When There's No More Room in Hell 3

by Luke Duffy

  "I said…can you talk?" she repeated, looking directly at him.

  He then grasped that she was speaking to him, something that no one had done in a long time. Her voice rattled around in his mind, ringing in his ears and sounding just as beautiful as the songs of the birds when he sat below the trees, watching in awe and listening to them intently.

  He could hear her and see her lips moving, but he could not understand her words. He stared back at her, blankly.

  She held her hand to her chest and pronounced her words slowly and deliberately. "I am, Molly."

  He remained silent, staring back at her.

  "My name, my name is Molly," she tried again.

  She huffed and sat forward on the couch and continued to pat her chest as she stared at him, repeating her words.

  "Molly," she said slowly, pronouncing each syllable, "Molly, my name is, Molly."

  Andy gazed back at her, his arms still locked across his chest as he listened to the wonderful noises that emitted from her mouth. They were not like the sounds that he made, raspy and gurgling. Her words were animated and gentle on his hearing as the noises she made spiralled down through his ear canal and danced across his partially functioning brain.

  "Can you hear me?" she asked, louder than before. "Molly. That is me, what is your name?"

  Finally, something clicked into place. He suddenly understood that she was communicating with him and not just twittering with joyous sounds like the birds. He looked at her, concentrating his attention on the words that rolled from her tongue and the hand pressed against her chest.

  'Molly,' she is, 'Molly.’

  His eyes grew wide and his brow creased as he recognised her words and actions, but frustration soon overtook him, as he could not communicate back to her. He unfolded his hands and reached forward, slowly and careful so as not to seem like he was lurching towards her. His fingers curled inwards, leaving his index digit extended towards the young girl.

  Molly saw the realisation spread across his face and nodded, smiling at the thought of being able to communicate with him, to a degree.

  "Yes," she said as she continued to nod encouragingly, "Molly. Can you say, 'Molly'?"

  Andy gurgled and followed it with a grunt but Molly was satisfied at the fact that she had made him understand. She beamed at him and clasped her hands together as she watched him begin to sit forward and reach for something behind him.

  He struggled to coordinate his hands while they were out of sight from him, but eventually his fingers closed around the object for which he had been searching.

  Groaning and leaning forward from the couch enthusiastically, Andy held out the worn and filthy leather wallet, motioning for Molly to take it from him.

  At first, she hesitated, staring down at his withered, cold and bony hands, unsure of whether she should take the wallet for fear of him suddenly launching himself forward and attacking her. She reasoned to herself that the dead did not think and plan, or lure people into a false sense of security, and if he wished to hurt her, he would have already done it.

  She took the small leather case, her eyes remaining fixed on his as she smiled nervously at him.

  Andy remained sitting forward with the anticipation of the introduction and the possibility of hearing his name spoken.

  Molly opened the wallet and peered over its contents. A few encrusted and tattered twenty-pound notes brought back memories of happier times to her as she stared down at the Queen's face. Then, she began to check through the multitude of cards before she finally found the one she was looking for.

  She raised the small rectangular pink card and held it at an angle, pointing towards the doorway so that she could see the picture in the faint light filtering in from the hall. She studied the photograph of the Driver's License, seeing a young and handsome looking man smiling broadly with sparkling white teeth and glittering eyes.

  She paused and looked up, comparing the picture to the figure that sat before her. There was no comparison between the withered and gruesome face of the creature sitting on the sofa and the vibrant head and shoulders of the man in the picture.

  She looked to the right of the photograph.

  "Andrew Moorcroft," she read aloud, slowly.

  Andy's eyes grew wide again and his mouth fell open as he heard his name spoken in the angelic voice of Molly. A surge of elation raced through him and a soft muffled moan seeped from his raspy throat.

  The girl looked up at him and saw the change in his expression.

  "Andrew Moorcroft. That is you. Your name is Andrew, yes?"

  He moaned again, gently, at her words.

  Molly continued to read, then looked up at him after a while of thought and contemplation.

  "I don't know what date it is," she said rhetorically, "but, I think you're twenty-eight years old."

  She studied him again, subconsciously comparing him to the picture.

  "I am nine, I think. I don’t think it's been my birthday, yet, but it must be soon."

  Andy did not understand her words, but he revelled in the sound of her voice.

  "Yes, I think I will be ten, soon. So, you're Andy and you're twenty-eight, and I am Molly and I am nine," she said, smiling at him.

  "Sally," she suddenly shouted, "Sally, come here…" She stopped mid-sentence and grew silent, staring down into her lap.

  Andy saw the change in her composure and noticed her shoulders sag. He grunted questioningly, concerned at her sudden change.

  She raised her head and peered across at him, her eyes wet with tears.

  "Sally was my dog," she informed him. "She was my best friend and those monsters out there killed her while she tried to protect me."

  She pulled a faded and tattered photograph from her pocket and handed it to him. He gently took it from her hands and stared down at a picture of Molly, her arms wrapped around a brown and black fury animal, its tongue hanging from its mouth as it sat happily beside her.

  Andy recognised the word 'dog' and related it to the picture. The interaction with the child seemed to be re-opening the pathways and reigniting some of the neurons in his brain. He then realised that the carcass he had seen his attacker feeding on, was to what the little girl was referring.

  He sighed heavily at the thought of Molly's pain and sadness.

  Molly began to weep as the realisation sunk in that her dog was gone and would never come back.

  Andy sat in bewilderment, unsure of what the noises emerging from the little girl meant, but he was able to conclude that they were not the sounds of joy and happiness. He sat watching her, listening to her crying softly.

  He growled to himself, almost inaudible over the sound of Molly's lament. Her sorrow pulled at his own emotions, and he fought against the urge to join her with despondent moans and wails of his own, knowing it would only frighten her.

  After a long time, she grew silent, and raised her head, wiping the floods of tears from her cheeks.

  "Will Sally be like you, now?" she asked with a quivering voice.

  The question was lost on Andy and he could do nothing but look back at her with his flat dead eyes. Although his eyes showed nothing, he felt her sorrow. It travelled through him like a wave, unsettling his thoughts and feelings and leaving him disorientated and unsure of what to do.

  Molly looked over her shoulder and towards the curtained windows.

  "It'll be dark soon," she announced, snorting back the rest of her tears. "I should go upstairs to my room."

  She rose from the couch, wiped the tears from her eyes and looked across at Andy.

  "Will you still be here in the morning, Andy?"

  He looked back at her and attempted to rise to his feet. His knee joints creaked and groaned loudly and his hips seemed to rattle in the silence of the house.

  Molly held out her hands, indicating for him to stop and remain seated as she listened to the deafening rasps of his bones.

  "You should stay and rest, at least for tonight."

  She
walked towards the door and Andy followed her with his eyes, a sense of something that could only be described as compassion filling his senses, as he eyed the fragile and lonely little girl.

  There was another emotion mixed in with the bombardment of feelings that assaulted his mind and silent heart: love. He knew the emotion, and he knew what it meant. There was no doubting it; he loved the little Molly and he wanted to care for her in her loneliness of the dangerous and terrifying new world.

  "Good night, Andrew," Molly bid him as she left the sitting room.

  Andy grunted softly and remained staring at the empty doorframe long after she had walked through. He sighed and picked up the framed picture from the cushion beside him.

  Hours later, as the winter sun slowly rose above the horizon and cast its first glimmering rays over the dead land, Andy, had a sudden thought. He raised himself up from the couch and carefully placed the family photograph back on the fireplace, before making his way across to the window.

  He pulled back the heavy thick curtains and peered out at the semi dark terrain surrounding the low ground around the house, stretching off into the distance towards the road that remained hidden by a freezing morning mist. The long grass of the fields to the west glinted with crystals of frosted dew as the sun began gently warming their stalks and releasing them from the cold night.

  To the east, the sky was a bright vibrant blue, with pinkish clouds scattered high in the atmosphere. The sun began its climb and chased the shadow of the night towards the west, where the sky remained an inky black as it slowly turned from night to day.

  Andy looked out across the gravelled courtyard and towards the row of trees that led down to the narrow country road. Nothing moved in the still and cold morning and he made a conscious decision to leave.

  It was something he felt that he needed to do. Something he felt obligated to do for the little girl that had become his only friend.

  As gently as he could, he removed the white dusty tablecloth from the dinner table beneath the window. He rolled it up in his arms and made his way out through the front door, picking up the tyre iron from the top of the steps as he left. He headed for the track.

  A while later, and with great effort as he struggled his way along the long path beneath the tall overhanging trees, he returned to the house.

  He remained outside in the gravel courtyard, staring up at the door, unsure of what he should do next. He alternated his gaze from the house to the large bundle he carried in his arms, wrapped in the sheet he had removed from the dinner table.

  With a grunt, he decided that it would be best not to enter and began to make his way around to the side path that led towards the rear and garden of the house. His feet crunched across the gravel and, on a number of occasions, he almost lost his balance as he staggered around the narrow perimeter path of the building. He stopped, adjusting the bundle in his arms and using his body to brace himself against the brick walls of the house to regain his stability.

  Finally, he gently placed his burden down at the foot of a tall and strong looking tree at the bottom of the garden. The thick, green branches hung low towards the ground, obscuring the area at the base of the trunk, protecting it from the elements.

  Gently, he adjusted the position of the white sheet, and then proceeded to stumble about the area, picking up stones and rounded rocks, placing them around the tablecloth as neatly as his badly coordinated arms would allow.

  He stopped and stepped back, staring down at the misshapen shrine that he had created, but something was missing. He turned in all directions, eyeing the bushes and shrubs that surrounded the expansive garden, but could not see what he was looking for. The closest he came was the dead and wilted weeds sprouting up from the cracks through the walls and paths of the garden. Their colours had faded, turning their yellows and blues to a dried and unattractive brown as they died in the winter air.

  He looked back towards the house and, in the window of the kitchen; he saw a clutter of vibrant colours.

  He turned and staggered back towards the house and the door that led into the kitchen. Inside, he reached for the windowsill and snatched up the plant pot containing the pretty flowers and radiant green leaves, and then headed back in to the garden.

  "Andy?" Molly called from the door a short while later. "Andrew, where are you?"

  She sounded anxious but Andy had no way of calling back to her as he remained below the tree, adjusting the position of the sheet and lie of the stones and flowers.

  He raised himself to his feet and quickly glanced down at his creation. He grunted with satisfaction and turned towards the house, forcing his way through the overhanging branches that dripped with the melting dew.

  As he stepped from the shade of the tree, he could see Molly standing on the step to the rear door of the house. She shivered in the cold morning air and rubbed the skin on her arms. As he stumbled into view, she looked at him, a smile spread across her face as he appeared in the open, raising his hand and attempting to attract her attention.

  Andy saw the expression on her face and he felt something swell inside of him. Seeing Molly's appearance turn from one of concern to utter joy at the sight of him, ignited a fire within his chest and caused his head to throb with his own delight at her affection and acceptance of him.

  She stepped out and walked towards him and, with a grunt and a huff, Andy beckoned her to follow him to the tree. She paused, watching the shadows beneath the heavy thick branches of the fir tree and looked back at Andy, unsure.

  Andy stopped and looked directly into her eyes. He attempted to make himself appear less frightful by raising his brow. He could see her hesitation and he nodded to her encouragingly, hoping that she would see that he was no threat.

  Molly fought with her feelings. Although she had been fearful at the thought that Andy may have left, and had felt happy when she laid eyes on him at the bottom of the garden, the sight of the dark shadows beneath the tree made her waver.

  She still did not see him as a danger, but she had learned to stay away from the shadows and remain in the light, where she could see anything that was coming towards her.

  She looked back at Andy and he gestured to her to follow him with a supportive grunt. His eyes held a spark of life that she had never seen before in one of the dead. As she paused and stared back at him and his expression, the look in Andy's eyes told her that he meant her no harm and that he only wanted to help her.

  She nodded and followed him as he stumbled through the unkempt, dew sodden grass of the garden. He pushed the heavy branches aside and held them open so that she could enter the shadow beneath the thick foliage.

  Below the tree, as her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, she struggled to understand what she was looking at.

  Andy stood beside her, looking from her to the strange shape and collection of stones on the ground and grunting questioningly. Molly looked at him and realised that he was awaiting her approval, but approval to what, she did not know.

  At her feet, she could see a white bundle surrounded by a crooked ring of stones, with a pot of flowers on the top. She failed to understand its significance or, the reason she needed to see it. She wondered if it was Andy's way of communicating to her, showing her that he was still capable of thought, with the ability to coordinate and build basic structures.

  Andy realised that she did not understand and turned on his heel, staggering with urgency towards the house.

  A minute later, he returned, carrying an object in his hands. Only when he had re-entered the shade of the tree did Molly recognise what it was that he was holding.

  Andy had first seen the yellow bowl as he entered the kitchen the day before, looking for the little girl. He held it out to her, nodding his head towards her, encouraging her to take it from him. His eyes watched her, studying her reaction as he held out Sally's food bowl, still piled high with the now crusted-over dog food.

  Molly took the bowl from him and looked down at the strange structure at the
base of the tree, realising that what she saw was a grave.

  She stared up at him, her eyes glistening brightly in the shade of the tree as she peered into the cold eyes of the dead man standing before her. Her heart pounded in her chest and her throat felt as though it was beginning to swell as a hard lump formed in her larynx. Her shoulders suddenly felt heavy and her lungs threatened to drop into her stomach. With each difficult breath, her body tensed and seemed to double in weight as she fought desperately to stop herself from collapsing with emotion.

  Andy had travelled back to the road, wrapped her beloved Sally in the cloth and carried her back to the house, laying her to rest beneath the old tree and taking great care to ensure that she lay peacefully and surrounded in a rustic but strangely beautiful sculpture of stones.

  Floods of tears began to cascade down Molly's cheeks. She could not hold them back any longer. She cried for the loss of her dog, Sally, and for the sentiment and care that Andy had shown to her. He had understood her sadness and cared enough to recognise that, Sally had meant a lot to her, and should not be left at the roadside, where she had died.

  Molly looked down at the yellow food bowl clutched tightly in her hands. She snorted back her tears and nodded. She knelt down at the foot of the grave and gently placed the bowl on top of the white tablecloth.

  Andy watched as the delicate little girl knelt, and he followed suit, slowly dropping to his knees beside her. The dried joints of his legs screamed out in protest and echoed around in the shaded and confined space beneath the tree, but they were of no concern to him as his concentration was fixed on the bereaved child at his side.

  Her tears came in floods as sorrow wracked her body, causing her shoulders to convulse with each torrent of grief that washed over her like a tidal wave. For a long time she knelt at the stones as tears fell from her face, sprinkling over the grave of Sally.

  "Thank you, Andy," Molly said as she turned to him, a half-smile creasing her puffed face and swollen red eyes while the tears continued to flow.

  Andy understood the meaning of her words and grunted, nodding slightly and adjusting a rock that had fallen out of place from around Sally. He patted it back into position and rested his palm on the sheet covering the remains of Molly's beloved dog. He sighed softly and remorsefully, knowing that he could not change or take away the suffering of his new friend.