the day they first met at the LeShard farm, but that lip had healed rather nicely, leaving nothing but a faint ruby scar. His cheeks were covered in a fine moss of dark brown beard, and he still somehow managed to maintain that air of innocence that he’d used to trick Jerry and Kitty into letting their guard down. If it hadn’t been for Thomas, maybe Jerry and Kitty would still be with Colin now.
“Yer know, yer look in a similar shape to how I was when I rocked up that day at the farm. I know what that feels like. It’s even harder when yer’ve got ter be the one ter inflict the damage on yerself, trust me. Jackie-Boy would always offer, of course. But I’ll never trust him to bruise me up without holding back. It wouldn’t be just a lip with him, it’d be ribs and noses too.”
Colin glared at Thomas. He wasn’t sure what was worse; the casual tone of his voice as though he were simply addressing a friend, or the fact that Colin hadn’t just shot him there and there on the farmhouse steps when he’d had the chance.
Oh, the things I’d do differently if I could turn back time.
Thomas studied Colin, eyes narrowing. “There are a lot of us Millers y’know. Far more than yer saw at the farm. ‘Divide and conquer’, that’s what Uncle Paddy says. ‘Divide and conquer’… ”
Colin remained quiet, unsure what words would even communicate what he was feeling. What could words even do in this situation? Thomas coughed into his palm and opened the draw, extracting a dog leash which he wrapped around his hands.
“Yer wanna know how many camps and families we’ve successfully fished over the years? How many Jerry and Kitty’s we’ve claimed?” He paused for a response, and when he got nothing from Colin, continued anyway. “Well, me personally, I’d say about a dozen or so. The others… I’d be scared ter ask. A lot. Life is hard out on the road, y’know? I wasn’t lying when I told yer about me time over in Iraq. Two tours.” He held up two fingers to Colin, rested his head back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling.
Colin clenched his fist without realising, eyes staring daggers at Thomas. What the hell was the man talking about? Why did Colin care? There was nothing this scavvie scum could say that would be of any interest to Colin, and here he was, reeling off his highlights like he was the centrefold of ‘This is Your Life’.
Thomas continued. “I remember one time when I was stationed out in Kabul with my unit. We had this piss poor excuse fer a detail, an overnight job. Escorting reporters across the conflict lines in the Foxhound – not exactly the glamorous side of war yer see on TV, eh? Though we had ter stop as the sun began ter set. Yer don’t want headlights shining in the dark out there unless yer happy becoming a homing beacon for RPGs.
“The camp we set up was good enough ter keep us for the night. All we had ter do was k
eep a lookout, make sure no fuckers with nail bombs strapped ter their chest decided ter have a jolly, y’know. And let me quickly paint yer a picture, Bolton. I was young then. I had a face of youth. Save for the sand in me eyes and the sun-pink skin, I could have been the sixth member of One Direction.”
Thomas smiled and looked at Colin, undeterred by the hard stare he was met with.
“’Tis true, Bolton. ’Tis true. So there’s me, me brother-in-arms, Daniel, and this media fucker who’d been on TV talking about how wrong it was ter be stationed out there in the first place. Kept blabbing about it to his cameraman and kept on and on long after the red light went out. I didn’t think much of it, me, but Daniel? He wasn’t like you and me, Bolton. He was a stone-cold robot. We’re the types who are forced into these situations and adapt. We’re survivors and that’s the long and tall of it. God gives us lemons and we work forty ways ter cook it—
“We’re nothing alike, prick,” Colin spoke through a tissue-dry throat.
“Sure, whatever you say. So, the media man and his cameraman sleep the night in the back of the Foxhound, and me and Danny take it in turns ter snooze while the other watches the horizon. Well, whilst Danny’s sleeping, snoring like a cat drowning in a bin bag, this kid shows up. No joke. He looks ten or so. A real skeletal ratty thing. I had no idea who he was, but he comes walking towards us. I go ter wake up Daniel but decide against it – Danny’s the type of guy that shoots first, shoots again, and doesn’t even bother with questions. And this was just a small kid. He’s walking towards me, maybe about ten feet away, and I raise my gun and tell him to stop. Sure enough, the kid stops.”
Thomas wrapped and unwrapped the leash around his hand. He took a steadying breath and continued.
“The kid looks at me fer what feels like ten minutes as we stand in silence in the cold night of the desert. Then, just as I’m about ter speak, he salutes me and runs off. A little kid’s game and nothing more. The kid was playing army. Just how me and the lads used ter do on the estate back in the day. And it’s over, then. The kid goes and I leave him be. Danny snores on, the camera-people none-the-wiser.”
Colin pushed himself up to a better seating position, trying his best to wet his mouth with what little saliva remained. “What the fuck are you talking about? Why are you telling me this? As far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be the fucker that killed them. You may not have held the knife, but you turned the oven on and roasted them both.”
They stared at each other for a good few seconds before Thomas pushed himself to his feet. The rain outside was rhythmic, hushing its lullaby, reminding Colin of the night he’d been discovered by a Dutchman and a Miller in a cache drop out in the wild.
“When it came ter me turn ter sleep, I dropped like a sack o’ spuds and was out like a light. Easy. Simple. Until I woke up ter this awful screaming. A horrible noise erupting from somewhere outside me tent. I jump out me bed, grab me gun, and see this media guy screaming and crying at a rock in the floor. This calm, reasonable presenter who’d seen the horrors of the world and reported on them daily had been reduced ter tears by a fucking rock.”
Thomas’s eyes began to shimmer. Colin couldn’t believe it. Was he going to cry?
Thomas wiped the tears on the back of his hand. “Only it wasn’t a fucking rock, was it? At some point during his watch, Danny had had his way. The kid must have returned, ready ter play again, expecting me, finding Danny. Danny… he cut the boy’s hands off. Then his feet. Then, finally, the head. Then, for some sick joke, he’d propped it up on the sand right outside of the reporter’s bunk. He made it look like the kid’s body was buried somewhere beneath the ground, but it wasn’t. It was just fucking sand and dirt and a head. A fucking head.”
There was silence for a while. Even the dogs had laid down now and relaxed. Colin could only imagine how long they had been sat there, or what the hell all the point of this was. He tried to imagine the kid in the sand, but found it difficult to focus as his stomach grumbled and his eyes moved automatically to the fading steam rising from the mug of noodles on the table.
“So, what then?” Colin said. “You’re trying to tell me you’re a nice guy? Trying to tell me that maybe there’s an ounce of decency in you because you chose to let one kid go and your playmate destroyed him instead? Is that it? Trying to kickstart a bit of the old Stockholm Syndrome? Fine, Thomas, but I will tell you this. The minute I find a way out of here, I’m going to cut your throat like you Millers did Jerry. And I’m going to stare into your eyes as it happens. I promise you that.”
“Well, that’s fair.” Thomas reached up to a shelf hidden in the dusty shadows near the kennel’s ceiling. “But I don’t tell yer this ter make meself out ter be some sort of priest. I’ve done some bad shit… I’ve done some dreadful shit… and when me days end, I’ll be seeing red and fire without a doubt. But what I’m trying ter tell yer is this: I may be a wrong’un, Bolton, but I’m a dog compared ter those lions out there. Compared ter people like Danny. And those lions have just taken control of this township. They see something like what you guys got going on, and they don’t think about playing nice with it. They think about which body part to hack off first.”
Thomas leant forward and grabbed the lock on Colin’s cage. With his other hand he placed the key he’d taken off the shelf and twisted it in the lock. The lock popped open. Thomas opened the cage door. They passed a moment in silence, before Thomas reached for the mug of Super Noodles, gave it a quick swill, and passed it to Colin.
Colin held the mug uncertainly, his mouth already beginning to salivate as his stomach roared. Food. Eat the food, dammit!
Thomas closed the cage and put the Yale lock back on. It snapped shut with a loud click. He then stretched as Colin began sipping from the mug, careful not to disturb any of the injuries on his face.
Thomas’s expression turned pensive. His words quiet now. “I’m leaving before it all happens – because it will happen, tonight, Bolton. I suggest yer do the same.”
Colin’s eyes widened as he watched Thomas bend down and slide the key beneath the cage door. It slid a small ways across the floor before embedding itself in the straw and hay.
Colin lowered his mug, his recently concussed brain struggling to understand what was happening. “Why?”
“Because, after seeing a place like this, with yer little community of people, and seeing Kitty, Jerry, and you, and countless other people finding ways to survive without taking advantage of others and spilling blood along the way, I can’t buy into the shit show that Paddy’s selling anymore, y’know. I’m heading north ter the quarantines. After that, who knows? And besides, this isn’t fer you, Bolton. This is me poor way of apologising ter Kitty. She treated me like one of o’ her own. She didn’t deserve what happened ter her.”
“No,” Colin said as he reached forward and grabbed the key. “No, she didn’t.”
Thomas moved to the kennel’s entranceway and stared up at the grey sky. Colin thought once more to the first time he had met Thomas, standing at the door of the farm. And the last time, just before he kickstarted the Saab and sped away from the Millers and into the night. He hadn’t particularly thought about that night in any particular detail since, but suddenly a memory came flooding back. The car refusing to start. Thomas stepping out of nowhere and aiming the gun at Colin’s face. The desperate cry of Patrick Miller, ‘What are yer waiting fer’, as Thomas stalled and refused to shoot. Colin had seen a look in his eye that night, and it wasn’t the stare of a killer at all. But a servant fighting the commands of his master.
He could’ve shot Colin then and there. But he didn’t…
“My advice is ter wait until tonight when they’re all down fer their tea. There’s ter be a big feast. Hide the key. Then make your escape and leave all this behind you. There’s a whole bigger world out there, Bolton. Whether or not you take this advice is now up to you.”
Colin looked down at the key in his hand. When he looked up once more, Thomas J. Mil
ler was gone.
~ 28 ~
A large rat appeared from the broken rubble of the buildings. It paused a moment, sniffed the air, then scurried onwards. Powdery black ash clung to its fur. It mixed with the rain to create a sticky paste. The rat darted over several large chunks of brick and clay and scurried down the alleyway, chasing the smell that had drawn it out of its underground home. The smell of a delicious treat that it so rarely had access to in the burned and broken town.
The smell of fresh meat.
It drove the rat crazy. It drove the rat wild. It sprinted across the burned and blackened bodies of the humans that had fallen some time ago, knowing after countless past nibbles that there was little nutrition left to digest. Maybe there had been a time when the meat had been good, but those days were long gone. Maybe the loud fires and screams from days past had created a fresh influx of meat. Its teeth snapped open and shut, saliva pooling in its mouth. The faster the rat ran, the stronger the smell. Darting left, turning right, diving between the gaps in the buildings at a feverish pace.
When it arrived at a wide road, the rat paused. It cocked its head sideways, the air now pregnant with the smell of human flesh, of food. But here it became confused. The humans were not laying, or sitting, hunched over and dead. They were standing. Swaying. Arms in the air to catch the falling rain.
How long they had been stood there, the rat had no idea. Past history had taught it to stay clear of any human activity. But after a short while of standing on its back legs and observing, it seemed that perhaps they were dead. They hadn’t moved an inch. Not even a whisker.
With careful padding, the rat snuck to the nearest statue. It snapped its jaw open and sunk its teeth into the fleshy ankle, relishing the salty taste of the meat. Blood pooled and congealed, trickling like jam down to the floor. The rat took another bite.