by Luke Kondor
If the human statue felt anything at all, it didn’t show it. The rat could hear its laboured breaths, but chewed on. Hacking at the trunk of the human like a woodsman felling a tree. Unaware that the rot-riddled meat was slowly working its way through its digestive system, the larval eggs splitting and growing rapidly, already spreading and crawling through his organs to take over his neural functions. Ready to join the rest of the rotters of King’s Hill as they waited for their command.
*
The Scarred Man looked up at the sky, feeling the rainwater on his back. The clouds above were fluffy and dark, like charcoal paintings. The sun was setting, and he was alone.
“Yes, yes. Yes. Yes,” he grumbled to himself in a barely audible whisper.
He pawed at his face and looked at the watery residue on his fingers as though seeing it for the first time. His lips twisted into a demented smile as he felt the ache in his lower back. A moving pain that seemed to shift and prod and poke at his internal organs. A living thing, maybe? Something trying to escape his body and pierce the flesh. He groaned as he climbed to his feet, feeling his whole naked body protest with every movement. He felt cold, the warmth in his skin had disappeared the moment he began to hear the voices. And now they wouldn’t leave him alone.
The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout…
“Yes, yes, yes.”
A tiny part of him wondered if the other boy heard it too. Somewhere deep deep down within the shadows of the memories of what the Scarred Man had once been before. The boy who had whispered the words in his ear. The boy who had known.
Now’s the time…
“Yes…”
The dirt clung to his feet as he stepped through puddles, approaching the back wall of Hope’s admin building. He ran his hand along the webs that covered the brickwork, feeling the threads bunch into clumps of white cloth that he flicked onto the floor. He felt for the cracks and hollow spaces through which he could grip but found little purchase. The wall was about ten foot high. It was too high to jump, and his fingers didn’t have the strength to climb the bricks.
Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.
A fresh bolt of pain erupted from somewhere deep within, forcing the Scarred Man to double over and grunt. It passed just a moment later.
He crawled to the window and peered over the sill, finding that the room was empty but for an old computer with a dust-covered screen and stacks of papers covered in words and pictures – ‘Welcome’ pamphlets from a time when people had used the site as a holiday destination, rather than a last hope for salvation.
Peeling away some of the broken paintwork that covered the sill, the Scarred Man took his naked feet and stepped up. In one quick lunge, he lifted himself up high enough to grab hold of the edge of the roof with one hand, and then shortly after with the second hand too.
His feet scratched against the wall, knocking against the window as he hauled himself higher and pressed his stomach to the roof. It wasn’t graceful by any means, but soon he felt the sharp edge of the bricks biting his belly button. He felt the movement inside shift to his back, the skin straining inside as though a hundred little spikes had already pierced his front and were looking for a way out the other side. Like the nerves beneath the skin were screaming at him. Not to stop, exactly, but to continue the work, to finish what he’d started. The voices reassured him, told him to go on. Soon all the pain would fall away. Soon his true self would be revealed.
He squirmed onto the roof, already slick with rain. Loose dirt stuck to his chest and mixed with the blood coming from the graze on his stomach. In the middle of the roof was a dip where the water had pooled. A fine film of rainbow-coloured oil danced along its surface. It was mesmerisingly pretty…
Atop the roof, he could see around the entire inner circle of Hope. The lake slightly veiled by a layer of trees, the red bridge that acted as the main thoroughfare for the dozens of Hopefuls that would soon be making their way to the dinner hall, the infirmary, the supermarket where the shouts and calls of strangers rang from inside, and – perhaps the favourite feature of the Scarred Man in a time when he had simply been known as a man named Benjamin Rydell – the well.
The Scarred Man found the centre of the roof and stood up as straight as his deformed spine could now manage. He closed his eyes and listened, seeking their voice again as the clouds darkened and the rain continued to fall. Were someone to look up on the rooftops now, they might not see the solitary figure of the Scarred Man. Although that was nothing strange. It had been a while since any Hopefuls had done anything but look through him…
Yes… yes, yes… came the voice.
“Yes… yes, yes…” the Scarred Man repeated.
The ache inside moved, making its way from the centre of his back towards his neck, like fingers tapping away and pressing into his spine. He groaned and found himself falling now, taking a seat in the oily puddle, crossing his legs like a shaman high up in the hills searching for peace and wisdom.
But it wasn’t wisdom the Scarred Man was searching for, or peace, but freedom and connection.
The fingers that kneaded and knotted his muscles and flesh wriggled higher now, finding their resting spot inside his head. He could feel it behind his eyes, a discomfort that he’d never quite understood. His vision darkened as he felt the presence push against his eyes with so much force that for a second he thought they might pop out entirely.
Good… good… very good, now… you know what to do…
The Scarred Man raised his hands to the sky, feeling the rain sting his face. He didn’t need to think about what he was searching for, what he would find. It was all just instinct now. A purpose embedded deeper than the scars that racked his body. His mind searched, soaring above the ground, over the fields, past the ribbons of roadways until he found them. His new brothers. The callers from the darkness.
He swooped down, and called, feeling the connection finally click into place with a mental pop. He would lead the way. He would be their X that marks the spot on their treasure maps.
*
Whether by their former acquaintance as Hopefuls, or by some strange link not yet discovered by any scraps of scientists studying the ways of the rot, the rotter formerly known as Byron was the first to hear it. The calling of the Scarred Man.
His arms lowered. One by one they all lowered. Without a conscious thought, they began their walk in unison. Long cables of white spores waved and danced out of their flesh as they picked up speed into a jog. Then a sprint. Each of them clicking and screeching as they ran towards that beautiful mating call. The sound of the rotter beacon a melody that had not been heard by a rotter horde in years.
And trailing behind the pack, the rat ran on. Trying its best to keep up with its new rotter brothers as the gap widened and they were lost in the distance, but knowing that as long as the antennae called its sweet song, it would find them all again eventually.
~ 29 ~
For a short while, Henry locked himself away in the spare room of the admin office. The rain outside sent a hush that was somehow soothing despite everything that had taken place since the Millers had arrived. He lay down on his single mattress with no linens and tried to shut off. To block it all out enough to get a few winks before it would all kick off. Before Anton and Veronica’s plan was put into motion.
But sleep wouldn’t come, and the sounds of the world outside were many.
He could hear the Millers shouting to one another as they pilfered whatever stock they could carry from Hope’s supplies in the supermarket. He could hear the surprised exclaims of Hopefuls arguing with Millers, followed by shouts, sometimes screams, and then the wicked cackles of strange male voices. Occasionally Veronica would knock on his door and simply check if he was okay.
“Just tired, dear” he’d say. “I’ll be out in a few.”
Veronica would then leave, maybe for twenty minutes or so, before another knock would come and she’d ask again.
Maybe he
was just tired? Maybe that’s why this cloud of gloom hung over him and he was finding it difficult to cope. To date, he’d never struggled with his positivity, and that was one of the things for which he prided himself. But these Millers… and this situation… he wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision, but it was now a decision he had to cling to. Sure, he had every faith in Joanna and Anton, and he’d love to see Colin free and fighting on his side once again, but at what cost? If it meant keeping the people of Hope safe, was the price worth it?
Eventually, Henry sat up and looked out the windows to see the dark skies beyond. Usually, at this time the sun would still be setting, spraying the skies in beautiful pinks and oranges. But if it was now, it was hidden far beyond the black clouds and falling rain. Henry wondered if anyone had begun to light the torches yet. It would soon be dinner time. Soon he’d have to plaster on that political, winning smile. The one they’d all come to expect from their leader, especially now.
Henry walked over to what was once an office desk and pulled out a two-litre bottle of moonshine he’d had hidden in the bottom draw for as long as he could remember. ‘In case of emergencies,’ he remembered muttering when he’d first locked it away. He unscrewed the cap, sniffed at the vapours, and took a large gulp. Instantly the warmth of it ran down through his neck and bubbled away in his stomach, doing its best to pacify some of those bees that were buzzing inside.
“Remain Hopeful,” he toasted to no one, before taking another swig and screwing the lid back on.
A knock on the door.
“Yes, yes, I know, Veronica. I’m coming out now.”
A deeper voice. “It’s me.”
Henry took a deep breath, counted to three, and opened the door to find Anton standing and waiting for him. Behind him, in a room that might have made for a good meeting room, four desks were gathered together with four chairs. Each one occupied.
Henry looked at the faces of Veronica and the people he could only assume were the survivors from King’s Hill. He recognised one of them, a woman with short dark hair and a face that bore the weight of years of survival.
“Susie?” Henry said, taking a step further into the room. “It’s good to see you. How’s your pop?”
Susie didn’t reply, but the young man next to her did. He looked at the floor as he spoke. “Granddad’s dead,” he said.
Henry nodded. He suspected as much. The three of them were likely the last of the Hill-folk. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Susie met his eyes and then looked away. The kid with the bandaged leg on the other side of Susie shuffled uncomfortably as they all sat a moment, unsure what to say. Somewhere deep inside Henry, he felt the overwhelming need to explain. To let these people know that he wasn’t an awful person. That he wouldn’t just give a Hopeful up for no reason unless it served the greater good of the camp. It wasn’t a decision that he wanted to make.
“Colin…” he muttered, unsure how to proceed. “What I did… I mean to say, I did what I did for all of us. I had to. I just hope…”
Tears welled in his eyes as he looked at them, one at a time. The five of them remained quiet and looked to one another. As if they expected one of them to say something. But none of them did. He went to speak, to say something, though he wasn’t sure what it was he was supposed to say. How else to explain, there was no other choice.
“I would’ve done the same,” Susie said suddenly.
“Mum that man saved our lives!”
“I know, Quinn. But this is bigger than one man. I would’ve done the same at King’s Hill if I’d exhausted all other possible options. And I assume LeShard had done so. Is that right, Henry? Did you exhaust all your options.”
He wiped his eyes and nodded.
“Enough of this soppy shit,” the bandaged kid said, “I thought we were here to discuss tonight, not to point fingers and blame. Colin is out there somewhere, probably being tortured and beaten while we work out where it all went wrong. There’s no moving backwards. Let’s just get this shit done, take out the trash, and maybe then we can look at the highlight reel. Whatchusayin?”
Anton pulled a chair from the side of the room and sat. “He’s rights. We’ve got a long nights ahead, and we need to polish the game plan. Henry?”
Anton pulled a chair for Henry beside him and indicated for the old man to sit. Henry obliged and soon they were deep in talk. Anton and Veronica filled Henry and the Hill-folk in on how their afternoon had gone, informing the Hopefuls of tonight’s plan, encouraging everyone to spread the word and attend. Of course, there had been some resistance, and a few of the Hopefuls had unabashedly refused their presence, not wanting to put themselves or their family in danger. But from Anton and Veronica’s readings, there was a fair amount of enthusiasm from the community.
“And we’re sure they’ll come?” Quinton asked as Veronica lit another candle in the dark room.
“They better come,” Henry said, his voice betraying his doubt. “Because if they don’t, then come morning, Hope will belong to the Millers.”
The five looked at the tables, the reality of the situation hitting them in turn. It wasn’t long after that they all dispersed, instructed to make one last round of Hope to share their message. As they each left out the back of the admin cabin, not one of them noticed or paid any attention to the dark figure of the man sat on the rooftop, legs crossed, lips moving in silent prayer.
*
Evening rolled around and the rain eased to a stop, leaving the smell of fresh petrichor in its wake. An unease hung over Hope that all could feel, like an underlying sense of static electricity, just waiting for a moment to leap into action and spark. The torches were lit and the town was practically silent as Henry made his way to Kingpin Alley to help prepare for the night’s feast, and ensure that everyone was okay.
As soon as he walked through the door, his heart sank. The place was deserted. Usually, at this time of evening he’d find that preparations had already begun. Tables would’ve been carried into their places, chairs would be taken from their stacks against the walls, and at least a dozen Hopefuls would acknowledge Henry’s presence with a smile and a wave.
But where are they now?
With a heavy spirit, Henry made his way to where the tables were folded and gathered at the far side of the hall. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever actually had to lift a finger. Not through any laziness on his part, but it wasn’t for a leader to shift furniture. It was for a leader to think, to show, to plan… to lead. He grunted as the table screeched across the floor, several of his bones popping as he imagined what might happen if the Millers were to arrive to find that nothing had been set into place. What insults would they see in an empty dining hall? What would that mean for the Hopefuls?
When the table was in place, he dabbed at the sweat already pooling on his brow. Suddenly, he heard someone moving in the back room. A moment later he saw Chef standing in the doorway, his bed-sheet-apron was raspberry pink with deep dark brown splashes. His arms were crossed and his cleaver was clutched firmly in one hand.
“Big one tonight, eh, Henry?”
“You’re telling me.” Henry asked how dinner was coming along, and after Chef talked of a ‘special type of stew for tonight’, Henry turned his attention back to the tables, sighed, and grabbed the next.
By the time the last chair was placed (with a little sympathetic help from Chef) Henry stepped outside and looked about the centre of the town. The sky was a jet black with clouds hiding any kind of light from the moon. If it wasn’t for the torches, he might not even have seen the several figures approaching out of the darkness. For a second his heart leapt, seeing Patrick’s face on every single one of the arrivals until they came close enough for him to see that they were carrying instruments, not weapons.
Arty and Susan, the musicians, walked across the bridge and past the well. Despite having been around Arty for a while now, the dent in his head always gave Henry a deep sense of unease, as though at any m
inute it might collapse inwards altogether like the coal mines of old. Behind them, Iggy came skipping along. The musicians didn’t say a word to Henry as they passed, but rather nodded and made their way to the hall. A minute or two later they could be heard warming up. Iggy, however, stood next to Henry and looked around the clearing. When he spoke, Henry was surprised how normal he sounded. How chirpy and lithe, as though there wasn’t a thing in the world to worry about.
“Lovely evening is it not, Henry-baby?” Iggy said, placing a hand on his hip. “Shame about our pest problem.”
Henry found himself smiling. He nodded and winked at Iggy as he skipped away into the hall. Shortly after that, the first of the Millers arrived from one of their vans in the carpark. A woman with blonde hair like straw and ink framing her eyes in sharp jagged lines walking next to a young lad with dark eyes. She stopped at the doorway and stared at Henry for a moment before nodding and entering.
Henry felt some of his tension dissolving as a few more Hopefuls arrived. And then a few more Millers. Soon the tables inside were full and Chef was getting people started with their drinks. Henry stood outside and listened to the sounds of voices and the underlying melody of music. On any other day it might have been easy to close his eyes and pretend that it was just a regular mealtime. Just another day in Hope. Crack out the moonshine, and let’s have a ourselves good ol’ jig.
“See, it’s not so bad.”
Henry turned and saw Patrick standing just a few feet away from him. “No… I suppose it isn’t.”
“Come in and sit with us,” Patrick said, draping an arm across Henry and leading him into the din. “We’re yer guest of honours, aye? Let’s have yer show us how Hopefuls have a good time.”
Henry forced a smile as Patrick guided him through the crowd, the sound levels dropping slightly as a few people turned to watch. Henry looked at all the familiar faces, memories playing from each of them in turn as he remembered every one of their arrivals at the Hope township.