Winter Castle

by Isla Jones

  Castle had fixed the tank back onto the Jeep already. He stacked the boxes into the back seat, leaving the large truck of the car untouched.

  When we’d packed away most of the boxes, I gathered blankets and pillows for the trunk—that’s where we’d sleep.

  “If we keep going at this rate,” I said as I spread out the quilt, “we can leave before the sun goes down.”

  It was nearing dusk, but we still had another two hours or so. Plenty of time, I thought, to finish up with the car and eat. Castle rummaged through sheets of metal at the back of the shed. “We’re behind schedule,” he said. “We need to reinforce the windshield and glass.”

  I frowned at him. “Why?”

  “It’s a long way to the meet-up point. We’ll have to sleep in the car; I’d sleep better knowing rotters won’t just break through the glass.”

  It made sense. It would make it safer for us. I knew that, but I couldn’t ignore the churning out of cold dread I suddenly felt. I slumped in the boot of the Jeep and huffed.

  Castle heaved a roll of wire mesh from the scraps of metal.

  “How long will it take?”

  “To do the windshield, four passenger doors, sunroof and back windshield?” he said with a sigh. “Couple of hours.”

  I fell back on the blankets with a thud. A few hours didn’t sound like very long, but when the rotters came out at night time was precious.

  I didn’t want to be stuck in the cabin for another night, listening to them.

  “All right,” i said, shimmying off the boot. “What can I do to help?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, his brows meeting in the middle. His piercing emerald eyes washed over me for a moment before he said, I need measuring tape, pliers and if you can find one, a welder.”

  I hobbled over to the shelves and cupboards to find what he needed.

  “I’ll put the wire mesh on the inside,” he said, but I suspected he was speaking to himself. “And in the morning, I’ll use those poles over there to build a solid barrier on the outside.”

  The sky had taken a pinkish sheen by the time we finished. Mesh wire was fixed to all of the windows in double layers, bolted to the car. The poles were laid out for tomorrow’s labour, with the welder and nails neatly beside them.

  Castle had gone inside to get the last of the heavy boxes. I was at the bonnet, piling tools we might need later into a red toolbox. A spanner slipped from the hood. It clanged to the concrete floor and bounced just behind me.

  I cursed under my breath.

  I twisted around and reached down to grab it—but my fingers didn’t touch the metal. I froze, my hand dangling just above the spanner, my upper body twisted away from the Jeep, and my eyes stuck ahead on the lot.

  A rotter stood there.

  Browned blood clotted in its straggly hair that sat atop its head in a tangled mop. The torn dress that covered it was ripped up the side and hung off of its skeletal body.

  The memory of the lone-rotter’s howls the night before flooded my mind. Was it the same one? This rotter … it looked lost; old and confused.

  It swayed on the spot, bloodshot eyes glazed over as it stared at me. For a fleeting moment, I think it was trying to figure out what I was. But that thought was drowned in ice-cold dread when it’s head twitched and its fingers flexed at its side. And that’s when I saw its hands, really saw them—they were lathered in fresh blood, and bits of its nails had been snapped off at the skin. Whatever pity I’d felt for the rotter vanished as I took in its ragged, bloodied appearance—it had killed someone, I realised. It had killed recently.

  The hoarse sound of my breaths echoed through the shed. I couldn’t move. The rotter just kept staring at me. If I moved, even a little, it would attack. And if I shouted for Castle, who knew what it would do—or if more were nearby.

  I didn’t know what to do. But I had to do something.

  The muscles in my back tightened as I slowly straightened up. The rotter watched me with those glassy, red eyes. It didn’t make a sound; not even a growl. I’d never seen anything like it before—a docile rotter. They were wild, they were savage and cruel.

  But this one was different somehow—like the rotters that looked at me when I used my trick.

  I stood up straight, body tensed. My hands shook at my sides, like leaves caught in a blizzard. The fullness of my bladder suddenly weighted down my stomach.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  The rotter jerked—its body twitched as it jolted forward. But it only moved one step.

  My black plimsoll slid against the concrete; I backed into the Jeep, and my hand reached behind me to grab a tool. A plastic handle touched my palm, then my fingers curled around it.

  I pulled the tool closer to myself and spared a swift glance down at it. It was a screwdriver, gripped in my clammy hand.

  A loud creak came from outside.

  It distracted the rotter. Its head spun to the side, and it gazed at the cabin. Then, it turned and ran back into the woods.

  “Winter!” shouted Castle. “Winter, where are you?”

  Clutching the screwdriver in my hand, I staggered out of the shed and looked to the left, where the swing-door was. Castle stood in front of it, gun in his hand, eyes moving between me and the trees that the rotter vanished through.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, suddenly jogging toward me. His eyes swept over my startled face, as if checking for any scratches or bites. “Did you see it?”

  I nodded. “It just…” I frowned and glanced over my shoulder at the woods. “I was in the shed,” I said, looking back at Castle. “And I saw it just standing there—watching me. It didn’t do anything. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  Castle ran his fingers through his hair; agitation was etched into the small lines of his face. “I have,” he said. “It’s not good. We need to leave, now.”

  “What about the barrier for the car—” I said, but he cut me off.

  “Get in the car,” he said, and gave me the handgun. “Start the engine and pull up to the house.”

  Castle turned and raced back to the cabin; he kicked the door open and disappeared inside.

  My hesitation passed quickly. Before the door had even swung shut behind him, I gripped the gun and hobbled to the shed. I snatched the toolbox from the bonnet and threw it into the back seat. The sound of metal falling out of the box clanged through the Jeep, but I ignored it and jumped into the driver-seat.

  The keys were in the ignition already. My hand, shivering, snatched the keys and twisted—the engine purred to life almost instantly. The door to the cabin swung open—the creak reaching me in the shed—just as I hit the accelerator. As the tyres ripped over the dirt to the cabin, Castle ran out, carrying my bag, the duffel-sack of guns, and a cardboard box.

  I skidded to a stop at the cabin. Castle ran around the side of the car and swung open the door. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, eyes darting around the woods—was the rotter watching us, I wondered?

  Castle shoved the bags inside. But before he could pack in the box, I saw it—I saw them.

  “Get in!” I barked. “Hurry up! They’re here!”

  His head whipped around to face what I saw.

  The rotter had come back. And it hadn’t come back alone. Three others stood with it; two of them were children. Little, tiny rotters. They couldn’t have been older than eight. And the third had been a man once. With a sick blow to the gut, I realised—they were a family.

  The child-rotters snarled.

  Castle froze at the sound.

  But then the children scrambled towards us—towards Castle.

  “CASTLE!” I shouted.

  He reached inside to grab the box—he had to take it out if he was going to fit inside. Just as he gripped onto the edges and yanked it out, they reached him.

  My breath hitched on a cry.

  The two rotters had jumped on him, and they all fell to the ground.

  FAMILY OF ROTTERS

>   ENTRY SEVEN

  I screamed his name.

  Castle answered in grunts. The sound of bones crunching pierced through the car.

  I lunged for the passenger seat. Tucked at the bottom was the duffel-bag with the weapons inside. My clammy fingers snatched the bag and heaved it up onto the seat. My breathing picked up, matching my heartrate as I fumbled with the zip.

  “Hold on!” I cried, and dug my hands into the bag.

  Castle didn’t respond.

  My legs kicked me further out of the driver’s seat just as I unearthed the handgun. I tossed it through the open door. It hit the gravel with a thud. I tried to crawl out further, but I was stuck. My shoelace was caught onto the blinker-lever.

  A grunt came from me as I twisted around and reached for my sneaker. My eyes swept through the windows, searching for the other rotters. The woman still stood ahead, just watching us—no, it was watching me.

  I couldn’t untangle my shoelace from the lever. Instead, I yanked my foot back and kicked off my shoe. Then, I spun back around and rummaged around in the bag.

  Cool metal touched my shaky hands. Sweat slicked up and down my body; but it wasn’t hot outside. As I wrestled out the AK from the bag, a loud gunshot blasted through the lot.

  I looked up, breathing hard.

  One of the child-rotters, around six years old, flew back into the car door. Then, it crumbled to the gravel. The second child was thrown from the ground, just before Castle got up.

  I spared a second for relief.

  My hands fumbled with the magazine; I tried to fit it into the gun to load it. As I did, my wide eyes travelled back to the woman-rotter. She was twitching now, but still stood there staring back at me. I didn’t know where the man-rotter was. I hadn’t seen him since before Castle was attacked.

  The clip hooked into the AK. A hitched laugh of relief escaped my lips. I slid onto the edge of the passenger seat and readied the gun. I needed a good aim, one that didn’t shatter the windshield.

  “Watch out!” It was Castle.

  I spun my head to the side and—the child-rotter lunged at me.

  My arm shot up to shield my face; before I could scream Castle had tackled the rotter to the ground. I dropped my arm and looked down at them. Castle was on his back; he snatched the handgun from the ground—he must’ve dropped it in the struggle—and aimed it up at the rotter. The rotter who stood with its back to me.

  The blast exploded before I could duck into the car to avoid the rotter blood. I managed to shield my face, but the blood splattered all over my hair and back. At least it didn’t get into my eyes or mouth—that was one sure way of becoming one of them.

  Castle jumped to his feet and stomped on the rotter’s head. It crunched and crunched and—I had to look away. I fixed my stare back on the gun and cocked it.

  Aiming the tip over the open window, I slid out of the car and locked my eyes on the still-rotter. My sweaty finger dampened the trigger—I’d never shot one of those guns before. I didn’t know how to, aside from how I’d seen others use them.

  Before the barrel pointed at the woman-rotter, her head threw back and she released a savage, feral howl into the darkening sky. And I knew, right in that moment, she was the rotter who had howled the sad songs the night before.

  Castle got to his feet and strode around the car; he aimed the handgun at the rotter. “I’ve got it,” he growled; the deep rumble of rage in his voice brushed over me.

  I won’t lie. I was disappointed to pull away from the AK.

  And just as I was about to release the gun, a shadow caught my peripherals. I stretched up on my tip-toes and looked over the hood of the Jeep.

  With a gasp, I whipped my face back to Castle. “BEHIND YOU!”

  Castle spun around, but the other rotter had already sprung forward; decayed teeth bared, fingers curled into claws. They collided and smacked to the floor.

  I aimed the gun again, this time at the rotter wrestling with Castle. But then I heard it. A rapid pitter-patter, getting louder and faster—and headed right for me.

  My eyes lifted and I straightened up. The rotter—the dead, infected woman of sorrow—raced towards me, fast.

  I clutched the gun and dove into the car. The rotter collided with the car door before I’d even hit the seats, and the force of the impact slammed the door shut.

  Breathing hard, I scrambled up and looked through the passenger-window. The rotter punched the glass. She punched and punched and punched—leaving smears of blood. I tried to see through the crimson streaks to Castle, but all I saw were blurs of movement.

  The rotter headbutted the window. I winced and drew back. The glass wouldn’t hold forever, and what if Castle was dead? I couldn’t hear him, I couldn’t see him—I almost, almost thought about leaving.

  I’ve never lied about what I am. I’m a coward, and I know it.

  But I couldn’t leave him, not after what he’d done for me.

  I cocked the gun and aimed it ahead. Slowly, I reached for the handle and unhooked the door. As I leaned back, fixing the gun against my shoulder and my finger on the trigger, I kicked out my feet. The door swung open and smacked the rotter.

  Its hands snatched the edge and yanked it open farther. And then, its bloodshot eyes rested on me before trailing down to the gun. It hesitated.

  I almost gaped at the thing. It hesitated. Rotters didn’t do that—they weren’t cautious, they weren’t afraid. They were mindless, maddened creatures, infected and crazed.

  A part of me wanted to lower the gun. A part of me thought that there was something special about this rotter, or that maybe it didn’t want to hurt me. But I couldn’t afford maybes.

  I squeezed the trigger; my eyes clamped shut at the same time.

  BANG.

  The pain was instant. It exploded in my shoulder—my bad shoulder—and stabbed along my bones. Who would’ve thought firing a gun would hurt so much? I hadn’t.

  My eyes opened, slowly. I didn’t want to look, but then I rested my teary gaze on the rotter and—I shivered. It stood there, looking down at the blood pouring out of its stomach. Then, it twitched and snapped its eyes back up to me.

  The look in its eyes contradicted everything I’d doubted—this rotter definitely wanted to kill me now. It cried out, a sound that filled me with horror, and dove into the car. But I squeezed the trigger again.

  Nothing happened. No bullets came out of the barrel.

  The rotter reached me; it landed across my legs, the hot tip of the gun an inch from its forehead, and drew back like a cobra. A cobra ready to strike.

  “Fuck,” I cried, and cocked the gun again.

  Just as the rotter’s teeth came soaring down for my leg, I pulled the trigger and—the blast sent blood and brains spraying through the Jeep. The rotter collapsed.

  I grunted and kicked its caved in head for good measure. It slid off the seat and landed on the gravel outside.

  There wasn’t a second to spare. I scrambled out of the car and onto the lot.

  Castle was on his back, a few metres ahead. The rotter was on him, a mere inch from his face. Castle had its hands in his grip, twisted around the rotter’s back to keep it from scratching him. But there was nothing blocking the rotter’s gnashing teeth; each bite seemed to draw closer to Castle as he lost his strength. His head turned to the side, his arms outstretched to hold the rotter off.

  Our gazes locked as I hobbled closer, the AK aimed at the rotter.

  “Hey, you!” I shouted. “Asshole!”

  It flinched, but it didn’t stop trying to bite Castle. I needed it to be still; there was no way my aim was good enough to hit a moving target.

  My lips pursed together and I whistled; the way I did whenever I summoned Cleo.

  The rotter jerked up and looked at me.

  I aimed. My hands shook, knowing the pain to my shoulder was coming again. And I shot—I didn’t mean to close my eyes; it just happened. But when I opened them again, I found myself looking at Castle covered
in blood with a motionless rotter on top of him.

  I chocked on a sigh. As I lowered the gun, my lips spread into a lopsided grin. “Gotcha.”

  Castle was on his feet. He scooped up the handgun as he marched towards me. From the brewing storm in his eyes, I suspected he wasn’t impressed by my awesome shooting skills.

  I turned and shuffled back to the car.

  Before I could consider getting into the driver’s seat, Castle stormed around me and climbed in behind the steering wheel; he slammed the door so hard behind him that the Jeep rattled.

  I rolled my eyes and jumped into the passenger seat.

  When I reached out to close the door, it caught my eye. The cardboard box lay on its side a few metres from the car.

  “Hang on,” I said, and hopped out of the Jeep.

  I grabbed the box and dragged it across the gravel to the backseat. Once it was in with the rest of the luggage, I climbed back into the quiet car and closed the door.

  The Jeep sped out of the lot, Castle’s bitter flavour of anger filling up the car. I could taste it on the palette of my tongue. And then, when he finally spoke—or snapped at me—I knew why.

  “Next time you shoot in my general direction,” he spat, “don’t fucking close your eyes.”

  ROTTER RECRUITMENT

  ENTRY EIGHT

  The map I held up concealed my grimacing face from Castle.

  He was still angry that I’d shot at him with my eyes closed. Well, I’d shot his way but not exactly at him. I think he was overreacting. He should’ve been happy—I’d saved his life. Not to mention we’d taken on four rotters and survived it.

  I wouldn’t let the ever-annoyed dictator ruin my mood.

  Besides, we had more important worries to concern ourselves with. The tank was only half full and we were in the middle of the forest, and night had come. The sky was dark; midnight blue with shining stars littered all over it. Night wasn’t a good thing in this world. More rotters would be out, roaming the woods, and they’d be travelling in bigger nests than the ones back at the cabin.