Beyond These Walls (Book 6): Three Days

by Robertson, Michael

  Cyrus gulped the water.

  William clamped his jaw and turned his back on the group. They’d get nothing from arguing with one another.

  Artan handed his war hammer to Cyrus and took Ranger’s sword from the boy.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Cyrus said.

  William tutted and shook Jezebel while holding the axe with both hands. “You swing it!”

  Although Artan paused for a moment and fixed on William, he let it slide. He then waded through the long grass to a nearby tree, reached up, and tugged on one of the thick branches. It came free with the crack of splintering wood. He stabbed the sword into the damp ground before holding the branch with both hands and snapping it over his knee. The remainder of the branch now about five feet long, the thickness consistent all the way down, he closed one eye and looked along the shaft, turning it to inspect its straightness. All the while, William’s breath slowed as he took the time for a well-needed recovery. Maybe they did all need a break.

  Artan used Cyrus’ sword to whittle a point, and William shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

  “What?” Artan said.

  “A spear? That makes us as bad as them.”

  “No, oppressing women and handing them over to some crazed leader makes us as bad as them. Copying their very effective weaponry makes us smart.”

  William snorted. “You think?”

  “It seems like all you want to do is argue. I’ve really not got the energy for it. Spears are effective out here. Besides, you’ve already proven you won’t listen to reason.”

  Cyrus stepped between them. “Will you two just leave it?”

  But William moved around him, edging closer to Artan. “Go on then!”

  Artan pulled his head back. “Go on then what?”

  “Say it.”

  “I already have.”

  “No, not in a passive-aggressive, whining-little-kid way. You’ve clearly got something you want to get off your chest, so say what you feel.”

  “You want me to spell it out?” Artan said. “Fine. I told you Samson was a wrong’un, but you didn’t listen. I told you Umbriel wasn’t a good place, but you didn’t listen. And now I want to use a spear to give ourselves a better chance of surviving this run, you still won’t listen. I’ve not said anything before now because on the whole you’ve made good decisions.”

  “You think it’s a bad choice for me to want us to keep running after the girls?”

  “Look at yourself.”

  Rocking with his ragged breaths, William’s pulse still slammed through him.

  “I could carry on,” Artan said. “I could run for another few hours, but it’s not just Cyrus who needs a rest. So let me make this spear while we’re all catching our breath, yeah?”

  William sneered. “Carrying that thing makes us as bad as them.”

  Artan’s nose wrinkled and his expression twisted. He threw the now sharpened branch at William. The shaft flew past his face, missing him by about a foot.

  Had Max and Cyrus not gasped when they spun around, William would have remained fixed on Artan. Instead, he took in the diseased, now on its back, a spear protruding from its face like a flagpole. Its left leg twitched as the life left it.

  William pulled his shoulders back and raised his chest when Artan approached. The boy handed Cyrus his sword back and took his war hammer. Tense in anticipation of Artan slamming into him, William leaned into the contact, but Artan turned sideways, passing him as he raised his hammer and brought it down on the head of the creature with a blow strong enough to bury a fencepost.

  The wind howled, the rain lashing down, the grass swaying around them. “I’m sorry.” William hung his head. “I can’t cope with the stress of being separated from them.”

  Artan paused from cleaning the end of his spear in the grass.

  William’s lips buckled and he had to cough to clear the lump from his throat. “I’m so scared for Matilda and Olga.”

  The frown on Artan’s brow softened and he nodded. “We all are. But we need to be sensible and make sure we don’t kill ourselves while trying to get to them.”

  William nodded several times. “I need to manage myself better. And I need to listen to you more.”

  “I’m not that little kid you once knew.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry, Cyrus. I owe you my life for how you let us pass in the national service area.”

  Artan pulled William into a close hug. “We all want the same thing. We’ll get the girls away from Grandfather Jacks, I promise.”

  His eyes stinging with exhaustion and grief, William nodded.

  Cyrus rubbed his back. “We’re in this together. We’ll make sure they’re okay.”

  William cleared his throat again. “Right, if you’re all rested, can I suggest we get moving again?” When none of the others protested, William set off at a slower pace than before, the rain stinging as it continued to hammer down on them, the strong winds chilling him to his core.

  Chapter 3

  Fire in her sinuses, her forehead stinging from where she’d headbutted Carl, Olga opened her eyes. She still lay in the long damp grass, Carl’s twisted and ruddy face peering down on her. His fists balled, he panted, his thick frame rising and falling. Deep lines scored his furrowed brow. His eyes had lost focus.

  Olga couldn’t have been out for longer than a few seconds. Her head pounded and the coppery taste of her own blood coated the back of her throat. She rolled onto her front and slowly got to her knees without the use of her bound hands. A deep sniff filled her mouth with a rubbery clot. Her stomach bucked and she spat it into the long grass. Carl stepped back as more claret dripped from her nose and ran over her top lip. Unable to wipe it away, she looked up into the lashing rain.

  As Carl moved back another pace, Olga relaxed … until Peter approached. He’d pretended to be the nice one of the two, but what did they have planned for the girls? She shook her head and said, “Stay the hell away from me. I will fight you both again. And this time, you’ll have to kill me to stop me.”

  Peter raised his hands in defence. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just—”

  “How dare you even think about telling us what to do?” Carl stepped across the front of Peter and closer to her, his teeth bared, his breaths heavy and irregular. “You’re our prisoners. We own you.” As he said it, he looked her up and down, her sodden clothes leaving little to the imagination. “We call the shots. You’d do well to remember that.”

  The skin at the base of Olga’s neck tightened, and she fought to suppress a shudder. This man’s rage ran deep. Rooted in something buried inside him, it yearned for release. It sought to destroy. Matilda still lay in the grass from where he’d knocked her over. If Olga backed down now, they might think they could do whatever they wanted to them. She needed to sow doubt in them at the very least. “You won’t beat me.”

  Carl stepped another pace closer. So close Olga could smell the stale sweat on his body. Even with the downpour, he stank as if his toxic masculinity oozed from him.

  “You come near me with that thing”—Olga nodded in the direction of his crotch—“and I swear I’ll make you pay. I refuse to lie down. I will not play your little games. You’ll have to kill me before I let that happen.”

  For the second time in as many minutes, Carl moved quicker than Olga could track. As he passed her, his thick arm caught her around the neck and he tightened his grip.

  Olga wheezed and kicked her feet when Carl lifted her from the ground.

  Carl’s right arm bulged and his panting breaths tickled her ear. He sprayed spittle across the side of her face. “You think I’m some kind of rapist?”

  Her throat too restricted to reply, her bound hands wriggled with a need to pull his arm away.

  Carl squeezed even tighter, the blood pressure swelling through her head, her pulse pounding in her temples. “You need to learn when to wind your neck in.”

  “Put her down!” Matilda rem
ained on the ground, but she’d now sat up. Her chin was red from where Carl had attacked her, her hair dishevelled.

  Peter stepped towards Carl, genuine worry creasing his features. But he halted with the shrill and demented cry of nearby diseased.

  Olga hit the ground hard when Carl released his grip. Her hands still bound behind her back, she leaned forwards and gulped hungry gasps of air.

  Peter and Carl now stood side by side, drew their spears, and faced the diseased.

  Her head spinning, it took for Olga to see which way the men faced to know where the diseased came from. The swish of the long grass preceded three of the vile creatures. Slashing arms, torn faces, necrotised flesh. Long scraggly hair on wrinkled scalps. One woman and two men.

  Carl had already revealed his speed, but Peter now moved quicker, loosing his spear faster than Olga could track it. It embedded in the face of one of the male diseased, burst from the back of his skull, and dropped him mid-run. Despite having another spear, Peter drew his long knife. Save the second spear for hunting. Don’t contaminate it unless they had to.

  But Carl hadn’t thrown his first one yet.

  Snarling, snapping, thrashing … the two remaining diseased were just metres away. Peter widened his stance while Carl threw down his weapons.

  “What the hell?” Olga said.

  Carl charged and used his forearm to knock the female diseased to the ground. Her ratty black hair flew wide in a flourish as she fell. Peter jumped on her and buried his knife into the side of her head. The familiar pop of a skull gave way to brute force.

  The male diseased followed Carl’s path, the tall man back on his feet as he moved several steps to the left. The man might have been batshit crazy, but he clearly had enough faculties to not drag Peter into his insanity. Olga’s jaw fell loose when Carl punched the diseased. His right fist met the creature’s chin, its momentum sending it stumbling past him on his left.

  The diseased shook its head, its long and wet scraggly hair swishing. It gnashed its teeth, screamed, and charged again. But a sound worse than the fury of a diseased drowned it out. Wild and uninhibited. Erratic and shrill. Carl laughed.

  On the second charge, Carl lowered himself before leaping into the air and kicking the creature in the centre of its chest. He moved fast for a big man. The beast wheezed like an old set of bagpipes as it fell back into the long grass. Where any sane person would have taken the creature’s fall as a chance to end it, Carl laughed harder and waited.

  The beast stumbled to its feet and charged again, its gait even more unsteady. For the third time, Carl landed a blow, an uppercut driven into the creature’s chin. It connected with a hard clop!

  Several paces past him, the diseased fell face first into the long grass. Olga breathed in time with Carl, panting in unison with the man, who waited. But the diseased didn’t get back up again.

  Carl approached the defeated creature with slow and steady steps. The same lust in his eyes as when he’d leaned over Olga. A wide smile spread into a rictus grin, his eyes were bloodshot as tears ran down his cheeks. His brow furrowed, his eyebrows pinched in the centre, he gnashed his jaw as if savouring the taste of his victory.

  Over the beast, Carl froze and fixed on the thing as if he pitied it. He then lifted his leg. His grin fell as he clamped his jaw tight before he stamped on the beast’s head. It popped, a sharp spasm snapping through both its legs before they fell limp.

  Carl stamped on it again. And again. And again. The ground squelched. “You fuck! You fucking fuck! You won’t do that to me again. You won’t.”

  Matilda had now gotten to her feet and stepped closer to Olga. Peter moved across in front of the two girls as the first line of defence should the crazed Carl turn his attention their way again.

  The day turned colder, Olga’s damp clothes clinging to her. At least five minutes passed before Carl finally stopped attacking the dead creature. Now done, he slowly turned to the others, his face alive with malice.

  “You’re finished now, Carl,” Peter said. “We’re all done. We need to move on. You must feel a bit better?”

  Carl nodded, although his dead eyes gave nothing away.

  “Good. Now hold back for a while. Give yourself the time you need to get your head straight, yeah?”

  “I feel better.” The low voice bubbling from Carl’s throat didn’t belong to the man. It seemed to come from deeper inside him. From one of the demons he’d pushed to the bottom of his being.

  Olga stepped back a pace. For the second time, the skin at the base of her neck crawled.

  “That’s good to hear, buddy,” Peter said, the crack of his hand patting Carl’s damp back. Uncertainty clung to his words, the air between him and his friend palpable with simmering tension. The dark storm clouds above them rolled with the threat of a thunderstorm. After a pause, Peter nodded at Carl, clearly giving him a moment to object. When he didn’t, he led the girls away.

  At least twenty metres between them and Carl, Peter said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Olga snarled. “He does though.”

  “He’s a complicated character.”

  “You reckon? What kind of lunatic fights the diseased with their bare fists?”

  “The kind of lunatic who needs a release. Now you might want to keep your voice down.”

  Matilda nudged Olga and flicked her head back. “Just give the man some time to calm down, yeah?”

  “Besides,” Peter said, “Carl’s been on the other side of the funnel. He’s been farther south than I have. He’s dealt with hordes. Before this journey’s done, you’ll be glad to have him at your side.”

  “What’s the funnel?” Olga said. “And what do you mean he’s been farther south?”

  “You’ll find out. Not about going farther south. Fortunately for you, Grandfather Jacks’ community isn’t too far past the funnel. But my point is, while the diseased are similar on both sides, there are far more of them in the south, and they hunt in packs.”

  Carl had made up some ground on them, which Matilda showed Olga by shoving her again and nodding behind. The man stalked them, a crazed hunter toying with his prey.

  Peter’s eyes betrayed little when he looked back at his friend. “I’ll say it again; neither of us want to hurt you. We’re not who you should fight.”

  “So Grandfather Jacks is?”

  Peter shook his head. “No. Of course not. My point is, you should pick your battles. Your rage will get you in trouble. Learn from your friend. Know when to keep your mouth shut. All you’re doing at the moment is poking the bear. There’s little you can do right now, especially with your hands tied behind your backs. Acceptance will be your salvation.”

  “Subservience more like.”

  Peter let the comment go.

  After Peter had opened up a slight lead on them, Matilda spoke so only Olga heard her. “I think he’s right. I don’t trust him, but we need to wait for the right time to get out of this mess. If we keep him”—she nodded at Peter—“onside, we’ll get them both to lower their guard eventually.”

  “So we let these men control and oppress us, and who knows what else they might do?”

  “We need to find a way out of this,” Matilda said, “but if we fight everything put in front of us, we won’t have the energy to fight what we most need to rail against. I can’t keep on taking kickings like the one I just did and be ready when the time’s right.”

  “If neither of you want to hurt us,” Olga called to Peter, “then why don’t you let us go? Or release our bonds at least?”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “But handing us over to Grandfather Jacks is hurting us.”

  Peter drew a water flask from his belt. A small bottle carved from wood, he removed the stopper with a slight pop and took a sip from it before slowing down to hold it to Matilda’s lips. After she’d drank from it, he did the same for Olga. Her thirst quenched, she copied Matilda in poking her tongue out for a strip of dried deer meat. Her mouth wat
ered as the salt spread across her tongue and her stomach rumbled.

  “Let’s try not to fall out, yeah?” Peter said.

  Matilda nodded.

  Maybe her friend did have a point. Maybe Peter didn’t want to harm them. And maybe he wanted to believe in them so desperately that he’d lower his guard. Maybe he’d give them the opening they needed to get the hell away before they were delivered to Grandfather Jacks. For now, Olga just needed to make sure she kept her wits so she had the presence of mind to see the moment when it came.

  Chapter 4

  The sun might have been weak that day, but William had held out some hope the rain might stop and his clothes would have a chance to dry. No such luck. As day transitioned into night, the rain continued to fall and the sharp wind cut through him with surgical precision. Another reason to keep moving. They might have slowed their pace, but he led the line, pulling the others along at a fast march. He wouldn’t stop until they reached the girls.

  The group moved with squelching steps, the moon mocking them when it appeared from behind the fast-moving clouds every few minutes. Close to full, it shone as a spotlight. It reminded them that in just three days, it would be time for Grandfather Jacks to pick his brides.

  Artan quickened his pace and fell into step beside William. “We need to rest at some point. How many times are we going to have to say that to you?”

  “This is a better pace though, right? And what will resting do to us with these damp clothes?”

  “It’s less about the rest and more the fact that we can’t see anything.” They’d entered a small abandoned town and were surrounded by ruined buildings no taller than one to two storeys. Artan ran a sweeping arm in front of himself as if showing their surroundings to William for the first time. “In a place like this, we can get ambushed from anywhere during daylight. It’s a million times worse now. What use are we to the girls if we die before we get to them?”

  “What use are we if we get pneumonia? Just a little bit longer, yeah?”

  Artan shook his head. “You’ve said that several times already. How long is a little bit longer?”