The Rot (Book 1): They Rot

by Luke Kondor

  “Seems you two are making it work,” Jerry said with a coy smile. “Patrols, and now this. Something changed your mind about him, Col?”

  Colin took another large mouthful of the burning liquid and grimaced. He took a second to consider. “I just want to make sure I’ve got my eyes on him at all times,” he said, throwing the bottle into a soft bed of hay.

  But there was something. Something that Colin was reluctant to accept, knowing where hope had led him in the past. Knowing that hope would not bring the little blonde boy back and fix the world that they found themselves in. This stranger in their midst was the first new thing to come into their lives in years, and, for good or worse, he certainly seemed a handy fellow to have around. And if Kitty and Jerry were satisfied, then why couldn’t Colin help make it work?

  It didn’t mean he had to make it easy for him.

  He took a stand next to Thomas and began pointing, explaining the work he’d done so far. Who knows, he thought, maybe together they could get this piece of shit moving and really see what’s left of the world.

  ~ 6 ~

  All asleep now and the fire’s out. The smell lingering but the warmth fading to memory. The sound of the early morning wind brushed against the farmhouse. Strain and you might’ve heard the tickling of the dirt blowing up against the barn. Maybe even the twinkle of the starlight.

  Thomas sat up in his makeshift bed in the LeShards’ living room and counted on his fingers.

  He reached seven.

  Seven days, that was the rule. He nodded to himself and smiled, peeling back the blankets and stretching. How many times had he done this? This routine? This job? This hunt?

  He rubbed his tired eyes.

  He’d not slept. Sure, he’d closed his eyes and waited, listening to the old man sing his song. Kept still until they finished their scuffling around him and let him be. The living room a spacious, classic homage to a time long forgotten. A widescreen TV, lamps, a collection of VHS videotapes lining bookshelves, and an even older VHS player which sat snug in the cabinet beneath the TV next to a record player. Stuff that would’ve been anachronistic and useless even before.

  He’d laid there as his gracious hosts finished up for the night, feeling the bare boards beneath the thin sheets he’d been given, listening as the old man switched out the empty water tank for the new one, somewhere beneath the house. Not long after that their mumbles vibrated through the walls of the house and into his room. He could make out the odd word here and there. Voices punctuated with the clattering of dishes and cutlery, and then they were off to bed. Their footsteps thumping the stairs as they went, leaving him with a rag that smelled of damp cow and mould.

  Thomas left the living room.

  He scoured the house for an hour or so, his movements precise and measured, not wanting to make any noise. He figured he’d have found it by now. Would have at least had some notion as to where it was all kept, but if it wasn’t for Colin…

  Thomas couldn’t take a dump without Colin at the door.

  But there was nothing. No hidden trapdoor, no locked cupboard. He couldn’t fathom at all where it all could be. Seven days of searching… Uncle Paddy would not be pleased.

  He skirted the outside of the house, fresh bumps raising on his arm as he looked for some kind of underground entrance, something close to what he’d seen in American shows in the days before the government stopped caring about the power grid. But there was nothing. Before heading back inside he glanced at the barn door and smiled. They were so close now, just a tweak here and there and he was certain that the motor would be up and running. At least he had that going for him, even if he couldn’t track the pantry cupboard, supposedly piled with provisions.

  In the hallway now, biting his lip. A piece of crusted blood came away and into his mouth. It had been healing nicely, but now seeped a clear liquid as the raw flesh was exposed to the night air.

  There was one good thing about Colin Bolton. Without him Thomas knew he’d have to compete with an extra force to keep quiet at night. He could imagine that if Wheat wasn’t so attached to the brute that perhaps it would be far more tricky to tip-toe. The yappy bastard. At least he was kept tucked away in the safe confines of the attic room.

  Thomas peeled back the curtains and looked out into the distance. The moon was beginning to wane, which only meant one thing.

  Carefully stepping and pressing each foot against the floor as lightly as he could he made his way into the kitchen. An odd creak and moan of the floorboards didn’t matter much. He’d often found that stepping slower only made it worse. Best to speed up, keep as quiet as you can, get the job done.

  He froze as he heard a shuffle from upstairs. The padding of footsteps and the sound of a door opening and clicking closed. Perhaps a toilet break for one of the residents? After a minute or two the thought was confirmed as the footsteps returned and faded again.

  Thomas exhaled slowly and continued.

  The brass handle of the kitchen drawer was cold to his touch. He slid it open, looked inside at the collection of cutlery. The teaspoons, a tin opener with three spares still in their boxes, forks down the middle, and then the knives down the right hand side. He picked the biggest one there. A kind of carving knife. Christmas turkeys and hams and whatnot.

  Thomas made his way to the living room window. Still careful with each step. Still moving quickly, efficiently.

  He pulled back the floral curtains, keeping an eye on the door leading to the stairway, a fracture in the white paint from God-knows-what. And then out the window. Those stars still twinkling. The moon a beachball, looming over a smoggy grey cloud. He leaned against the window. The coolness of the glass fogging his breath.

  He lifted the knife, brought his eye to its edge, and angled the blade, holding it parallel to the moon, rotating it around his wrist, searching for the perfect angle. It would be difficult to tell when he had it quite right, but this certainly wasn’t his first rodeo. At least he’d know when the message was received. At least he’d know.

  About fifteen minutes or so later and the blinking light in the darkness confirmed it. A little twinkling of starlight down there in the darkness, tucked behind silhouetted foliage on the perimeters of the farm.

  Yes, Jackie boy, Thomas thought with a sly grin. I see yer.

  ~ 7 ~

  I dreamed a dream but yesternight

  Thy father slain in foreign fight

  He, wounded, stood beside my bed

  His blood ran down upon thy head

  He spoke no word, but looked on me

  Bent low, and gave a kiss to thee!

  Baloo, baloo, my darling boy

  Thou'rt now alone thy mother's joy.

  Colin lay awake that night struggling to sleep. The words to Jerry’s song imprinted in his mind as fresh footsteps in a bed of snow.

  He had been on fire that evening, Jerry. He’d pulled out that dirty old guitar, twisted the tuning pegs, and strummed a handful of songs to his brand new audience member. The house was cosy, the atmosphere one of – dare he think it – hope. Jerry was a half-decent singer and those old strings buzzed with every pluck until their bellies were full and they could take no more.

  Colin rolled over and offered Wheat the remnants of a near-empty tin of rice pudding. The writing on the packaging faded but the taste still fresh. Wheat snuffled hungrily and lapped the contents.

  “I don’t know, Wheat,” he said “Maybe the world is softening. Maybe there is something out there after all? Who knows?” he sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  Today had been a good day for Colin. Maybe the best he’d felt in some time. Not only had he found Thomas’s company on his patrol more tolerable than before, but Kitty seemed to have moved on from whatever chip was on her shoulder, hugging Colin as they came back, following after him in the kitchen and planting kisses on his cheek (much to the theatrical approval of Jerry). She was more resolute, as though some kind of weight had been dropped from her shoulders.

  And the
pièce de rèsistance? He was certain that they were but a whisper away from making the Saab’s engine hum and getting the old bag of bolts road-bound. Maybe an hour or so more and he was sure that they could at least give it a test run. Drive it round the abandoned country roads that skirted the farm.

  “Screw it,” he said as the thoughts of the car dragged him from his bed. He threw on some thick clothing, not bothering with his boots, and opened his door, stopping with a raised brow to pick up a small square of paper slipped under the door. He pocketed the item and snuck out into the frosty air, catching a glimpse of the sleeping Thomas in the living room’s moonlit glow. The sun was teasing the horizon, but it would be a good couple of hours before it truly rose.

  The barn smelled musty, of grease and straw. In the candlelit glow he pulled the item from his pocket and examined it in the light. There was no address, only his name in Kitty’s unmistakeable cursive. He ripped open the glued flap and sat, scanning his eyes over the paper that fell from inside. It was crumpled, creased as though it had, at one point, been stuffed inside a pocket.

  Colin recognised it immediately.

  The letter read:

  Dear Jerry and Kitty,

  I am writing to you on a sunny morning in June. Oh, how long has it been since we really sat and enjoyed the sunshine together, eh? Seems like another lifetime ago that we sat and shared wine across the table at Christmas, Mum hiccuping off Brandy.

  Though it’s been a while since my last correspondence, I still am hopeful that these are finding their way to you. Anton is telling me they are and I’d trust that little bugger with my last bottle of Merlot. Whether you’ve sent a message back or not, I really have no idea anymore. I’ve lost track of days now. I’m still keeping optimistic that you and Kitty are bumbling away in that old farmhouse, stubborn as ever (you always were the worst of the two evils!), and that one day our paths will cross again.

  I’m doing well out in the new world. My little fortress of solitude has boomed and grown somewhat in the last year, from a small hamlet to a little town of hope – that’s actually the nickname people are giving it now, can you believe it? ‘Hope’? Like some post-apocalyptic shanty town from the old films!

  Anyway, if you are out there still, remember that there’s always a place for you here. Just say the word and we’ll provide the escorts and see that you can get here safely.

  Honestly, Jeremiah. I miss you. You’d like it here. It’s almost as though the rot had never happened.

  Yours,

  Henry

  Colin studied the letter, reading it again, then again. He flipped it over and saw Kitty’s writing on the back, this time aimed at Colin.

  ‘We can’t keep a bird caged up forever. Someday you’ll have to fly’, then, below that, ‘p.s… Don’t tell Jerry.’

  Colin’s head swam, cycling through his scale of emotions. Confusion, shock, anger, as though his head were spinning a prize wheel, not quite sure where to click into place.

  Hope? What was this place? This utopia that was somewhere out there beyond the rolling fields and brooks? Somewhere safe for people to live together. Henry had said so himself, right here in black and white. A relation of Jerry’s it seemed? Though Colin had never heard mention of Jerry’s family, not in any of the late night discussions around the kitchen table, head light from wine and belly full from food. Not once had Jerry ever divulged that he had family or loved ones lost. Of course, Colin could hardly complain, he had never really told his own story, but still… if there was even a shot that there was more out there…

  For the next hour Colin worked on the car, not really sure what he was doing. He felt like he’d been punched in the chest, like he’d been trapped and abandoned. The closest people he had to calling family had lied and hidden secrets. Even though it was expected in this day and age of don’t-ask-don’t-tell, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t sting. He sweated beneath the car, rubbing grease and oil into his eye, mingling with the tears that he tried not to let fall.

  Kitty was right. Colin had an adventurer’s spirit. Maybe he would be doing them all a favour if he just upped and left in search of this place, this Hope.

  And at least they had Thomas now. They wouldn’t be completely without protection.

  Colin finished tightening the bolt, jumped into the driver seat with a huff and went to turn the ignition. The car would be loud, but what did he care? A little early morning alarm clock might be appreciated. He smiled. Besides, if all went well, he could just floor the accelerator and start his journey. Easy peasy.

  He realised then that the keys were still in the house. Likely still hanging from the same old hook next to a handful of other keys that did literally nothing but act as little more than photographs for Jerry to reminisce on things-that-don’t-work-no-more.

  It was as Colin exited the barn that he saw something odd. There was a light flickering in the kitchen, and the front door stood ajar. He could hear deep voices, and a bark that certainly wasn’t the friendly call of Wheat.

  Colin crept across the pebbles towards the window, treading as lightly as was possible in his bare feet. When he was beneath the window sill he peaked through a small gap in the curtains.

  And gasped as a wave of anger and stupidity rushed over him.

  In the shadows of the kitchen were several figures shifting left to right, looking through drawers and cupboards for God knows what. In the midst was Thomas’s slight frame, smiling menacingly. And sitting at the same old breakfast table they’d eaten at every day for the past three years were two terrified faces, held down by blades aimed at their throats. The two people Colin had come to know as his family – Kitty and Jerry.

  ~ 8 ~

  Colin’s mind was suddenly wide awake, racing, planning, running scenarios. His heart kicking up a notch every passing second as the men inside chatted and huffed. He heard mention of his name through a muffled fuzz of panic. The men inside – six by Colin’s count – knuckle draggers for sure. All shaved heads and faded ink on their faces. Each with their own makeshift weapon: a baseball bat, a switch knife, and even one of those old shotguns made to blast clay pigeons out of the sky.

  Scavvies.

  He watched as Thomas emerged from the stairs and pointed to the open kitchen door. The smallest of the group, a thin little cretin in a torn jumper with a crescent-shaped scar running along the side of his neck and up his jaw, nodded and walked towards it.

  Colin’s pulse thumped loudly against his collar bone as he raced back to the barn at lightning speed, more than aware that he was being hunted and that time was short. He blew out the lights and kicked over a column of rotting hay bales. The stink of mould all around as he dug his hand into the wet centre, feeling the stiffness of the fibres catching his arm and itch, burrowing past the colony of unseen insects hiding there until his fingers touched the icy cold metal. Just as he went to pull the rifle out from the plastic bin bag they’d wrapped it in he heard a chuckle from behind.

  Colin turned to see the small scavvie standing in the door, silhouette lit silver with moonlight.

  “Dandy prick, ain’t yer,” the scavvie said, readjusting the grip on his knife. The blade gleaming. “I’ll gut yer like butter, yer fookin’ nonce.”

  The man wailed and ran towards him, goring him like a bull. Colin barely managed to push the blade away as the weight of the man crashed into him. The metal clattered to the floor as the small man grunted and spun onto Colin’s back, locking around his neck.

  He scrambled as the man’s arm wrapped around his throat, his sweaty bald head pressed against his cheek, his thick meaty breath reaching into his nostrils and throat. Adrenaline kicked in, pushing Colin into a fit of swinging elbows and fists, some barely touching the man’s head but most landing solid against nose, teeth, and the base of his neck. But this guy was strong and the adrenaline only kept him going so long before common sense kicked in. The seeds of doubt took root. This could be the end. This could the time to make peace and give in.

/>   “They’ll love it when I drag yer dead body back like a two-hundred-pound buck,” the man whispered into his ear, dashing his face in spit.

  Colin’s vision speckled with peppered lights like tiny fireworks. A gurgled rattle escaped his throat as if the tiny trickle of breath pushing through his windpipe was spiked and rough. He fell to the floor, scrambled with his hands, reaching for something, anything. The laughter was poison in his ears.

  As the corners of his vision narrowed he felt it. The cold steel of the rifle’s barrel tucked into the mound of hay. With one last surge, he threw an elbow high, connecting to the man’s temple. The grip loosened, just enough for Colin to take a deep lungful of oxygen, before grabbing the barrel of the rifle and slamming it into the scavvies’ nose. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure as the blood masked the tattoos and the scavvie toppled to the side, fitting against the floor, choking on his own blood.

  Colin massaged his neck, cherishing the cold air that found its way through his body. He removed the rifle from the plastic wrap and clicked off the top-mounted safety. It was ready for use. The switchblade caught his eye and he pocketed it as he headed back towards the house. His face red with a burning wrath.

  *

  A quick boot to the door and the laughter died. Five individuals falling silent as the beast of Colin found Thomas with the rifle’s sight. He expected them all to raise their hands. To drop their weapons and yield to him. But that’s not what happened.

  “Don’t shoot, mate. It’ll be worse off if yer do,” Thomas urged.

  His eyes darted to Kitty and Jerry, bound and gagged with gaffer tape. Their eyes shimmering and wide at the brutes gathered around. The kitchen a state, cupboards open, items scattered. Kitty muffled a moan.