The Risen ( Part 2): The Risen, Part 2

by Smith, Adam J.

  He shrugged and smiled. “Damn, take your own advice and tell your stomach to shut it.”

  I thrust the bucket at him and darted forward, running through piles of dead leaves rustling underfoot, but it was too late, whatever animal it had been had gone. Probably small, though, another rabbit or perhaps a squirrel.

  He came up behind me. “Here,” he said, shoving the bucket back at me. I looked down at it as though it was Aled’s axe and he was asking me to chop the wood for him.

  “You want water. You carry,” I said, walking off towards the stream.

  “You’ve still not answered,” he said, catching up.

  “They were weak.” The stream came into view, trickling between the weeds and over rocks, about a foot deep. Slow enough to be clear. “You were not.” I stepped into the water and cupped a handful, bring it to my face and hair. Over and over. The delicious freeze like tiny sharp needles pricking at my skin, waking the blood.

  Upstream, Dale dipped and filled the bucket before putting it aside. He didn’t wade in like I did, but he did get as close to the edge as he could, cupping water to drink and wash with. He reached inside his jacket for a well-worn toothbrush, and a little tin of something powdery and white. Bicarbonate soda, from the smell. He dipped the brush in and began to brush his teeth. That stuff made my mouth feel strange whenever I used it, messing with my sense of taste.

  “What’ll you do now?” he asked when he was done.

  “Find food.”

  “There’s food in the house.”

  “Find meat.”

  “So you’re gonna hunt? We could both hunt.”

  I told him “No,” and stepped from the stream, wet to my thighs.

  “Okay. And then what?”

  “West. To the sea.”

  “You should come with us, then. North-west still hits the sea. Safer together.”

  “Why do you think I did what I did? You’ll take me with you.” I lead the way back to the house via a more circuitous route, back to a house of dreams.

  Dale told me as we arrived that they hadn’t slept well for weeks, so the rest was long overdue; some had already slept almost ten hours with no signing of returning to the land of sun. Fine by me – if we could travel by night my senses were sharper, somehow. More attuned to any dangers.

  That wasn’t to be.

  We still had some hanging around to do.

  September 2023

  When I was ten years old Father let me tag along when he went down to the village on his pushbike and cart, with me riding in the cart. Jack and Dylan walked alongside armed with shotguns. Eggs bounced precariously in their cartons and cartons of milk churned to butter as we bumped along. I remember feeling excited because I hardly ever got to go into the village. There was a summer drizzle and ozone in the air, with clouds turning dark overhead. We had to go now, Father said, before the storm came and who knows how long it might be before we could go into town again.

  “Take that one with you,” Mother pointed at me. “I need a rest from her pestering me every minute for food.”

  So here I was. The pushbike was an old one – well, what wasn’t old, I guess? It needed an oil but moved swift enough, with Father’s experienced calves popping out. My brothers – they were deadly serious. Nothing would get by them. They marched with their shotguns aimed ahead, swinging them in arcs towards our flanks, checking behind every thirty seconds or so. I was keeping an eye on our rear, I told them, but they didn’t listen. They were being grown-up and responsible and it would be one of the few times in their lives they were. Too many army films. In their heads, perhaps they were Rambo or Saving Private Ryan. Maybe we could trade for some new films I thought, watching them.

  Thunder collapsed in the distance and Father picked up the pace. I put a hand on the eggs to help steady them. Jack and Dylan sped up to keep up, their robotic aiming turning to arms swinging. Father called out that they had to hurry, already sounding tired and we still had the hour-long journey back home – up the hill. The sign for Capel Dewi passed by on the left, half-hidden by ivy and long bramble branches covered in raspberries. Most were passed good or had been pecked at by birds but not all, and I made a mental note to hop off and grab some on the way back.

  No-one really lived in Capel Dewi, as it wasn’t convenient for water and for growing. It had the crossroads going for it which could be easily defended, and so Dewi Market was born. The Market of St David’s. Within a ten mile radius there were somewhere between thirty to fifty families all living from day to day, avoiding the roaming mutates, or not. Sometimes Father said a face was missing, hadn’t come back for months. Other times there might be a new face, someone who had migrated from one place or another to find a safe place to farm, stumbling on their own new home from home. A noticeboard in the village had a rough list of names and things they could offer and things they wanted. Only one or two put an actual address. And every fortnight on a Monday was market day. Sometimes no-one turned up. Sometimes it was busy enough you could forget that anything was wrong with the world – a small glimpse for me of how it used to be.

  When we arrived at the crossroads we parked in the car parked of the community hall, next to a few other trailers with pushbikes. Sentries guarded at the corner, greeting us with nods. Old Jack rose from his camp chair as Father groaned his way off the seat, stretching his back. They shook hands and started to talk about supplies and the weather and usual boring adult stuff, while my brothers went to join the sentries, acting all grown-up.

  “Bring the eggs,” Father called to me.

  I wanted to say, If there are any left, but I kept my mouth closed and brought them over. Old Jack looked at me with grey eyes and greyer beard and then gave Father a little nod. “Brought the little one, then.”

  “Not so little, anymore,” he replied.

  “Aye, that she ain’t. Always looked like a girl.”

  I’m right here, I thought, handing Father the eggs.

  Old Jack looked me up and down, even as Father opened the eggs before him to show that they were all still intact. I remember my blood rising for no particular reason, looking at him right back. Every time his eyes moved back to mine and he saw that I was still staring at him, he moved them back again, flicking to me, flicking away, scowl growing on his face.

  “It’s rude to stare,” Father said.

  I blinked and stared at Father.

  “Everything… okay… with her?” Old Jack asked.

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?” He pushed the eggs forward. “Do we have a trade?”

  “Two dozen?” He gave them a sniff. They were old eggs but he might not be able to tell, not with all those grey hairs up his nose. “They fresh?”

  “Fresh as could be,” I said. “Collected ‘em myself.”

  “That right, now, Miss?” He hobbled a step closer and bent over me. “Called you Ffion, didn’t they?”

  “Yep. And you’re Old Jack.”

  “Well, not so much the ‘Old.’” He smiled at me.

  “Older ‘en my brother Jack.”

  Father huffed and put a hand on my shoulder and told me to get back on the cart; There’s no time for dilly-dally. And on cue rang the bells of thunder.

  “Movin’ in quick,” said Old Jack, looking skywards.

  A fat droplet landed on my arm. Father cursed so he must’ve had it too. The door to the community hall opened and a head peaked out; an old woman with a long purple cardigan. Old Jack’s wife, Betty. “It’s raining,” she called out.

  “Let’s get this done,” Father said. “Earth’s packed, there’ll be flooding across the pass.” I didn’t really understand what the big problem was, I liked the rain, especially in this heat. Let it fall for all I cared.

  “We could wait it out inside,” said Old Jack. “Not like we got pressing business elsewhere.”

  There was some back and forth while everyone decided on the best course of action, then the rain came and settled it. Father covered the cart with a tarp and we ru
shed inside the hall. Crinkled and faded bunting swung low between rafters and the smell of ancient coffee drifted over from the kitchenette area. Tables lined one side of the wall up against boarded up windows, and on them were piles of clothing and blankets. Candles burned on the stage at the far end. Wooden chairs patrolled the room haphazardly. Young me was excited by this new building with its slick floor and old smells.

  I explored while the others talked about what to do – how to arrange the guards and that kind of thing. The sentries had come in, Old Jack’s sons by the talk of it. They were told to grab a raincoat and head to the roof. I was more interested in the smokiness of the aged boards, putting my face close to the window and drinking in the whiskey and cigarette smell of age. This was the smell that always came to me when I thought about before, sure that half the world smelled like it.

  “What you doin’ there, Miss?” I knew Old Jack was there but I thought maybe Old Jack just wanted to sit down and rest his old legs.

  “Just lookin’,” I said.

  He grabbed a chair and sat down, rubbing at his face. Betty arrived and asked if I wanted something to drink.

  “Water, yeah. Anything to eat?”

  “There’s eggs,” said Old Jack.

  “No gas for the stove,” said Betty. “I’ll see what’s lying around.”

  I was just about to head deeper into the hall when Old Jack said, “You won’t remember the first time you were here. Things were a little different back then… still had people living here, in the village. Doing what they could. Course, the hall has always been a kind of meeting point round ‘ere, was no exception then. When things began to go south, people banded together best they could. Tried to make this place a safe place in case of trouble. Didn’t last long, those things came through like a wave, moving out of Aber. Most died. Those who lived started to keep to themselves after that; everything became a commodity. Time for sharing was up.”

  His eyes glazed over a bit, looking back. “Who’d o’ thought people’d become a commodity, eh? You nearly ended up with us, you know? Betty and I. Claire, she’s gone now, but she was out hunting and came across you, she said. You ever been told about–?”

  “Everything okay?” Father asked, walking over.

  “Yep,” said Old Jack. “Just reminiscing.”

  “Past’s been and gone,” he said, removing his jacket and putting it across the back of a chair. Rain pelted against the window on the other side of the boards.

  Old Jack gave me a wink as Betty came over with a glass of water. Young me didn’t know what that wink was for, but I was thirsty so soon forgot it. I also rushed to push away his words, as though doing so would deflect that I was so different, after all. Puberty still hadn’t kicked in so most of what made me different were things I could either hide away with clothing, or keep locked up inside my head. I still wanted to be seen as normal, back then, you see.

  “And a little something I was saving for later.” Betty smiled and handed me a rock cake with raspberries baked inside.

  “Yum!” It tasted good, considering. Not as good as Mother’s pork pies or black puddings. But good. I bounded off towards the stage area, sandals sliding across the wooden floor. Seated on the edge, I could hear Father tell Old Jack to keep his mouth shut, and I thought about how that wasn’t a very nice thing to say. Old Jack was nice. Betty tried to defend her husband and Father told them to keep their noses out of his business.

  “This is why I don’t like to bring her,” he said so quietly perhaps even Old Jack and Betty couldn’t hear him.

  “Well, good job you got here before the rain. You’d be soaked through by now,” said Betty. “I’mma look at those eggs o’ yours.”

  Father rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and closed his eyelids.

  I kicked my heels gently against the stage. Rain mashed against the windowsills and boots thudded across the edge of the roof where the sentries patrolled. My all grown-up brothers were out there too, because they insisted. Macs had been found for each of them, to keep them dry. There may be nothing new in this world but there was no shortage of something old.

  I strolled across the open floor to the door and looked out at the rain. Mutates were like me; they liked to come out in the rain. Maybe it cooled them too. The droplets were fat and already the gravelly car park had filled with puddles. Just for a few minutes, I thought. I’ll be safe.

  Just then a handheld radio crackled on the countertop. Betty answered it; “Betty at base, over.”

  “Hi, Betty. How’re you? Over.” The voice sounded like it might be Helena, a woman who lived nearby with her walled garden and pack of pet dogs of all varieties. Found a stray dog? Helena would take it in.

  “We’re okay. Quiet market today. Rain just started, though. Over.”

  “Yeah, we noticed.” Dogs barked in the background. Turned out Mother had contacted The Grapevine when she saw the rain falling, to check in with us and make sure everything was okay. The handheld’s range wasn’t so great, so it took a relay system that supposedly could reach out across half of Wales, if the gossip was to be believed. It was the number one form of communication and a way to share news and stories about the area – and it was mostly used by the women in our communities. They tended to share the gossip and stories more easily than say Father, or Fergal to the south. Whenever Father used it, it was because he needed something. Mother on the other hand could regale us with the local news over dinner – quite what was true and what was a Chinese whisper didn’t really matter. It was entertainment.

  Betty let Helena know that we’d keep an eye on the storm and head back as soon as it eased. “If George could keep an eye on the pass, that’d help too. Make sure it’s not overflowing. Over.”

  “Roger that, Betty. I’ll relay the message. Over.”

  By the time the radio call was over I’d moved away from the entrance, back to the stage to explore behind the curtain. Over the years people had put stuff back here that they’d scavenged but didn’t need, in case it was good for someone else. That included big and small TVs, radios, DVD players, kitchen equipment, batteries, all kinds of utensils and camping gear, tents, and all-terrain boots. A thick layer of dust of everything. I grabbed a CD stereo player and inserted some batteries into the back of it, intrigued by the pile of CDs stacked on a shelving rack. I played a Now 80s CD and a song called People Are Strange rang loudly across the hall. It wasn’t as good as reading a book, but any books that had been here had already been taken back to our farm.

  The curtain peeled back and Father’s shadow appeared. He bent over and turned the music off, not saying a word. He clipped me over the back of the head and returned to his seat, his way of saying I should know better than that. It didn’t hurt, but it made me hot; I remember my face blushing warm and a kind of heat threading from my cheeks down my neck and down my arms, like fiery goosebumps. I sat on the edge of the stage again, tapping my heels and etching the nail of my little finger into the floorboard. Before long my name was carved out and Father told me to stop kicking my feet. Thunder rolled in the distance.

  And then I looked up, directly at the entrance doors, half wood and half glass. A shot rang out, startling Father and Old Jack to their feet, and making Betty turn from whatever she was doing in the kitchen area. Through the glass of the doors I saw a blurry shape, dark and fuzzy at the edges, growing larger and larger. Then another shot, but the shape kept getting closer and closer. It came from the overgrowth on the far side of the road and now bounded on all fours through the car park, either ignoring the bullets, or more likely being missed. It crashed into the door sending splinters and glass flying, causing Betty to scream out as she was hit by shrapnel. The thing slid into the hall, almost comically, coming to a sliding halt surrounded by broken glass and wood. Its hind legs were thick, covered in thick hair, and its spine arched. Its shoulders were more muscular than they had been when it was human, and they rose and fell as it panted, looking around. Rain dripped long strands of random hair, and
the end of its sharp fingernails. It rose on to two legs and sniffed, then turned from me to Betty to Father to Old Jack, and back to me again.

  Our eyes met. Its intention became clear. The thought of that thing near me disgusted me – it smelled of shit and puss and of rotting things, and its face had hardened muck clinging to its skin, despite the rain. As he crouched, so I rose a leg and planted a foot on the edge of the stage. As he launched, so I jumped into the rafters, catching a cross beam and nestling on it among the bunting, spiderwebs and dust.

  It smashed into the stage, creating a hole in the front, and had to spend precious seconds on turning itself around to get its bearings. Just long enough for the sentries to arrive at the doorway, unable to miss a standing target. The shots stung my ears, echoing beneath the eaves from where I hung. It screeched, which was even louder, its death throe hammering my ear drums. I clenched my thighs against the beam and held both hands to my ears. I even closed my eyes and waited for it all to be over.

  When I opened them again, Father was standing beneath me, arms open. And when I landed in them, he held me tightly, taking me outside as Betty and Old Jack and the sentries watched me leave.

  February 2029

  “You don’t think we’d take everything we had inside with us, do you?” said Greg. “You just can’t trust anyone anymore, as it was proven. First, we had back the way we came so we can reclaim our cache, and only then do we get the hell away from here.”

  I’d been keen to get going in case Mother and Father got wind of us on The Grapevine and decided to come find us; at best on their own, at worst after rounding up the locals. Greg, around forty and thinning on top, bleached by the open air, had other ideas.

  “It won’t take long,” said Dale. The house was too small for us all to congregate in one room, so we were in the garden. Bags freshly loaded with provisions. Water collected from the stream three more times. “Are we likely to hit trouble?”

  I shrugged.

  “A man like that… scorned that way.” Adeline shook her head. “He ain’t likely to take it on the chin.”