“He’s done that before, right?” Corcoran said, “That’s where your other black eye came from. How come you stay with him, if he treats you so badly?”
Lavender sighed, her shoulders sagging, “He doesn’t mean to do it,” she murmured softly, “He’s not himself when he does things like that; not really,”
“Says every woman who’s ever been a victim of domestic violence!”
Lavender looked directly at the boy. His expression was one of outrage and concern, not condemnation. She gave a soft smile, “I appreciate your concern Corcoran, I really do. This is not domestic violence, not really; and I’m not making excuses for him either. He’s not well you see,”
“No shit!” Corcoran exclaimed, changing his tone when he saw Lavender’s features darken, “Look, no offence, but it was obvious from the word go that he’s not all there,” Lavender winced at his choice of words, but the boy ploughed on, oblivious, “I mean, his head’s fucked up, I get that; whose isn’t? But he can’t go around hitting you like that, out of nowhere! Don’t you get tired? Of everything being a fight, I mean? Tired of fighting zombies, fighting to survive, fighting to keep going, without fighting him too?” He nodded back over his shoulder at the retreating figures.
Suddenly she was tired; exhausted in fact. She had been holding her grief for Carson inside for so long, hidden it so well, that at times she nearly convinced herself that it wasn’t real; that Carson was still as whole inside his mind as he was inside his body.
“It doesn’t help that every time the man holds a weapon he comes to life again,” she admitted, feeling like a traitor for talking about him that way, knowing it was pointless to keep denying it, “It’s like the feel of a knife, or an axe or a gun in his hands stirs the real Carson back to existence, you know? Those are the times, when we are really up against it and in danger of our lives, that I feel I really know him again,”
Corcoran nodded thoughtfully, “And what if the next time he backhands you he happens to be holding one of those weapons?” His question was blunt; immature and thoughtless, but totally honest for all that. Lavender felt her stomach turn.
“I know,” she said, lowering her gaze, all at once unable to meet the boy’s eye, “I know,” she sighed, “What can I do?”
“I don’t know,” Corcoran admitted, “but for now you can come back with us. It’s almost dark and you are in no condition to head out yet. Sleep in safety tonight at least, see how things look in the morning,”
“And Joel?”
Corcoran lost a little of his assurance at the mention of the man’s name, “He’ll be okay,” he said unconvincingly, “He’s not so bad really,”
Lavender saw she had no choice. She didn’t have strength enough left to talk Carson into leaving with her now even if he was willing to listen and besides, the boy was right; she couldn’t go on like this. She needed to assess her situation, work out her options, but that was for tomorrow. Right now, all she wanted was to curl up somewhere safe and sleep soundly and deeply, until morning.
She nodded her reply, too weary to speak. Taking his cue, Corcoran put a hesitant arm about her shoulders and encouraged her on. That was how Lavender fully understood just how exhausted she really was. Any other time, she would have drawn blood had a strange man, however young, dared to put his hands on her.
Corcoran had no idea how lucky he was. She stumbled on, appreciative of his support, hiding a tired smile at the thought.
Night
As fatigued as she was, Lavender insisted on going back to the heaped corpses of the two zombies she and Carson had fought, to retrieve Joel’s hatchet for a second time.
“Don’t want to give him any sticks to beat me with,” she joked in explanation, wiping the slime of nameless body fluids down her already filthy jeans. Corcoran didn’t laugh.
As they neared the container, Lavender began to dread what she might find. All seemed to be quiet. If Carson had simply forgotten about the promise of a hot meal, or if he had been given one, then all was well. If he was yet to be disappointed there could be hell to pay. He wouldn’t necessarily understand Drums had only promised him one to lure him away from the idea of swimming, but he would certainly understand there was no hot meal to be had; likely he would be upset about that.
She was amazed to find Carson already buried beneath a heap of hessian sacks, topped off by the tattered blanket, drifting into sleep. He didn’t stir at her arrival. She was just in time to see his eyelids close over glossy pupils. She looked on, watching for the even rise and fall of his chest. He began to snore softly almost immediately.
“What have you given him?” she demanded, a dawning understanding.
“What do you mean?” Joel rounded on her.
“You know what I mean. Carson sleeps like a baby I grant you, but not even he drifts off quite as quickly as that, so what have you given him?”
Joel sighed, an air of exasperation about him, “It’s nothing,” he waved his hand away, “Just a little something to help him relax, that’s all,”
“I knew it! Like what?”
“It’s an herbal remedy, nothing more. For God’s sake woman, what did you want me to do? Knock him out cold with Naomi’s baseball bat? He was anxious and confused when he got back, kept banging on about a cooked meal. Drums told me he had already dealt you a backhander. Look, it’s getting late, we’re all tired and I’m damn sure no one wants to deal with this shit right now, including you! This way he’ll get a good night sleep and wake up calm and refreshed, no harm done. Unless you want to try waking him up of course, and good luck with that!”
Lavender looked down at Carson, “You better hope there’s no harm done,” she said, though the threat sounded empty even to her own ears. Before Joel could come back at her with some quip, she held up the hatchet, handle first, “This is yours I think,” she said pointedly, “thanks for the loan,”
“Anytime,” Joel grimaced, taking it from her, “Is there any point in me offering you a little of what Carson’s had?”
In her corner, still curled up against the world, Naomi gave a soft whimper. Lavender was too tired to analyse it, “None whatsoever,” she said.
She stepped over Carson, dragging a sack over her as she nestled against him, relishing the warmth of his body. She closed her eyes, pointedly bringing the conversation to a close. She heard muted conversation amongst the others, heard the wind outside banging the container door gently back and for. She heard the hail begin again; a determined barrage of rock-solid pellets on the roof drowning out all other noise. Her body grew heavy, warm beneath the sacking. She sank gratefully into unconsciousness.
*
Sobbing. It was coming from some way off, or was it just the depth of her slumber, playing tricks on her? Perhaps it was a memory playing out in her tired mind. Maybe she was the one crying. Was she?
Lavender tried to open her eyes even a fraction. She could not, her thoughts slow and cumbersome, like being dead drunk and knowing it. The sobbing had ceased, the ghost of a whisper coming hard on its heels. Lavender could not make the words out, nor who had spoken them, nor even if they were real at all. In her mind’s eye she fancied she saw them curl into the air; breathy letters like wisps of cloud bouncing against the metal ceiling keeping them trapped. A random collection of almost-words; forming then drifting away again, unresolved. Watching them made her feel drowsy.
She shifted, shivering under the hessian. Carson had rolled away, leaving a gap plenty wide enough to let the chill in. Her bare flesh puckered where it was exposed to the cold and she burrowed more deeply under cover. She would get another sack to put over her. She would move in closer to Carson. She would get up, block the doorway somehow with the ragged blanket.
She slept on.
*
She woke; her body aching, her bed hard and cold. Beside her, Carson was still asleep, but she was aware of movement around her.
She propped herself up on her elbows to see the o
thers were rousing too. All of them slowly coming awake, sleepily confused.
Something stirred outside, a sound like a heap of wet clothes being dragged slowly along the ground. Lavender sat more fully upright, searching the gloom for Joel. As if on cue, he appeared at the rear of the container, up on his knees, listening. Right next to him a smaller figure stirred; Lavender realised with a start it was Naomi. The sight struck a discordant note with her. She would have addressed it, loudly and indignantly, except whatever that was outside, was getting closer.
The slow drag again. Then, to her horrified alarm, the unmistakable sound of rope, twisting and creaking under tension. The rope that hung the length of the toppled container.
Someone – something – was coming in.
Lavender stood up so fast she lost balance, reaching out to the wall of the container to stop herself from falling. She saw there was no need to share her concerns. As one, the group were on their feet, arming themselves, the fear and shock plain on their faces even in the grey light. Only Carson still lay, sleeping and oblivious, at her feet.
“Carson!” Lavender hissed, kicking him in the ribs, “Carson!”
In response, Carson moaned, flicked out a dismissive hand and curled up deeper within the folds of hessian.
“Leave him there!” Joel commanded, “He’s better off out of harm’s way,”
“I thought you said those herbs were harmless?”
“They are, he just hasn’t had time to sleep them off yet. We’ve got more urgent business to tend to,” Joel said, barging past her, thrusting the hatchet into her hands yet again as he went. Lavender gripped it, following him to the doorway where he held up a hand, stopping her.
She looked up at him, nodding understanding. Neither of them had yet breached the doorway.
“We do this together, and be ready to fight,” Joel said, “On three. One, two, three!”
They stepped forward, stopping a bare two inches from the threshold. Lavender listened as the thing approaching wheezed and croaked, the rope stretching and twisting noisily. A horrible suspicion crept into her mind.
She stepped neatly past Joel, pushing him back with her left hand, the right grasping the hatchet. He tried to protest but she glared at him, silencing him with a finger to her lips, her brows furrowed.
“We need to know what we’re dealing with here,” her voice was barely a whisper.
The rope continued its tortured creaking, the dragging sound did not increase in pace. Confident it had not heard her. Lavender dared to look
A zombie was making its slow, arduous way up the rope, towards the container entrance. She stepped back out of sight, her mind racing as she tried to run through their options.
There was no question of jumping. The container was too high, at the very least a jump would result in a few broken bones. They couldn’t shut the door, the hinge as buckled as it was. Even if they tried, the racket the thing would make would likely spur the zombie on, the struggle would sap them of their strength and even if they succeeded, the end result would mean they were trapped inside the container.
They had no choice but to fight it off.
Lavender and Joel exchanged a look. Joel gave a nod, the grim expression on his face telling her had already come to the same conclusion. Begrudgingly, Lavender nodded back. She would just check on the progress of the thing once more, then they could throw together a plan of attack for when it finally reached them.
Once more she stepped out into the chill morning. Once more she looked down upon the approaching zombie, dismayed to see how much progress it had made. Only this time, it looked up, and saw her.
Lavender’s heart pounded, her stomach dropped. The amber light in the eyes, the lurking sense of lingering intelligence, seemed to drain the energy from her; a Thinker.
Hollow
The Thinker opened its mouth in what should have been a bellow, but which came out more like a hoarse and angry rasp. As she had predicted, the moment it laid its amber eyes on her it redoubled its efforts, keen to get at her, some twisted primal need for blood triggered.
She stepped back, bumping into Joel.
“It’s a Thinker!” she said flatly, no point in using hushed tones now, “and it’s seen me,”
There was a collective murmur of swear words. The floor of the container vibrated as the youths within instinctively huddled together. Lavender gave them a despairing look over.
“Be ready, in case it gets past us,” she advised, taking for granted that Joel would assist her in her front-line defence.
There was about a foot and a half of rope left. With no time to think about it, Lavender raised the hatchet and sliced downward, meaning to sever it and send the Thinker falling. To her frustration, the hatchet blade merely bounced off the rope, toughened and smoothed with wear and weather. She tried a second time. The hatchet made the merest indentation before bouncing free. Swearing, Lavender stood upright and took aim, intending to lodge the hatchet in the Thinker’s head much as she had done to the zombie only yesterday. She launched it just as the creature reached the end of the rope and stood up tall, throwing her aim off.
The hatchet buried itself into the Thinker’s abdomen, releasing a cloud of pent up gases and foul odours that left her reeling. Undeterred, the Thinker stepped across the small gap and onto the ledge in front of the doorway. Lavender backed up still further, aware that Thinker was now between her and Carson, who had finally got to his feet and stood pressed up against the wall, the Thinker seemingly oblivious to him.
Behind her, someone was breathing so hard she could hear every shaky inhalation and release, but Lavender dared not take her eyes off the Thinker. She was assessing her next move, wondering what her chances were of heaving the hatchet free and using it to slice the head from the neck without being bitten or torn to shreds, when the boy Evan stepped alongside her, a determined look on his young face.
Before Lavender could speak, the boy swung the baseball bat Naomi had previously been holding. He didn’t aim for the zombie’s head, but struck the hatchet, driving it deeper still into the Thinker’s abdomen. It barely slowed down in acknowledgement.
Lavender had backed into the group of huddled teens, her open arms splayed across them as if she could protect them. As one they inched away from the creature, Joel huddled somewhere amongst them.
“The crowbar! Use the fucking crowbar!” Lavender screamed at the man. She saw the glint of metal from the corner of her eye as he raised the weapon in response.
Too late: the Thinker had lashed out, snagging Evan by the upper arm, drawing him inexorably in. It opened its fetid jaw, ready to bite, when Carson loomed behind, sliding one of the hessian sacks over the Thinker’s head.
Supressing the urge to hysterical laughter, marvelling at the absurdity of it all, Lavender knew such a feeble action would do nothing to stop the Thinker.
Except, it did.
The Thinker came to a standstill, though it maintained its grip on the unfortunate Evan, its bony fingers working their way through the boy’s flesh. He squirmed and writhed in agony, his voice shrill in pain. The Thinker stood foolishly; its free hand slowly reaching up to the hessian sack.
“Go, now! It’s our only chance! Get the hell out of here!” Lavender urged.
The youngsters behind her needed no second telling. They dodged around the temporarily halted Thinker and ran for the door. Lavender could hear their panicked escape as they half-climbed, half-fell down the slope to the ground. Joel made to follow them.
“Wait! You can’t just leave the boy to die!”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Help him!” The Thinker’s hand had reached the hem of the sack, “Cut off the Thinker’s arm. There must be something back here,” Lavender dared to turn away, rummaging frenziedly through the pile of weapons Joel had kept stashed out of sight. Her hands came to rest upon a piece of twisted, metal, like the blade of a lawnmower; heavy, but sharp enough to do
the job.
She just caught sight of Joel as he slipped out the door. Cursing him, she stepped to the side, looking for a point between the squirming boy and the death-grip of the Thinker. She saw the creature figure out how to remove the sack, how it lifted it over and off its head as it leaned in closer.
The Thinker bit into Evan, just as Lavender brought the twisted blade down. It was a clumsy strike, the metal too large and too heavy to be accurate. She watched as it sunk into its back; a mortal wound to a living man. Nothing to the undead.
Evan screamed, a sound that tore at her heart and turned her stomach. The Thinker looked up at her, the barest trace of triumph in its eyes, part of Evan clenched between its rotten teeth, fresh, bright-red blood spattering its chin.
It held Evan steadfast, even as he fell to his knees screaming in agony, sobbing for a mercy that would not come, his words fast, garbled; incoherent. Heedless, the Thinker kept its gaze on Lavender as it swallowed down Evan’s flesh. Lavender’s blood ran cold, shocked to the core. The Thinker turned back to the boy for a second bite.
She could not bear anymore. She turned and ran, following the way the others had already gone. Stopping at the container’s edge, only then remembering Carson, who stood watching the Thinker feast, a strange and distant look upon his face.
She pulled at his sleeve, a hard, insistent plea. To her relief, he moved.
The quickest way down the slope was on their backsides, hitting every ridge along the way. There was no sign of the others. Lavender ducked under the container and headed away, Carson trudging behind her. She had no intention of getting caught with nothing but the sea at her back again. She increased her stride, suddenly decided she had her fill of Joel and his little youth club. There had been nothing but trouble since they arrived at the yard; he would likely be as glad to see the back of her as she would of him.
Mindless Trilogy (Book 3): Brutal Truths Page 5