John grinned. The remaining food consisted of rock-hard bread, tins of sardines and a few cans of beans that they were saving, as though for some special occasion.
She nodded at him as she approached, and John felt grateful for the opportunity to call the training session to an end.
He told the group of young women to take a break for now, and to remember what he had shown them, and they filtered away.
Rachel waited until she was close to speak, keeping her voice soft.
“Michael wants to see you.”
John felt his hackles rising. Being summoned had always had a way of doing that to him.
“Is that right?” John’s voice came out bitter. “You his personal assistant now?”
Fire sparked in Rachel’s eyes, and John immediately regretted saying it. Rachel had been a P.A. before, and he knew the experience had left her pissed off, though he wasn't entirely sure why.
“Was I your assistant when I saved your life, John?”
John sighed and lowered his eyes in silent apology.
When he had been just a young boy of around six or seven, before he had even really comprehended that girls and boys were different in any meaningful way, John had pushed a girl off a wall and into a rose bush. Only later did he understand that he’d done it because he liked the girl. He never understood why that affection had manifested in the way it did.
Echoes of that first disastrous flirtation with the opposite sex came back to John every time he spoke to Rachel: increasingly the two of them picked at each other, and rarely seemed far from a full-blown argument or, in Rachel’s case, the delivery of another punch to John’s face. Their altercations made him feel like that small, confused boy again. He knew he liked her, but he also knew he was perilously close to dumping her in the nearest rose bush.
Even worse: his growing affection for her felt more dangerous than any amount of time spent playing with swords.
“Lead the way,” John said weakly, and withered for a moment under Rachel’s burning gaze before she turned and strode away.
Stick to killing people, John. At least then you’ll know what the hell you’re doing.
As he walked, John banished the thoughts of Rachel that made him feel off-balance, and focused on Michael.
Mostly the crippled former policeman sat alone on the battlements, staring out at Caernarfon. When he spoke to anybody - and to John especially - he kept his eyes pointed at the floor. It appeared to John that Michael was slowly fading away.
The man’s goal had always been to get to somewhere safe. John could only imagine how it must be tearing him up inside that having finally found somewhere that fit the bill, there was a good chance he would either have to starve to death there or leave the place behind.
The notion of leaving the castle was already lurking at the edge of John’s thoughts, had been ever since he arrived. It wasn’t something he could exactly put his finger on, but some nagging sensation that the place was more dangerous than it appeared had been with him since he first set eyes on it. Killing Darren Oliver, and even stemming the attack of the Infected that had amassed outside, had done nothing to change that. People had been dying ever since they arrived, either killed in the struggle to get control of the place or succumbing to injuries sustained in the assault. John wasn’t much of a believer in omens, but he figured that if a quiet, gentle old woman like Gwyneth could wind up dead in the castle, anyone could.
As was usual whenever John thought about Gwyneth, and the way she had conveniently died at Michael’s hand, concern uncoiled in his gut. Only later did John learn that Michael believed the woman to be - in her own way - a carrier of the virus. John thought it made the old woman's death especially convenient for Michael, and his sole focus on keeping his daughter safe.
Michael’s words to John as they had debated whether or not to approach the castle came back to him. ‘I don’t trust anyone. Hell, I don’t even trust you.’
As John began to climb the steep steps that led up to the battlements he reminded himself, not for the first time, that the feeling was mutual.
9
In daylight Annie could see just what a brilliant idea Gareth Hughes’ suggestion had been. The hotel was dramatic and picturesque, but it was also sturdy and large enough to easily accommodate them all. Better yet, it afforded a clear three hundred and sixty degree view, and the small jetty turned out to be home to a single boat that Annie and her sons would take charge of if the shit hit the fan.
She began to dream up ways in which to fortify the place further. The sea took care of one side of the building. Along the other, she thought, they could dig deep trenches to stop any of the crazed cannibals getting too close. There was plenty of room to grow food; plenty of fish in the sea when the hotel’s extensive larder finally ran dry. The hotel could sustain plenty of people for a long time.
If it was - as some of the people of Newborough were now claiming - the end of the world, Annie thought she was doing pretty damn well. And when she broke the strange man who was currently her prisoner, things would look very positive indeed.
*
Jason’s alarm clock sounded strange. The noise was barely loud enough to wake him, but that wasn’t the truly strange part. It was the way the alarm clock sounded alive rather than electronic. It wasn’t the tuneless beeping he was used to hearing on weekday mornings. This sounded more like an animal; like a puppy whimpering after being kicked by a cruel owner.
As he began to break the surface of consciousness, he noticed something else that was unusual: a searing pain in his shoulders, like a terrible pressure was being exerted upon them. When he finally unglued his eyes the tiny mysteries were immediately solved: the pain was a product of the fact that he wasn’t actually sleeping. He had been unconscious, and someone had hung him up by the wrists like a slab of meat in a butcher’s shop window.
The noise he heard was no alarm; the whimpering was coming from his own throat.
He lurched from one nightmare into another, no longer certain which was real. Maybe he really was dead, doomed to roam Hell with the horrific presence of his murdered mother trailing his every step. Or maybe he was really still alive, lost in a world of insane violence and held captive by a demented old woman and her gang of silent, terrified followers.
Maybe both.
He shook his head slowly, but the poison in his mind wasn’t something that sat on the surface like a shallow pool of water. There was no shaking it off; it clawed down into his mind like the roots of an ancient tree, stabbing deep into him, festering and corrupting.
The world seemed to tilt and sway, though whether that was down to the drugs he had been forced to consume or the fracturing of his mind, Jason had no idea.
Frantically, he tried to thrash against his restraints, but he had been tied with his arms raised high and wide, like a gruesome mockery of Christ, and he was unable to gain sufficient leverage in his burning limbs. The restraints were solid and unmoving, and even the slight motion he was able to manage just seemed to tighten his bonds until it felt like some huge creature had snapped powerful jaws shut on his wrists.
His head dropped, and he stared down at the floor, watching as it seemed to liquify and pulse under his feet. Darkness tried to claim him again; a terrifying gloom that was pregnant with a corrosive presence that whispered his name eagerly.
Jason bit his lip, and his eyes flared open at the sharp pain.
Don’t fall asleep, he thought blearily, and tried to focus his thoughts. His gut ached terribly, like a poison-tipped dagger had been plunged into his flesh. He leaned forward as much as the ropes holding his arms allowed, and checked his torso. No wounds. At least. No fresh wounds. The pain was most likely a result of the handful of pills that had been forced down his throat. He remembered the old woman’s bony fingers pushing the pills into his mouth; how cold her fingers had been, like those of a long-dead corpse, and he shuddered. The more he focused on the image, the greater his nausea became, until finally his s
tomach heaved painfully and he vomited out a thin string of spit and bile.
The pills were long digested, but the mere act of vomiting acted like an electrical charge passing through his body, and he felt a little better. A little more alert. He focused on his surroundings.
It seemed like waking up with no idea where he was had become a habit. He remembered the claustrophobic town hall, stinking of fear and sweat, where he had been drugged, but his current surroundings were vastly different.
He was tied to a handrail that ran along a hallway above his head, but the room he was in was expansive and airy. Directly in front of him he saw plush-looking leather chairs and beyond them an enormous floor-to-ceiling window that offered breathtaking views of the sea. It was misty beyond the window and he saw very little, other than a strange light in the distance, hovering in the air like a flickering star.
He squinted at the light, but could make no sense of it, and turned his gaze back to his immediate surroundings. To his right he saw a small bar area. There was nothing close to him that might be used to free himself. He seethed in frustration, until one possible solution hit him.
It was the last thing he had ever thought he would end up doing voluntarily.
Bring the Infected. Fuck these crazy bastards. Bring the Infected to kill them all.
The thought made Jason feel strangely woozy, like some part of his mind was slowly being dissolved in acid; parts of him disappearing that were vital, and that there would be no way to reclaim.
Doooo it Jasssooonnnn…make some noise...
Jason filled his lungs with air and roared a wordless scream with as much power as he could muster.
*
The scream made Annie jump, and she knew instinctively what her prisoner had hoped to achieve by it. She grinned. It would do him no good.
The hotel had a well-stocked shelf of pamphlets and guide books on local attractions for guests to visit when they weren’t busy either golfing or enjoying any of the various beauty ‘treatments’ on offer. Annie had eagerly grabbed some maps and was busily poring over them with Gareth and Rhys when the scream echoed through the hotel. Most of the ‘guests’ were in far-off rooms, and almost certainly hadn’t heard the man. Certainly no Infected people would have: the journey from Newborough across the sand dunes had been entirely uneventful, and they had found the hotel dark and abandoned. It seemed there wasn’t a soul - with eyes or without - for miles. Voorhees would have to do a lot more than scream to bring danger to the isolated hotel.
“Rhys, fetch your little brother. It’s high time he did a little work around here,” Annie said affably, watching as Rhys nodded and left her alone with Gareth.
“I think I’ll have a little chat with our guest,” she said, and slid her chair back with a loud squeal of wood on marble. “Let him know that the hotel doesn’t tolerate noise pollution.”
*
“Sleep well?”
Jason stared at the old woman with hatred in his eyes as she stepped into his line of sight. She waddled over to him, until she was less than an arm’s length away. Jason wriggled helplessly, pouring all his energy into his biceps once more, desperately trying to snap the ropes that held him.
The old woman looked crestfallen.
“I was sort of hoping you’d wake up…friendlier. Things really would be a lot easier for us both.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Mainly for you, if I’m honest. My name is Annie. You, apparently, are named after that guy in the horror films.”
She shrugged.
“Cruel parents.” Annie nodded with sad understanding. “What’s that saying? Something about parents passing down all their flaws to their children and adding a few new ones? Poor boy.”
Jason drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
“You have to let me go,” he said, trying in vain to keep his voice even.
Annie rolled her eyes.
“There’s nowhere to go, child,” she said kindly. “We need you here.”
“I helped you,” Jason spat. “I saved all of you. What the fuck are you doing here, why do this to me?”
“Surviving,” Annie snapped. “What else are we supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to let me go!” Jason roared in frustration. “There’s somebody I have to find. I have to help-”
“Rachel,” Annie said with a sad nod, and smiled when she saw Jason’s jaw drop in astonishment. “I’m afraid Rachel’s dead, Mr Voorhees. Pretty much everybody is dead. But we’re not, and we need your help.”
“No!” Jason screamed. “You don’t even know her. She’s not dead, and I need to find her.”
Tears streamed down Jason’s cheeks.
“Hmph. You’ll forget all about Rachel soon enough, child. We’ll keep you occupied, don’t worry.”
Behind the old woman, a young man stepped into view, carrying a bag and an eager expression that made Jason’s gut twist in apprehension.
“One of my sons,” Annie said pleasantly. “Hywel, meet Mr Voorhees. Mr Voorhees, Hywel.”
Annie stepped aside.
“I’m afraid Hywel here has…a bit of a nasty streak, Mr Voorhees. It always used to bother me somewhat. Takes after his grandfather a little too much, I’m afraid. Still, it seems like that will be useful to us now. You boys play nice, and I’ll be back later with your pills, Mr Voorhees. They’ll make you feel better.”
Annie smiled, and waddled away, leaving Jason staring at the slight, balding man in front of him.
Hywel’s face split in a toothy grin, and he dropped his bag on the floor, pulling back the zipper and taking out a straight razor and a bag of salt.
“We’ll start with this, I think,” Hywel said, and his smile widened.
*
Annie found listening to the man’s agonised screams distasteful, although she did congratulate herself on at last finding a use for her youngest son. It figured that when Hywel finally found something he was adept at, it would be torture. Still, it was better than nothing.
She stepped out onto the manicured gardens that surrounded the hotel’s sea-facing side and breathed in the cold air deeply.
It felt like she hadn’t been alone for a moment in weeks; probably she actually hadn’t. It seemed like wherever she turned now there were people looking to her for something. Her newly extended family, it turned out, was something of a burden. As she stood in the cold morning air, alone at last, Annie let her hands tremble, and stared at her shaking digits in concern. Age was catching up with her rather faster than she would have liked.
“Uh, Annie?”
Annie stiffened, and clenched her hands together to mask the trembling.
“What is it?” she snarled.
The man stammered. It took Annie a moment to place him. Clive Baxter. A limp-wristed teller at Newborough’s only bank with a bald head that shone in the cold morning light like a polished billiard ball. A man suddenly less useful than her youngest son. She never thought such a moment would come to pass.
“I was just, uh, wondering…about that light over there.” Baxter pointed across the Menai Strait in the general direction of Caernarfon. “I saw it last night. It…uh…it kind of looks like a signal fire, don’t you think? I was just thinking maybe I should take the boat and check it out. There could be people there. Other survivors.”
Annie felt a headache brewing. Judging from the pressure building in her temples, it would be a doozy. She might even have to take some of the painkillers she was pouring down Voorhees’ thick neck so liberally herself.
“Why are you bothering me with this Baxter? Do you need me to hold your damn hand?”
Baxter stammered, and blew air from his cheeks explosively. The look on his face said that her response had been the last thing he expected.
“So,” he said cautiously, “should I go?”
“Go, Baxter, but if you don’t come back with that boat, don’t come back at all, understand?”
Clive Baxter nodded and hurried away, scurrying li
ke an animal retreating from a forest fire.
Seconds later, Annie heard his footsteps on the small wooden jetty and then the chugging of the boat’s small engine, and the noise made the pounding in her head feel worse. She turned away from the sea, rubbing her temples and setting her mouth in a firm line, and headed back into the hotel, and the screaming.
10
The castle had a signal fire burning up on top of the highest tower, which Michael insisted be kept burning constantly. The generator Darren had used to aim a floodlight into the sky was too loud, he reasoned, but the basic principle was sound: let others know that the castle was occupied by humans, and was safe, and they would come.
Nobody came.
Michael spent a lot of time up on the battlements. Every day he found someone to carry him up there, and spent several hours staring out at the creatures that had them pinned down in the castle. It didn't take long for the brooding silence of the man to percolate throughout the castle, slowly poisoning the faint tendrils of optimism in the people that had believed Michael would lead them to safety.
Whenever John saw him, the man looked deep in thought, but John wasn’t sure he was thinking about their current situation. Mostly Michael had a faraway look in his eyes, like he was looking at the past.
He didn’t turn when Rachel and John approached.
“We have to go out there,” Michael said softly, almost as though he was addressing himself.
We?
John had an idea that Michael wasn’t referring to himself. Those useless legs came in handy surprisingly often.
He did save your life.
John bit back on the bitter reply that was ready to spill from his lips.
“We’ve got enough food left for a day. Maybe two. After that, things are going to get…difficult,” Michael continued, and finally turned to face them. He didn’t look John in the eye.
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