The Rot (Book 1): They Rot

by Luke Kondor

  As he unfolded the paper, Colin could see what it was. A map. One side lined with squares, covered with dots and details. In the corner was the name: Kent.

  Stephen pointed at a large check on the paper, then thrust it back in his pocket before much rain could soak into it. It was enough of a look, though, for Colin to have seen what he needed to see. The location of Hope to Ditton, and, on the far right side, unmarked and lonely, surrounded by fields and streams, a place that he should know better than anything by now: LeShards’ Farm.

  “You’re taking me back home, aren’t you?” Colin said through gritted teeth.

  Stephen raised his hands to the sky as thunder rolled in the clouds. “Hallelujah, Colin Bolton. Ten points. Although yer wrong on one account.” He reached into the lining of his trousers and pulled out a rusty machete – Ria’s machete – and held it high. “You’re taking me home. I think it’s about time for a little Miller family reunion, don’t you?”

  And with that, Stephen lunged forward.

  ~ 30 ~

  as it sliced through the air, narrowly missing his shoulder. His body crashed against a nearby tree as Stephen grunted.

  “Don’t worry, Bolton. I’m not going to kill you,” he said as he fought to adjust his balance. “Maybe I’ll just maim yer enough so yer can’t run away.”

  Wheat barked furiously as he jumped and darted around Colin’s legs, snapping at the air. Colin pushed off from the tree and ran into the wood, doing his best to not slip as his bare feet caked with mud. He was a little faster than Stephen, it seemed. But with the dog following him and calling at the top of his lungs, there was no way that he was going to be able to wait it out and hide out of sight.

  “Wheat, shut up,” he scowled. The dog obeyed as Colin found a thick trunk to hide behind.

  A little behind him, Stephen crashed through foliage, a one-man wrecking crew, the machete slashing away at the hanging branches and bushes. His shallow breaths barely audible above the thrashing rain and intermittent thunder as he got closer to Colin.

  “Here kitty, kitty, kitty…” Stephen crooned, only a few feet away now.

  Colin’s heart ached. Was this some kind of cruel joke? Kitty’s face appeared in his mind again. A kind face full of love. He saw her and Jerry at the dinner table, cutely talking about youth and rebellion, of going back to their family’s ways and running the farm. Reminiscing of times long before Colin had even been born, when the world seemed organised and safe. When they spoke of fish and chips and discotheques. The evolution of public transport and the Civil Rights Movement.

  He wondered for a moment what the Millers would have done with their bodies. After slicing them up for sport, would they have given them a proper burial? Would they have added them with the logs to the fire? Their food-stores?

  Wheat’s ears lifted and his attention was on the brute. Colin heard a low growl rising from the canine’s throat, and placed a desperate finger over his lips. Wheat paid no attention, letting out a single explosive bark.

  Colin shut his eyes tight, knocked a boot into Wheat’s side and pressed his back to the tree. The footsteps stopped. Wheat looked up with dark eyes as if to say, “What did I do?”

  Then arms came round either side of the tree, pinning Colin to the rough surface. He struggled but was no match for Stephen’s gargantuan strength. Stephen removed one hand and stepped around the side. The machete hanging loosely in one hand as he adjusted and grabbed Colin by the throat, lifting him several inches off the floor. Sweat, grime, and cold rainwater dripped down his face and into his eyes. He could feel the salty sting as Stephen’s form began to blur.

  “I’ve got a lot of respect for yer, Bolton. I really do. I want yer ter know that.” Another flash, another thunder roll. “You’ve got fight in your heart that yer don’t see much of these days. You’d likely call it a ‘scavvies’ heart, eh? We Millers call it the survivor’s burden.” He laughed. Wheat barked again. “You mangy little fuckin’ shit!” He gave Wheat a swift kick and sent him several feet into the air. Colin thrashed against Stephen’s hold. “Yes… a lot of fight. Perhaps if yer help me out, I can help you out, eh? Take me ter me family, and I’ll talk old Paddy around to letting yer bunk with us. I think little Jackie Boy is getting lonely. He needs a pet.”

  In the haze of Stephen’s shape, through the blur of the downpour, he saw Patrick’s surly old face. That same thickset jaw and heavy knuckle-dragger’s brow. Those dinky little yellowing eyes and thin lips. Uncle Paddy, they called him. What a fucking joke. Doing his best to hack up a mouthful, Colin spat at Stephen’s face.

  It had no real effect, what with the rain and all, but Stephen’s face creased with anger.

  He lifted Colin a little higher. “Yer little… Well, if that’s yer answer, best start trimming the fat. I don’t think I want to carry all of you. It’s a long journey back.”

  The machete rose high. For the briefest of moments, Colin considered yielding. What was he fighting for anyway? Hope gave him the promise of food, shelter and company, and that’s also exactly what the Millers were offering. What difference did it make where he went? He hadn’t even seen Hope, so what guaranteed that that would be a place for him in the long run? At least the Millers were real, were tangible. They were broken, grotesque forms of humanity, but maybe that’s all that’s left? Maybe that’s as good as Colin could hope for?

  But those back at the factory…

  The Hopefuls…

  Colin suddenly saw it all so clearly, as though a movie rolled on through his mind’s eye. Dutchman, the one he’d loathed since their first encounter in the outpost, had been on his side all along. It had been Dutchman who’d yelled for Stephen to stop as Colin’s vision began to blur under the pounding of the giant’s fists. It had been Dutchman who’d defended Colin’s capture to Ria at Ditton. And Dutchman’s gun fire… little more than a warning shot… an attempt to stop an unknown disappearing in the night.

  Those are the people he needed.

  Lightning lit up the blade as it swung through the air. Colin turned his head and closed his eyes, waiting for the moment the machete sliced his skin. He half-opened one eye and saw something move through the undergrowth. A flash of golden fur. A second later Wheat leapt out and soared through the air, teeth bared, and sunk his teeth into Stephen’s thigh. His jaw clamped down and Colin saw teeth pierce the soaked material of Stephen’s trousers.

  Stephen roared in pain, letting Colin drop clumsily to his feet. The machete missed and swung through the air.

  Colin wanted to run but found his body frozen in horror as he watched Stephen grab Wheat’s head with both hands. They engulfed the dog’s skull. Stephen gritted his teeth, huffed a couple deep breaths, then yanked the dog upwards and began squeezing. There was a horrible sound of a bone snapping and Colin saw a stream of blood fall from where Wheat’s mouth was now hidden between Stephen’s palms. “Son-of-a—” he cried as he held the dog before his face so tightly that Wheat’s body went limp. Dark crimson liquid began to stain Stephen’s thigh where the cloth had ripped.

  Colin felt helpless, feeling himself begin to shiver as the cold found its way beneath his skin, to his bones, his soul. “No! Nooo!” he tried to yell.

  It was far too late. Stephen paid no attention as his arms and biceps bulged with muscle and he clamped his hands together. Colin was thankful that Stephen’s hands hid most of the damage as Wheat was crushed by the giant’s strength. Bones crunched and a final weak yelp escaped before Stephen seemed satisfied with his work and discarded Wheat like a used tissue, tossing him somewhere in the undergrowth.

  Run, Colin’s mind told his body. Run!

  At last the message reached his muscles. Colin spared one quick search for Wheat, then span around the tree and ran. Stephen paid no attention at first, preoccupied with wiping his hands and tending to his bloodied leg.

  Branches whipped at Colin’s face. Stones and thorns dug into his feet. Tears brimmed his eyes, mixing once again with the rain. He tore throu
gh the woods with no direction, struggling to hold back his crying as his head replayed the image over and over. That awful bone-crunching sound, that savage tinnitus that wouldn’t let go. As he ran he tried to listen for Stephen. All he knew was he had to run. He had to run fast.

  Without knowing how, he’d worked his way back to David’s car. His head was a blurry mass of thoughts as he paused for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. A creeping realisation came. Everyone was dead. He was alone again. Truly.

  “You can run, but yer can’t hide,” Stephen shouted from behind.

  Colin whipped his head around, looking for an idea, for anything that could be of use. He saw the car and the glass shattered around the floor. The thing looked a state, debris everywhere from where it must have…

  But it didn’t. It hadn’t crashed at all. Stephen had said it himself, that he waited for the car to pull over. Which meant…

  Colin leapt over the pile of glass and popped the bonnet of the old Cruiser. On his first attempt, his hand slipped and struggled to find purchase, but he found the latch on the second. He heard Stephen shouting again and hoped that the rain and thunder were enough to hide the sounds as he scanned the parts inside to look for the thing he wanted to find.

  There… ‘Kids stuff’…

  He reconnected the wires, slammed the bonnet and hopped in the driver’s seat where the keys waited. In a heartbeat his mind took him back to the barn, he was turning the ignition, ready to roar away from the Millers.

  He twisted the key and the car sprang to life, headlights flooding and lighting up the tree. Despite himself, he started laughing and whacked the steering wheel with his palm in a giddy fugue.

  A crunch of grass and suddenly a hand was on his shoulder and the oily smell of the machete under his nose. It danced downwards from his lips, to his chin, to his neck. Stephen’s head appeared through the car window, taking up most of the available space. This time he didn’t grin, only wrinkled his brow and whispered words that shook with anger. “Not so fast, farm boy. I’m tired of playing games now. You’re going ter take me to yer farm, and then I’m gonna cut you up for soup. Got that?”

  The tip of the blade scratched his rising Adam’s apple as he swallowed. He looked sideways at Stephen’s face and saw the monster’s conviction. It was hard to hear Stephen above the rain as it lashed and beat against the car’s metal roof. The wind picking up now and whipping leaves into a frenzied blur.

  “Now. Slowly get up and out of the car, and we can handle this like—”

  Colin took a gamble. In less than a second, he shoved the machete away from his neck, wrapped his hands around Stephen’s head and yanked downwards with what strength he had left.

  Threads of spit fell from his mouth as he roared, forcing the head downwards against the remaining shards of glass that lined the window frame like teeth. Eyes nearly popping out of sockets as thick gouges of meat were torn from Stephen’s neck.

  Is this how Wheat felt? Colin wondered. This dying panic.

  He pulled harder, feeling the sharp glass work past a tough chunk of gristle and skin. Stephen gargled as red dripped down the inside of the door, spilling from his neck and mouth. He tried to talk, but his mouth moved in slow motion as the arm holding the machete fell limply into Colin’s lap.

  For a moment Colin simply stared, almost not believing what he’d done. The weight of Stephen’s body tilted the car slightly to one side, and it wasn’t until he prodded Stephen with the butt of the machete, that he finally slipped off the car’s window and fell face-down into the mud. Another victim to keep David company.

  Colin forced his attention to the growling car, placing hands on the steering wheel for a few minutes before even thinking of putting it into reverse and moving.

  It was as he placed the foot on the accelerator that he spared one more look at Stephen, and saw the tiny corner of paper sticking out of his back pocket. He opened the door, grabbed the map, and studied it using the dim light of the car’s inner light, trying to work out his next move. One hand playing with the ring around his neck.

  ~ 31 ~

  They ran downstairs as fast as they could, Dutchman dragging Sunny along. Despite the dark, it was surprisingly easy to navigate the stairs and platforms. With their minds engaged in the image of the spore-cluster, their unconscious navigation systems took over, and before they knew it, they were back at the entranceway.

  As they turned a corner they saw the shapes of Lee and Chicory. Lee was a few steps away from his uncle, shouting at him as he continued to gawk at the ceiling, not paying the slightest attention to their arrival.

  Dutchman sped ahead of Joanna and Sunny and headed towards Ria who was already busy scrambling and searching around the foreman’s office.

  “Okays, boss. What’s the plan?” he said, barging past Lee.

  The words fell on deaf ears as Ria worked her way down each set of drawers, opening, rummaging, smashing them closed.

  “Ria?”

  “Where is it? Where is it?”

  “Ria!”

  She snapped around so quickly that, for a second, Dutchman feared for his life. He’d seen the many colours of Ria over the years. Anger, confusion, exhaustion. But he had never seen what he saw now. Fear.

  “They took it, didn’t they? They took it and left,” she said before a tear fell down her cheek.

  It took Dutchman a second to realise what she was talking about when he saw her hand open and close. She was talking about her blade, the machete that he now realised he hadn’t ever seen her without.

  Ria put her hands flat on the table and lowered her head. Her shoulders shook as she tried to hold back further tears. “It was all I had left of them… all that they gave me, before they…”

  Dutchman walked over to Ria and scooped her into a hug. Two in one day, the tides really must be turning, he thought sarcastically as she sobbed into his shoulder. Again, he felt the guilt as he realised that, perhaps, he was partly to blame.

  When Ria had emptied her tank, Dutchman muttered some words into her ears in an attempt to lift her spirits. He became aware that Joanna and Chicory were engaged in what sounded like a harsh debate outside and when he urged Ria to get a move on and leave with the others, she nodded and headed out with him.

  The debate, it turned out, as Dutchman closed the door behind him, was something of a power struggle. He wasn’t sure what had led to this, but he felt a cold rush of something run down his spine when he saw that Joanna and Chicory were wrestling with a shotgun between them. Joanna’s face was screwed up in desperation as she clung to the long barrel of the gun, whilst Chicory looked furious that he was being waylaid by a prisoner. He called to his nephew, and before Dutchman could stop him, Lee grabbed Joanna from behind and pried her free. She screamed and writhed, pointing skywards, and the next thing they knew, Chicory aimed a shot up into the sky. The sound was dynamite in their ears.

  “There. It’s done. It’s dealt with,” he snarled at Joanna. He looked at Ria and Dutchman side-by-side. “That’s how you deal with a fucking cluster.” He began to laugh.

  There came an almighty creaking from upstairs, all their heads looking up at once. The rainwater pouring on Chicory’s head growing thicker before several small lumps of dark matter fell to the floor. He looked up, his face now horror-stricken, as the sack emptied its contents, and came crashing down from above.

  He sidestepped just in time to miss the weighty cluster as it smacked into the floor next to him, its white tendrils laying limply all around. Lee ran to help Chicory, his arms outstretched, when one of the small blobs shuddered violently. Lee froze. The thing clicked a couple times before small white strands sprouted from its body. A moment later and the strands looked almost like legs, the blob now doubling in size. It began to crawl along the floor, and, before he could even think of firing his gun again, the blob raced towards Chicory, disappearing up his trouser leg.

  Chicory slapped at his body, under his clothes where the lump climbed. But it
was far too late. Dutchman watched as the thing crawled towards his chest, two small white strands appeared at the neckline of Chicory’s shirt, and crept up his face. One entered his head through the nostril, the other forced its way through his tensed lips, and into his throat.

  A few seconds later, the change.

  “Run…” someone shouted.

  But he couldn’t. Dutchman found himself rooted to the spot as the old man – that he’d grown fond of despite his sandpaper personality – writhed in pain. The tendrils entering his skull thickened, as the black blob appeared at the collar of his shirt. Chicory shouted and screamed, eyes wide in horror. He thrashed and grabbed at the white strands, at one point going so far as to hold one of them in both hands and tugging until it was obvious that the thing had already hooked onto his inner wiring, had threaded itself through the poor man’s veins, arteries, central nervous system. He looked around helplessly at the others, the unsaid words clear to all: ‘It’s too late’.

  “Come on!” Ria shouted, knocking into Dutchman and snapping his focus back. “What are you waiting for?”

  Dutchman pointed to where Lee stood just out of reach of his uncle, who now had his head in both his hands and whipped from side to side. At his waist his arm hung loosely, the nail-poxed cricket bat useless in his grasp. He gawked, his expressionless face watching as his uncle suffered, not knowing what to do to help.

  Chicory spasmed, shouted, then ran to the nearest wall and crashed his head into the brickwork.

  “Lee, leave hims. It’s too late,” Dutchman shouted, wondering if Lee had been too young to remember the days when the rot had hit hard. A time of confusion, pain, and bloodshed. Lee couldn’t have been much into double figures back then. Maybe this was his first true experience of what it looked like when a cluster burst.

  Judging by the look on his face, he wasn’t far off the mark.