Zombie Revolution

by K. Bartholomew

  Hobbs let out a pained moan but lowered his head to enter before shuffling reluctantly forwards as Bartlett feared this might take longer than hoped. The lanky bastard held onto the wall as he went too, scraping his boots across the ground and causing an obstruction.

  “What ‘ave ya got for us then, Guv?” Malone was again doing his Cockney walk, which irritated Bartlett because he’d already seen through the act and had the dwarf pegged for the manure pinching tinker he was.

  But since it was a matter of business, Bartlett subdued his ire. “He’s been here about a month. No treatment seems to be working, which ain’t in itself uncommon, but they’ve tried all kinds of new procedures on him.” He shook his head with impatience at the enforced slow speed. “God only knows where they found the cove … certainly not London, that I can tell ya.”

  The dwarf furrowed his ginger brow, which looked odd given the shape of his head. “Sounds rather riveting, Mr Bartlett, but all you seem to be describing is a regular crazy person who, as I’m sure you’re already aware, are ten a penny these days.” He casually prodded Hobbs in the back with a stilt. “On, you long streak of piss … But tell me, Guv, why would Mr Stapleton be interested in just another crazy? There’s only so many stark staring raving lunatics the public will gladly pay money to see, so what’s special about this one?”

  Bartlett reached down with a cautioning hand, aiming for the dwarf’s shoulder but he misjudged the length and only ended up ruffling Malone’s cap. “You’ll soon find out.” He removed his hand and blushed. “Sorry about that.”

  Malone adjusted his cap. “Happens every day, Mr Bartlett, but my only preoccupation is that he don’t prove too much bother for old Hobbie ‘ere.”

  Bartlett shrugged, dismissing the concern. “Why should he? It’s got to be better going with you than staying here, surely, and if not, well then, he’ll just have to make the best of it, won’t he.” Bartlett flapped a dismissive hand. “No, he’ll go willingly enough if he’s any sense.”

  “He don’t got sense, Guv, what’s why the fellow’s in Bedlam.”

  They reached the end of the passage and then something jangled from the other side of the oak door. This was followed by what sounded like a slobbering dog refusing to give up its bone, which was enough to make Hobbs twitch.

  Bartlett waited for the sound to abate. “I trust your bonds are at the ready?”

  Malone physically baulked at that. “You mean the bit o’ twine’ll be needed, Mr Bartlett? Didn’t you just say the blighter’ll come willingly enough?” The little man rolled his shoulders. “Stapleton says they don’t normally give much bother.”

  “About as much bother as can be expected from twins conjoined at the head,” Bartlett snapped as he recalled Stapleton’s last visit, which preceded him having to steal Sasha and Freya out towards the waiting coach in the middle of the night. He’d explained their sudden disappearance by scattering ash around their room, pleading ignorance and suggesting the sisters had spontaneously combusted. “It never harms to be ready, just in case, and the character we got ‘ere ain’t your normal cove, you understand?”

  Malone glared wide-eyed and nodded. “Don’t you worry about that, Hobbie’ll do his dog’s knob.”

  “His what?”

  “His dog’s knob,” the vile cretin tutted, “he’ll do ‘is job. How long ‘av ya lived around ‘ere?”

  “For most of my adult li…” Bartlett shook his head, “listen, enough messing about, all right. I’ve already told you about being quick sharp with this,” he took out his timepiece, “forty-five minutes and Smith’ll be on the premises, lighting the bleeding lamps, shovelling coal into the ovens and getting the place ready for the doctors. Now…” he pocketed the instrument and unclipped the large ring of keys from his belt before proceeding to jangle through them, “one moment … ah, blast it, it’s here somewhere … what the devil are you about?”

  This last was because Hobbs had grabbed the midget and raised him towards the door, which possessed an iron shutter that acted as a window into the cell. What’s more, Malone was even now probing at the lock with two small picks.

  “You seemed to be struggling there, Guv, so I thought I’d help you out. You said it yourself, we’re in a rush.”

  “Yes, but you don’t know what’s in the bloody room. Stop that at once. There are procedures to follow, I’m the man with the bloody uniform, you listen to me.” The lock clicked, which was enough to persuade Bartlett that anymore protest was worthless on that score, but he was quick to thrust an authoritative arm between shutter and interloper. “Wait! You must prepare yourself for…”

  Something scratched and there was a clank, as though a chain’s slack had snapped taut.

  The dwarf’s legs wriggled with excitement. “Sounds like a feisty one. Come on, give us a gander at what we came for.”

  Bartlett didn’t like having his authority challenged but there was no point in further delays or giving ceremony to such trivial matters and so he lowered the shutter and recoiled back as the orange cloud washed over the three of them. “Jesus!”

  Malone was dropped and he coughed and pinched at the flesh around his eyes. “Would you get a load of that pen and ink.” He unsteadied and almost fell against the wall. “He can share a caravan with Belcher. Who the bleeding hell do you got in there, Guv?”

  Bartlett clutched a kerchief about his nose and mouth and his voice came out muffled. “Don’t know the name.”

  The chain was now a constant of jangling and clanking and Hobbs, who’d apparently not been perturbed by the blast of rotting compost, bent over to peer through the hatch.

  “Ugh?”

  It was dark inside and Bartlett shoved the ogre aside so that he could hold the lantern up to the gloom. There was a shelf on the inside of the door and he now slotted the lamp through the hatch and placed the lamp on the shelf, illuminating the room with a dance of orange and prompting an insane escalation from within.

  The patient was now absolutely slobbering, licking and yanking so hard at the chain that Bartlett feared he’d either remove the bracket from the wall or cut through his foot entirely.

  Bartlett banged the hilt of his truncheon against the door. “Stop that, you’ll bloody hurt yourself.”

  Malone was jumping up repeatedly, tugging at Hobbs’ cape. “Lift me up, lift me up.”

  Hobbs ignored his companion and again stooped to peer through the hatch. A second was all it took and he jerked back as his face screwed up in a mask of fear. “Ugh, nigger, nigger.”

  “Oh, Hobbie, what did I tell you at the circus? You can’t go around calling them niggers anymore, you have to call them negroes, darkies, jiggaboos or coons.” Malone shook his head and tutted. “Mr Bartlett, people are no more likely to pay to see a nigger than they are a juggler, unless it’s a nigger what also juggles because that would be something worth seeing. I hope we’ve not wasted our time here, Guv?”

  “What?” The night porter thrashed his arm at the air, “you’ve not even seen the man, here…” and he seized the dwarf by the scruff, lifted him and pressed his mug to the opening in the hatch, the close stench of manure from his overcoat coming as a strange relief against the vileness that was seeping out from the cell.

  The dwarf gasped an involuntary lungful of it. “Oh, Guv, what do we ‘ave ‘ere then?”

  Because whoever it was had caught something or other on the boat over from Africa, or wherever he was from, and Bartlett didn’t think there was a man in the building who knew what or where. That it was indeed a darkie was not even clear, for the man’s skin was hardly black, like a freshly shined pair of boots, but more greeny brown with patches of darker colours, almost like a salamander in human, or sub-human, form. The nose was wide, flat and flared though, the lips and gums thick, protruding and bulbous and the hair, although long, was curly and shaped like a bees nest, which in combination, along with the fact that most people had never seen a genuine negro up close, gave rise to the charge that this creature
was indeed one of those spear wielding primitive beasts the British army had spent much of the last few years fighting. He was attached to the wall by a chain clasped firmly around the ankle, which had swelled so obscenely that the slightest prod with a pointy stick might cause it to explode puss and blood. The cell walls were covered by a thick white padding, much of which had teeth marks and there were one or two spots where the sponge had been torn out completely. The man was covered in cuts and other areas that had reddened, perhaps due to the experimental probes that pinched and nipped at his skin in an attempt to make the man see sense. He was naked but for the bandages wrapped sporadically about the emaciated torso, legs and arm, and his manhood was so shrivelled by a combination of cold, blood loss and the electricity that had been sent surging through it that it was hard to tell whether he’d been gelded. Now, he cracked his teeth at the grotesque face of Malone gurning back from behind the light as the accumulation of room odour, long built up overnight, concentrated through the narrow channel that was the small hole in the door, to violently assail the dwarf’s sinuses. It was how he imagined a medieval abattoir on a hot day.

  “All right, Guv, you can put me down. I’ve had about as much of the raspberry tart as I can take.”

  Bartlett plonked him on the flags. “Well? What do you think?”

  Malone adjusted the collar of his jerkin and composed his excitement. “It’s not what I think what matters, Mr Bartlett, but what Mr Stapleton thinks and I dare say he’d say there ain’t much special about a leper absconding from some Fever Isle’s boat docking for supplies … happens every day, Guv, happens every day.” The vile cretin mushed his lips together and held his chin up as though he were preparing to stand his ground. “Say, Guv, you couldn’t shut that bleeding hatch, could you?”

  Bartlett did. But he wasn’t having this, no sir. “A leper, you say? You ever seen a leper bite through chain? Or take electricity up the anus?”

  Malone flapped a dismissive paw. “Oh, I’ve no doubt the blighter has something peculiar to these isles, Mr Bartlett, perhaps a rare strain of syphilis or some unknown and Godforsaken nigger affliction, not that I’m a medical expert of any kind, you understand Guv, but the point what I’m trying to make is that Mr Stapleton assured me that what I was travelling to collect was of something the curious public would come from afar, and pay through the fireman’s hose for a butcher’s hook, when instead, all we have is a shaved gorilla what’s missed a few meals.” He sniffed and glanced over his shoulder toward Hobbs, who was still sobbing against the wall, and made as if he were about to leave. “Oh, I’ve no doubt Mr Stapleton would welcome the fellow into his travelling freak show, but what he wouldn’t want would be for me to stump for the full, agreed price, given the aforementioned disappointment.”

  Bartlett’s heart sank as he feared the upcoming conversation with his wife, that they wouldn’t have the money to move to a more favourable part of town, and God help him then. “Well, how about we make it nine hundred guineas then?”

  Malone removed a glove to inspect his nails. “I can picture the conversation now, Mr Bartlett. Fergal, my right-hand man, what has my proxy, how did the transaction with the good chap at the asylum go? What’s that? You paid nine hundred guineas for this … this overgrown chimp? Let me just sigh and cover my eyes whilst forever regretting the unfortunate decision what I made to make you my representative in these sensitive matters of business.”

  “Ok, ok,” Bartlett shook his head and was quick to throw out a new offer, “eight fifty then.”

  Malone turned on his boot and clapped his odious companion on the arse. “Let’s go, Hobbie, I thought Mr Bartlett was serious, alas, I fear he ain’t.”

  “Well bleeding eight hundred then and do you have any idea about the kind of risk I’m taking with this arrangement?” The night porter had displayed more emotion than intended and feared he’d shown his hand.

  Malone paused then slowly turned around. “How bout we say a monkey for the monkey, Guv?”

  Bartlett gasped, “a monkey?” It was half of what he’d hoped for and he feared having to break the news to Judy that it’ll be White Chapel rather than Marylebone. “Five fifty?” He whimpered.

  Malone plucked out a gold timepiece from a chain about his neck and made a display of checking the time. “I thought you was in a hurry for the caretaker, Guv? I’m afraid a monkey is the uttermost limit of where Mr Stapleton is willing to stretch.”

  And doubtless the tinker was pocketing the rest and given the illegal nature of the transaction, Bartlett could hardly even demand a receipt. No, the cretinous dwarf had him by the town halls and he knew it.

  “Five hundred then.” Bartlett snapped as the perspiration built on his brow. This whole thing was cutting a bit fine.

  The dwarf displayed his teeth, half of which were gold, the rest having rotted into brown stumps. “Hobbie, you ‘av the sausage and mash?”

  “Ugh.” Hobbs delved inside his cape, which must have been the largest garment ever created by mankind. It was black and long, reaching almost to the ground and had flecks of mud or manure all up the back. The creature pulled out a brown leather sack about the size of a large dog’s head and handed it to Malone.

  Bartlett wiped the saliva from his mouth and plucked the coin from the dwarf’s palm.

  “Make sure to buy something nice for the old trouble and strife, Guv.”

  Bartlett jerked at that but decided against chiding Malone for mentioning his dear Judy. Instead, he untied the cord from the bag and tipped a quantity of shiny gold coins into his hand. It was the real thing, all right, but he’d be damned before trusting the imp. “I have to count it.” He fell to his knees, emptying the sack’s contents over the ground as his eyes sparkled and he began counting the coins. It was more money than he’d ever seen in his life. “Twelve, thirteen, four…”

  “Well don’t count it, Guv, weigh it.”

  Bartlett swivelled his head and snarled, “we’re an asylum for the mentally insane, not a bloody post office.”

  Malone sighed and even Hobbs made a deep groaning sound. “Yes, Hobbie, I’m dying for a gypsy’s kiss myself. Say, Guv, now might be the logical time to reconnoitre for the pan?”

  “What?” Jingle, jangle. “Oh, back to the big hall and you’ll find it on the left.” He heard them potter away and called over his shoulder. “And they’re newly installed … proper latrine bays on the wall and cubicles with seats and special flush mechanisms so please leave the place as you find it.” He was counting the coins in twenties and placing them in neat little stacks that looked like toy soldiers, only far more valuable, before sliding them against the wall for balance and he realised, after making five of the little strappers, that there was no need to count out the lot because he could save time by simply measuring their heights against the others.

  The two men returned just as Bartlett was satisfied the full five hundred golden guineas were there and he bagged them before tying the cord extra tight and stuffing the sack in the pocket of his trousers. It felt heavy and pulled taut and uncomfortable against his belt.

  “Find it all right?” The night porter enquired.

  “How I aspire to live like the other half, Mr Bartlett.” Malone nodded at the door, through which the incessant retching had never ceased. “Time to bring out Gorgeous, Mr Bartlett.”

  “Yes, right.”

  “Would you like me to open it for you, Guv?”

  The cheeky blighter. “That will not be necessary.” And Bartlett picked the dwarf up and plonked him down out of the way as though he were dealing with his five-year-old nephew. “One moment, please.” He jangled through his keys, found what he was looking for and yanked open the door, the stink like a grave robber’s crotch after a hard shift having regenerated to assault all three men with a fresh vengeance. “Quickly please.”

  Malone scurried inside, which was an odd sight, and Bartlett was quick to follow as he immediately regretted not thinking to fashion some sort of smell guard with his
kerchief, but it was too late now.

  The negro went into full seizure as his unchained foot inched so far forwards in an effort to get at his disturbers that he fell into what must have been an excruciating splits pose, like how Bartlett had seen the gymnasts do at the travelling circus, as the cartilage and ligaments reformed and stretched obscenely. Still, he tried to crawl forwards, screeching all the while, as the wall bracket shuddered and his ankle had swollen so much it might pop the shackle at any moment.

  The first one and a half men to enter had frozen but now shook it off and Malone twisted toward his companion, who was still looming in the threshold. The tinker’s face scrunched up as he withdrew a stilt from his sling and commenced thrashing at Hobbs.

  “Get in here this minute or no vittles for you.” He continued the beating as Hobbs flinched and tried to protect himself with a large clam. “In, in, you daft sod.”

  “Hey, now, that’s quite enough, you’ll hurt the man.” Bartlett wasn’t really concerned about that, but he was bothered about the time, of keeping the brute on side, and he most certainly had no desire for Smith or anyone else to find a trail of blood leading from the empty cell to the exit.

  Hobbs whimpered but obediently edged inside as Malone stepped onto the stilt and reached up, Bartlett thought, to throttle the man, but instead he simply turned up his chin whilst pulling down on the big cape’s collar.

  “You see, Guv? It’s where he got speared by the niggers. Not spoken a word o’ the Queen’s English since … mind, it’s not because they severed his vocal chords but cos he ain’t no longer got no sense and now alls he can do is work for Mr Stapleton.”

  Bartlett had no desire to gape at a man’s grotesque war wound, even if it explained his apparent phobia of negroes, and he turned away instead in the hope the dwarf would stop stalling and hurry along.

  He heard Malone patting his companion. “Good thing you’re eight feet and six inches, ain’t it, Hobbie, else you’d be squatting in the Old Nichol offering your Khyber pass to pay the Duke of Kent. If you saw the grub this guy piles down ‘im, Guv, you’d be amazed. Oh, it’s a wonder the spear chuckers dared come close, but you, yur daft sod,” and Bartlett heard what he assumed to be a playful cuff on the head, “you went and tripped over your own pin pegs, didn’t you … fell down their pit, and now it’s me who ‘as to act as your north and south. I tell you, Guv, sometimes…”