The Rot (Book 1): They Rot

by Luke Kondor

  Stephen fell asleep soon after, his deep breathing turning to snores. Dutchman couldn’t help but look at the dark blue ink on his face. The small cross on his cheekbone. The lines that dashed his earlobe that looked like cross-stitching, or a tally chart. There was something reaching out from the base of his throat, too, but it was mostly covered by the sharp rug of his stubble. Dutchman could just about make out the tips of blue-black peaks reaching up and out from his collarbone. With all the decorative art, he almost felt a bit jealous. Maybe he’ll get some at some point?

  Another dip in the road. Thump.

  Dutchman looked up to where the road wound ahead. An old backroad used to pass between the country houses and farmland in the Kent countryside. It wasn’t too far up there and to the right where the main road started that would eventually lead onto the M20. The road that took you all the way to the city. Not that you would ever want to take that path. Not these days.

  Stephen’s hand lifted to his chin to support against the rollings of the car on the road. He looked like he was mimicking a Grecian statue.

  “Ah… the glorioush Michaelangelo’s David,” Dutchman joked under his breath.

  “What?” Stephen said groggily.

  “Nothing,” Dutchman said, looking back to the main road with a grin. “Nothing.”

  ~ 14 ~

  Colin groaned. With each bump in the road, they were kicked half a foot in the air and dropped straight back down. The rags they’d been draped in were red and translucent in the sunlight. The plastic smell with the sickly damp reminded him of camping trips with the family. Lying in a cold wet tent, watching the drips of morning water cling to the sides.

  The warm yellows and oranges permeated the material. The wash of light somewhat blinding but also comforting. He imagined himself there beside Fletch and Rach on one of their expeditions from the city. The three huddled tight in one large sleeping bag. Nothing but the breath of his wife and the giggles of his son to keep him company.

  Birdsong tickling his ears.

  A cool breeze brushing the sides of the tent.

  Keeping themselves snug in the sleeping bag for as long as possible, pushing back the moment they’d have to climb out of the bag, out the tent, expose themselves to the morning fresh air that turned skin to sugar paper and bones to empty milk bottles, rattling and clinking against one another.

  Colin remained silent, trapped in another world. He was happy to remain in the fantasy for a while longer as the movement slowed and the vehicle stopped. The doors opened. Through the veil of the canvas, he saw the large silhouette of Stephen over him, popping open the tailgate. He reached across and hoisted up, what sounded like, a tub of water, and walked away from the vehicle. The water glugging and bubbling into the distance along with the man’s grunts and yawns. The shorter man spoke, too, as he climbed out of the driver’s seat. His thick Dutch accent now unmistakable. He spoke quietly, nonsensical, muttering to himself as he slammed the door shut and wandered off towards the other man, leaving Colin and Wheat in their makeshift bed.

  They returned a few moments later and deposited items on top of the canvas to Colin’s side. The objects felt heavy, their warped shadows making them difficult to decipher.

  What the hell were they doing? Raiding outposts? Stealing equipment? Swapping out rations? Perhaps they could have been from one of the camps mentioned in the notebook. He caught Stephen muttering something to the Dutchman and immediately felt cold again, the accent taking him back to the farmhouse, to the Millers. The image of those tattoos burned into his thoughts. Perhaps this Dutchman was just another Thomas, a Jackie boy, or maybe a Paddy?

  One of them pulled the veil back from Colin’s face. He kept his eyes shut, forced his breath to slow as he played dead until the man threw the veil back over him.

  “Dog’s awake but he’ll not be biting anyone fer a while. Poor bleeder’s looking sorry fer himself.”

  The car door slammed and a moment later they were off again.

  Colin lifted his head. He timed it with each bump in the road to make it look like the force of the bumps were throwing his body. He crawled to Wheat, placed his head to the dog’s chest. He was breathing, but barely anything above a gentle rise and fall.

  “It’s okay, boy,” he said.

  Without lifting his head, Wheat looked up to him and whined. The poor thing looked concussed. The dried clumps of blood in his scruff now joined by a swelling patch beneath his eye.

  “I know, I know.”

  If they were going to survive, then Colin was going to have to get them away from these scavvies. If he could get away with the motor then all the better. It would be a great boon when searching for the next place…

  Not home. He didn’t want to think the word home. It came with too much expectation.

  ‘Hope’, said Kitty, a flash in his mind.

  Yes, Kitty… Hope.

  Through the rolling drones of the engine reverberating around the insides of his skull, it didn’t seem longer than ten minutes before the roads changed. The bumpy off-roads smoothing out into a more peaceful clean length. The constant revving and gear-switching melted into a whirring purr that rolled sweetly across the surface. It was different there. The shade of the trees had cleared above them and the breeze openly blew the veil above them.

  Old and dead streetlights passed over him in repetitive dancing silhouettes and the occasional hole in the overcast skies allowed the full rays of the sun to press into him, pushing his eyes shut.

  It was possibly twenty minutes, maybe an hour, maybe longer until the journey slowed and the car turned onto a gravel path that crumpled beneath the tyres and peppered the underside with the tiny bell tolls of stones against metal. They passed what appeared to be a short tunnel before re-emerging in the daylight and finally stopping.

  Now feeling a little more alive, Wheat crawled over to him and placed his paws on Colin’s arm. He remained still once more and held his breath as they lifted the covers to check on him. The warmth of the sun shone full-force on his face and soothed him. Wheat growled and Dutchman suggested throwing him off and leaving him there to die in peace. Stephen chuckled.

  “Stay, dog,” Dutchman said. “If you know what ish good for you, stay.”

  Colin waited until they left before looking down the length of his body, seeing they’d left the red cover down. They’d parked in a carpark outside some sort of giant decrepit warehouse. The red and brown bricks of the building towered up and outwards into the shape of a single solid brick. The painted white windowsills long since cracked in the sunlight and darkened in the blowing dirt that pounded against them, the mould and lice growing and rotting away at their wooden cores had taken its toll. Plant-life and greenery had found its way around the structure, threading its fingers through the many crevices, now poking outwards from the sills, rooftops, and all the way up one side of the building reaching towards the sun.

  Each of the windows appeared dusty and blackened as if purposefully painted to conceal whatever hid within. Several of them had gaping holes like open mouths forever shocked at the state of the world around it. And in big painted white letters, bold and scabby, were the words, DITTON FACTORIES, EST, 1827.

  It looked like at one point it would’ve made a fine sugar factory or packing mill, or for all Colin knew it was some sort of cardboard box factory. The three tall chimneys on the roof with the trees reaching out of them suggested something that required fire. Whatever its intended purpose had been, it had long since been reclaimed by nature. Just one more crumbling relic.

  Stephen and Dutchman’s footsteps trudged through the gravel and crunched away into the distance.

  Once their steps had faded to silence, Colin rolled over to the tailgate. It was slow work as he tried his best to remain quiet. His body complained with every move. His face – and nose especially – were afire, and he dared not consider what he’d look like in a mirror. He popped the clip open, knocked the tailgate with his foot, and rolled off the edge of t
he vehicle, cushioning his fall with folded arms, barely holding the scream in as he sucked the air through his front teeth. He pulled himself backwards beneath the truck, scuffling all the way under, before planting his back against the front grill. He caught his breath. Peered out from beneath the shadow of the car, which he could now see was big old 4-wheel Ranger.

  After a second of searching he saw the two figures some way in the distance, backs to the car, standing at the big wooden entrance to the factory. They looked to be waiting for someone to open up the door for them.

  Idiots, Colin thought, shuffling some more as he stood up and looked through the windscreen, spotting the fingers of metal dangling from the hole beneath the steering wheel. A grin pinched his cheeks and he winced in pain, forcing his muscles to relax.

  “Wheat,” he whispered. “Come on.”

  The dog lazily jumped down from the open tailgate and made his way around to the passenger side, his tail half-wagging.

  Colin carefully slipped himself around, keeping his head low and out of sight. His calves ached as he pulled himself off the floor to the driver’s seat door, opened it and let Wheat jump up and over into the passenger seat.

  He took another breath as he climbed inside, his heart racing, beads of sweat trickling, preparing himself before he turned the keys. He knew full well that the noise would stir the two men.

  He turned the key.

  “Come on,” he said as the engine churned and wailed. “Comeoncomeoncomeon.”

  The car choked and the two men turned their head instantly, their expressions of fear and horror. They began to run, Stephen looking like an endangered rhino charging towards an invader and Dutchman trailing behind.

  “Comeonyoufuckercomeon,” Colin mumbled, throwing the ignition again. He hoped to God for the car to come alive, for the engine to suddenly roar with cackling laughter that would soundtrack his escape. He had done it before, goddammit he could do it again. “Comeonyoupeesashit.”

  The two men were close now. The big one looked ready to rip the door off and hulk-out, ripping the still-beating heart from his chest.

  Colin kept the key turning.

  The whole car shook under him. The engine sounded ready to crack.

  The car died. Stephen was only a few metres or so from the car when he locked onto Colin’s eyes and slowed to a stop.

  Huh? Were they giving up? Were they making a mockery of the guy that couldn’t kick the old vehicle into motion as easily as these two had?

  Stephen pointed a finger to Colin’s side. He heard a click.

  Loading.

  The sound of a gun cocking.

  “There’s a knack to starting this old piece of shit,” a voice said.

  Colin turned his head to see a shotgun held only inches from his face. The woman holding it gave a hungry grin. Her finger danced readily on the trigger.

  “Another move and I’ll blow your dick off.”

  ~ II ~

  “You going to grow up to be big and strong like your daddy, Fletch?”

  Fletcher’s dimples appeared as he smiled up at Darren. He shrugged and looked down to his feet, blushing a little.

  “Aha! A shy one, eh? Well, I can already put money down that you’re going to grow taller than your old man, and when you do, you can come and work for us? We always need people like you Boltons.”

  Darren ruffled Fletcher’s hair as a giggle fell out of the child’s mouth. From the other side of the table, Colin watched and smiled as the charisma oozed off Darren. The same charm he bathed in each morning before sales meetings with folks from all over the city. The same scent he doused himself in before entering those boardrooms and selling the company’s IT solutions.

  The suit Darren wore that night was some fancy tailored one, impeccable and without a crease or wrinkle in sight. Nothing like back in the day when they started ‘Candle IT’ ten years before. There was a time when Darren Lock was prone to jeans and a shirt from Topman – usually chequered or pink. The man’s smile was always big and warm and his happiness spilt out into whoever was lucky enough to be in his proximity. Colin couldn’t help but feel that, next to him, he looked a scruffy sidekick. The Robin to London’s Batman.

  On Darren’s right was his wife, Laura – a beautiful blonde with effervescent cheek bones and a slim-fitting red dress. The dress looked expensive. He looked over to Rachel, in the same old cheap black cocktail dress he’d bought for her a year before, and his smile faded as another fresh jolt of guilt kicked in.

  Of course, she looked gorgeous. Rachel would look beautiful in anything she wore, but seeing her having to ‘make do’ didn’t sit right. It reminded him why they’d set the dinner up in the first place. This was a job interview disguised as a meal between friends. Colin just wished he’d had some of Darren’s charisma for what he was going to do that night. The future of his family’s happiness – and his own – depended on it.

  When the waiter brought the food over he began with the children’s end of the table. Fish fingers and chips with a dash of ketchup. What more could you expect? Fletcher and Darren’s kids – Jack and Lottie – happily tucked into their food straight away. Fletcher didn’t even bother with the fork. He picked up one of the fish fingers by the end and dunked it into the ketchup. For Fletcher, it was always about the sauce first, the food second. The fish finger was just the delivery system for the ketchup.

  The four of them thanked the waiter when their own food arrived. A chicken salad for Laura, jacket potato with tuna for Rachel, and both Colin and Darren went for the beer-battered cod and chips. The place was nice. The Bankside Anchor – a sort-of up-market pub lunch place in the city centre. There was a view of the Thames out the window. The inky black shimmering of the river was peppered with city lights. The coldness of the outside only made the inside all the more cosy. The fireplace was lit and the warmth billowed outwards from the side of the bar and out to the restaurant tables. The clinking noises of cutlery hitting plates and the talking and laughing all around them were warming, inviting.

  Colin couldn’t ask for much more than a place like this.

  A waiter with an unruly hipster beard walked over to their table and placed their drinks down.

  “Newcastle Brown?” he said as he placed Rachel’s glass of icy cola down, already thinking ahead.

  Colin raised an arm. “That’s me”.

  The waiter placed the pint of dark brown liquid next to Colin’s plate giving him a good look at the coy-carp tattoos around his forearm, the tail hidden behind his rolled-up shirt sleeve.

  “You’d suit a big beard like that, Bolton,” Darren laughed after the waiter was out of earshot.

  “Thanks, but I can’t think of anything better than a freshly-shaved face.”

  “Plus if he did grow a monster on him like that, I’d be shaving him in his sleep,” Rachel joked before taking a mouthful of her coke.

  The food was good but the bitter was nicer. The embossment on the glass showed an oval with a star in the centre. It reminded Colin of a Sheriff’s badge, which somehow made him feel confident. As though he could make it through this evening and come out on top. Each mouthful was rich. It clung to his tongue and when it finally made its way down it helped settle his stomach.

  The kids were quickly finished with their food and within seconds were already asking if they could go to the crèche in the corner of the restaurant where four children were already colouring in pictures of Daffy Duck and playing in a small ball pit. One child’s legs completely submerged in the coloured plastic orbs.

  “Sure, sure,” Darren said as he finished off his red wine. “Go on and play. And, if the ladies don’t mind, I think me and Bolton are going to go play too.”

  Darren pulled out a pack of Marlboro’s and waved them in the air.

  It had been a while since Colin had quit. Well, not quit quit, but going from twenty-a-day to twenty-every-three-months was no small victory. Rachel was licking away the remnants of her toffee-fudge cake from her top lip as C
olin looked over, almost as if to say, ‘Do you mind?’

  “I don’t care. Go get your smoke on.”

  Darren led him out through the restaurant where they passed a couple more families dining in silence – children far more involved in the bright displays of their parents’ smartphones than in any form of conversation – and four men in business suits drinking beers with whisky chasers.

  Whisky sounds good, Colin thought, making a mental note.

  The icy cool winds hit them as they stepped into the smoking area, the sound of the river flowing past was angry and loud. The only other person brave enough to brace the cold weather was a drunk guy in the corner, sat at the table with his head leaning right back against the wall. The man looked asleep with his half-empty pint glass on the table in front of him.

  “Reckon we should tell someone?” Colin said, a little worried that it might be something more potent than booze that had comatose’d the man.

  “Yeah, probably. But wait till after we smoke these. A bit of relaxation before we head back into the chaos.” He nodded his head to where Fletcher and Lottie had taken to launching balls at the kids running by. “Sometimes you just need a breather, y’know?”

  Colin laughed and stepped towards the spiked metal fence that rose up out of a small red-brick wall. It was the only thing separating them from the water a half-dozen feet below. He peered over and in the dark saw the reflection of the moon poking through the clouds. A red light from the walkie-talkie building opposite gave the moon a shade of blood-red. He placed his hands on the cold steel fence as a drop splashed against his cheek. Unsure if it had come from the river or the sky, he wiped the speck away with his finger, then turned back around to Darren whose face was now lit in yellow, a plume of smoke billowing from his cupped hands.