The Dying & The Dead (Book 2)

by Jack Lewis

“Mr Vitch.”

  “I’m full, Mr Vitch. Can I go back to my cabin?”

  Goral nodded. “Certainly. I just have one last thing for you. A present for winning the competition.”

  Goral pushed his chair back. The effort seemed to strain him, and Eric wondered how old he actually was. Sometimes a smile would play on his face and he looked no older than sixty, but at other times, the way he moved seemed old beyond age. Maybe they had to pry him out of a coffin each day.

  The old man got up and walked across the room and into his bedroom. He sniffed at the doorway for a second, and then walked in and closed the door behind him.

  I hope I closed the hatch, thought Eric.

  Allie leaned forward. He strained to reach a grape on a plate in front of him, and he put his weight on the silver plate and sent it spinning off the table and crashing to the floor. The metal made a clanging sound that filled the cabin, and Allie looked around with wide eyes.

  Eric looked at the grapes on the floor. His stomach tightened so much that it hurt. If it was this bad for him, then he couldn’t even imagine how Kim must be feeling. At least he could eat the stuff they put in front of him. One morning in the canteen, Allie had told Kim to ask the guards to give her something else. When Eric heard that, he almost laughed at how naïve he was.

  He knew that this was his chance. There was a table full of food across the room, and nobody but Allie there to see him take it. The question was, could he trust Allie not to say anything?

  Allie leaned off his seat and dropped onto the floor. He walked over to the bookcase and traced his fingers along the spines. Even feet away Eric could see that the books were old, and the titles on the spines were written in a language he didn’t understand. Allie picked up a book. The cover showed a full moon, with pale hands pushing through the mud beneath it and trying to reach up to it.

  It was now or never. Eric could just walk over, take as much food as he could carry, and then get back to the cubbyhole. After that, and it was just a matter of waiting for Allie to leave and for Goral to go to sleep so that he could go back to Kim.

  Come on, he thought. Do it for her.

  His heart thumped. He wanted to move, but something held him back. He knew that being caught here meant death. Or worse, even. Perhaps in Camp Dam Marsh, death was an escape. Then again, maybe Goral would just smile at him, give him a wink and tell him to leave. Perhaps he’d look the other way. He certainly didn’t seem to fill the room with cold, like Scarsgill had on the train.

  He put his hand on the coat beside him to move it away. The leather was cold on his fingers, and something rattled in the pocket. Eric reached in and grasped a set of keys. Without thinking, he put them in his own pocket. He knew that he shouldn’t, but part of him thought of Goral walking around the cabin in the morning looking for his keys and getting angry, completely unaware that a DC had sneaked in and stolen them. It was a small bucket of pleasure bailed out of a sea of crashing defeats.

  He stood up. As he went to leave the cubbyhole, Goral’s bedroom door opened. Eric sank to the floor. He put a hand out and stopped the coat swinging on the hook. His pulse throbbed. Did he see the movement? Is he going to walk over here?

  Allie suddenly screamed. Slowly, Eric got to his knees. He moved the coat to one side so that he could see the living room. When he did, the blood froze in his veins.

  Goral was completely naked. He walked from his bedroom to the living room with his penis swinging between his legs. A black symbol was drawn on his chest. It looked like a circle with triangles in it, all pointing different ways. He had coloured his face pure black, and he had smeared white paint around the eyes and mouth.

  Allie fell off his chair and hit his head on the floor. Goral stepped forward. Eric wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He saw Goral’s tight skin stretch over his chest. He watched as his testicles bounced with every step. He felt sick.

  He wanted to get out of the cabin, but he knew that he couldn’t get through the living room without Goral seeing him. What if he just took a chance and made a break for it? He knew that he was faster than the old man, but that would leave Allie alone.

  As Goral crossed the floor he took large, oversized steps, as if he was lifting his feet over something. He gave a grin so wide that it seemed to stretch off his face.

  Allie scrambled back on the floor using his feet and legs. He moved away from Goral’s advance until he hit the door. He glanced behind him, and his eyes widened as he realised he had nowhere else to go.

  “Come now, Allie,” said Goral. “This won’t be so bad.”

  Eric stood up. He didn’t care anymore how much noise he made, or if Goral saw him. He was about to rush out and help Allie, when a thought hit him.

  Even if he helped Allie, both of them would still die. If they somehow managed to kill the old man, there was no way to hide the body. The guards would already know that Allie won the competition and was in Goral’s cabin that night, and they would come for him. Eric had no doubt that they would torture him, and in between his screams, the boy would give Eric’s name.

  Then, after they had dragged Eric away, Kim would be alone. She’d have nobody to look after her, nobody to give her their share of the only food she could eat. Kim would die, and someday, Heather would hear about it and the news would finish her too.

  He owed them too much. Heather and Kim had helped him when he was the most alone he’d ever been. He wasn’t going to desert Kim now. The choice was to help Allie and have all three of them die, or leave Allie alone with this monster.

  Eric realised he was breathing heavily. He felt as if he could pass out at any moment. He sank back to the floor. He put his hands to his face and hid behind them, as if doing so would take him out of this cabin; as if somehow he would wake up in his bed back at Dale’s house, with his sister sleeping across from him and his mum in the room next door.

  He wanted to punch the wall. He wanted to slam his knuckles against it until the skin split and his blood splattered on the plaster, and then he wanted to scream out until he drowned out the world around him.

  Instead, he moved the coats to the side. He watched as Goral advanced on Allie, tiger-like. Someday, Eric vowed, he was going to take a match and burn the whole camp to the ground.

  Goral stopped when he reached the table. He picked up the knife they had used to slice the pie. At the doorway, Allie looked up at the blade, terrified. Goral brought it up to his own mouth. He stuck his tongue out, and with a delicate movement, sliced the tip of it with the steel. Blood bubbled on the red flesh, and Goral let his tongue hang. He put the knife on the table and then cupped his hands up at his chest. Blood dripped from his tongue and onto his palms, and after a few seconds, Goral lifted his hands to his face and spread the blood over his forehead, nose and cheeks.

  Allie stood up, and Eric saw a damp patch on the back of his pants. He scrambled for the door handle. Eric thought of the keys in his pocket. Was one of them for the door? If it was, then Allie wasn’t getting out of here. Eric knew there was no way he could leave the cubbyhole because if he did, then that was the end for him and Kim.

  The handle turned, but the door didn’t open. Allie let out a whimper.

  “Some find it pleasant, I’m told,” said Goral. “Not now, of course. But in the hereafter. When their spirit finds its way into the clouds.”

  Eric put his hand in his pocket and gripped the keys, feeling the metal dig into his skin. He wanted to rush over to the door and unlock it, but he couldn’t. He thought of Kim.

  Goral took big strides until he was in front of Allie. The fresh blood on his face glinted in the flame of the candle on the window. His smile spread even further, and Eric realised that the smile was painted on.

  Allie ducked to his side, dodged past Goral and ran toward the bedroom.

  Go, thought Eric. Find the hatch and get the hell out of here.

  As the boy ran toward the doorway, Goral turned to his bookcase and picked up a large rock. It was as black as t
ar, except for tiny dots of silver that shone from it. He clutched it in his hand, turned to Allie and wound his arm back. It seemed like it only took a millisecond for the rock to leave Goral’s hand and smash into the back of Allie’s head.

  Allie gave a shout unlike anything Eric had ever heard. He fell to the floor, where he stayed motionless. Eric heard a gurgling sound that made him want to be sick. As he watched Goral pick up Allie from the floor and carry his limp body over to the table, Eric knew that if he left this cabin tonight, he would never be the same.

  He shook the thoughts away. He’d known Allie for a few days, but Kim had been in his life for longer and had a much bigger impact. Between her and Heather, they’d helped him more than he ever thought possible. As much as he felt his soul blackening by the second, he knew he couldn’t give himself away.

  Goral huffed as he dropped Allie on the table. The little boy was surrounded by the strawberries and sugar that he had enjoyed not so long ago, and the pie was squashed somewhere underneath his back.

  Goral started to chant under his breath. Eric couldn’t hear the words clearly, but he didn’t need to in order to know they were a foreign language. The old man made a sign of a cross on his chest, and then took hold of Allie’s shirt.

  It happened in seconds, but for Eric it seemed like the hands of time had expanded until he couldn’t even see where they began or where they pointed. He watched as Goral undressed Allie and spread his arms and legs wide across the table.

  Allie started to stir.

  Eric couldn’t contain the groan that escaped his throat. A part of him wanted Allie to be dead. At least then it would have been quick.

  Goral’s chanting became louder. With Allie naked and squirming on the table, he picked up the knife. The tip of the blade was already red with his own blood. He lifted it, and just as Allie opened his eyes and moaned, Goral put the knife to his neck and slit a line along it. Eric heard the sound of the blade slicing through skin.

  Eric fell back against the wall. He didn’t even care about the noise now, because all he could hear the knife cutting through Allie’s throat. It was something that he knew he would hear endlessly from now on, no matter how much time passed.

  Smoke drifted from the incense sticks, but not even the exotic spices could dilute the smell of iron in the air as Allie’s blood gushed from his neck. It ran down the table, bubbling up in the cracks and smothering every inch of the surface in crimson. Finally it met the edge and then pattered down onto the floor.

  Goral pressed his hands into it. As Allie twitched beneath him, he coated his wrinkled hands in the blood and then pressed it to his face and chest, smearing his skin until the pink was gone.

  He walked over to the window. His chanting grew. Eric still couldn’t make out the words but he heard the sounds repeat in his head, thudding against his skull and then mixing with his brain, melding with it until his cells started to corrupt. The blood drained from his face.

  Goral reached out toward the candle and pinched the flame between his fingers, extinguishing it. Moonlight shone through the cabin window and cast a pale glow on his skin. Allie’s blood covered every inch of him.

  Eric’s stomach started to churn and his mouth filled with spit. There was no stopping it now. He was going to be sick. He put his sleeve around his hand and put it to his mouth. He moved as far back into the cubbyhole as he could and quietly retched into his palm.

  Goral’s attention snapped in his direction. Eric felt his eyes on him, the whites of them the only thing about the old man that wasn’t stained red. He didn’t dare breathe. He stayed completely still. The wall pressed hard against his back, and the leather coat hung from the hook like a skin.

  The old man looked at the table. Blood dripped from the edge with the rhythm of a ticking clock. Eric’s lungs ached as his body used up the air. He looked around and tried to find something, anything, that could be used as a weapon.

  A second later, Goral walked out of the room, staring down at Allie as he passed the table. He went into his bedroom and shut the door, and Eric heard the click of a bolt.

  He clutched the keys in his hand. He looked at the body of his friend, and as he saw the claret fall from the table, he felt his eyes moisten. He watched smoke drift from the extinguished candle wick on the window. He would die in this camp, he knew. He wouldn’t find his mother or sister, and he wouldn’t save Kim. Like the spent candle, it was only a matter of time before the fingers of the Capita pinched him and extinguished his light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tammuz (Baz)

  It was playing on his mind. Earlier in the day, Tammuz had stepped into the Grand Hall to find Marduk and Nabu stood near an open hearth. The flames cast an orange glow over the marble floors. Marduk and Nabu stood close together, and though they whispered, the sound echoed in the Hall like the tweeting of a bird. Tammuz didn’t know what they were saying. He could tell from the way Nabu turned his ear to Marduk’s mouth that they were making sure not a single word spilled out.

  He thought about speaking to Ishkur, but he knew that the Grand Lord swatted away issues like this. Unless Tammuz had proof that Marduk was up to something, the head of the Five was just as likely to turn his ire on Tammuz as he was the others.

  Even if he thought Ishkur would listen, when would he even talk to him? Outside of the Hall, Ishkur was a shadow. Sometimes he made public appearances and spoke to the crowds, but otherwise he confined himself to the walls of his house. He didn’t know if Ishkur was scared of assassination or just didn’t like the people he ruled, but he’d never get a chance to talk to him privately.

  After the meeting he walked through the tunnel under the hall. At the end of it he had his customary cigarette. As the circle glowed in the darkness and the passageway filled with smoke, he thought about the impending invasion.

  The Capita army was already balancing resources and preparing their men for the march across the wasteland. Kiele was only a few days’ walk away, and the fact they hadn’t raided them yet was testament to how good the Resistance’s secrecy had been up to now. The Capita always found out, though. The men and women of Kiele didn’t know what was coming to them.

  He climbed up the ladders and emerged onto the streets. Sometimes he fancied that a breeze blew through the Dome, but he knew that was impossible unless one of the glass panes had cracked. The old structure couldn’t last forever, he knew. Glass would smash, houses would start to rot, and crops would fail. This was why expansion was so important.

  He closed the manhole and started to walk down the street. For the moment he was thankful to just be Baz, the hard-working nobody who was so unassuming that most people barely noticed him.

  He was glad that Marduk would be going to Camp Dam Marsh soon. Let Scarsgill and Goral deal with him, he thought. Then he pictured Goral and his wiry body, and he shuddered. There was something about the old man that he didn’t like.

  Halfway down the street there was a wooden bench. A brass plaque was nailed to it, and words had been carved into the metal. ‘Rupert Tellegen loved his bench, so we spread his ashes on it. Enjoy your sit.’ To his left there was a cabin that Yuri Avaya had converted into a shop. Yuri sold whatever goods his scavengers could find when they combed the wasteland, and The Capita took a forty percent tax.

  A Capita soldier approached him. The soldier stared straight ahead, barely breaking his gaze even to blink. When he passed Baz he turned his head and furrowed his brow at him. Baz stopped to see if the soldier had something to say, but he walked straight by. As the soldier went, Baz saw him playfully kick a stone down the street.

  Why were everyone employed by the Capita forced to hide their emotions under a cold veneer, he wondered. Even in the meetings of the Five, if discussion ever became heated, then Ishkur was quick to put a stop to it. Sometimes Baz wished he’d just see one of them show him a feeling. Sadness, anger, happiness. Anything.

  He reached his own street. A few yards away, his neighbour Terry Long was outside his
house with another man. The man had a cart with two wheels at the front and a handle and lever at the back to make it easier to push. The back of the cart was covered by black tarpaulin, and suspicious-looking shapes poked against the material.

  The man passed a box to Terry. Terry grunted as he took the weight. He gave a look to his left and then to his right, and on seeing Baz, he stepped back in alarm.

  “Just a food delivery,” said Terry, eyebrows twitching.

  Baz knew full well it wasn’t a box of snacks. Terry’s wife, Georgina, had Addison’s disease. The Capita had a stock of medical supplies, but no matter how urgent the case, they would only be issued if they were earned with sweat. As it stood, Terry was in his late-middle age with asthma, so most back-breaking work was out of the question. Academically he wasn’t a Mensa candidate, so this meant that few jobs were open to him.

  He looked at the packages. Baz knew he should report it. If he wasn’t going to do that, then the least he should do was walk away and have nothing to do with it. He looked at his neighbour, biceps tensed but face beetroot-red. He always felt pity for Terry.