Poison in the Well

by Chris Tetreault-Blay

  The front door was left ajar, meaning Callum would not be able to arrive unannounced very easily. He cringed as he pushed it open, causing it to groan loudly on its hinges. He paused for a moment, his gun still held tightly against his thigh, peering into the awaiting darkness. He stepped forward into the kitchen, stopped for a moment more, straining his eyes so that the shadows would lift enough for him to see.

  No sight of The Caretaker. No sound, not even his own breathing. Inside he was panicking; he was never supposed to be on the back-foot. He was meant to have finished this job without any fuss, any risk and no trace left behind. He had not forced himself to act quickly, risking a sloppy finish. Something neither he could not afford nor the Society would tolerate.

  Callum held his breath as he passed through the doorway into the lounge. The air in his lungs was given a harsh and painful release when the blow struck him on the side of the head, flooring him. The Caretaker had known Callum was behind him almost the whole time and had lured him into the cottage, rather than slug it out in a narrow space that the annexe would offer. And if, by the slightest possibility, Zero was still inside his father’s secret study, The Caretaker knew the boy would not have been prepared for a fight. Although he knew Zero had his own natural self-defence mechanism, The Caretaker knew it was still unpredictable, and Zero was likely still unable to control it. The Caretaker could not risk being caught up in that either.

  Callum hit the tiled floor hard and now lay there groaning, holding the side of his head as another blow caught him between the shoulder blades, winding him. ‘You still have so much to learn,’ he told Callum, prompting another angry groan. Callum stayed down for a moment longer than he had to, giving The Caretaker the impression that he was more hurt than he actually was. He held the gun tight against his body, concealing it from whatever view The Caretaker may have had in the darkness. The trigger-hand sprang outwards as The Caretaker grabbed him by the collar of his trench coat, attempting to pull him to his feet.

  The gun was pointed directly at the Caretaker’s gut when the shot was fired. Callum heard the bullet tear through the man’s flesh, the squelch as it pierced his inners and became lodged in the sinew and muscle of his back. The Caretaker stood rigid for a few long moments, gurgling, trying to speak. And then his heavy form slumped to the tiles.

  Callum breathed in deeply through his nose, the air now tinged with a coppery taste as the blood pooled underneath The Caretaker’s body. ‘No,’ Callum said breathlessly, ‘it is you who has much to learn, old man.’ Callum spat on him and then left, leaving The Caretaker to die. As synapses started to misfire through the pain, The Caretaker knew it was the end for him, but also knew that it would not be swift. This was his punishment for his betrayal to the Society. They likened it to treason; punishable by death. A slow, agonising death.

  Callum returned to his car, largely unaffected by the act he had committed. It wasn’t the first time he had killed, but this was most definitely his most prized trophy. The Caretaker, much like Morden, had been kept close for longer than the Society had wanted to. But it was more out of necessity than want. He knew too much, had once been part of the Inner Circle. They had to wait for exactly the right moment, the right circumstance, to rid their ranks of him.

  The Caretaker had made himself a target by liasing with Dean Morden privately for many years. He had divulged more information than the Society had permitted. And now, it was all going to end and he – Callum Laing – was going to erase Dean Morden, his wretched family legacy and The Caretaker with it, in one very final action.

  Callum returned with an oil can from the boot of his car and an old rag. He started in Morden’s hidden office in the tower. Callum poured the gasoline from the can carefully over each surface, making sure to not spill a morsel on himself in the process. He used the final remnants in the can to soak the rag and threw it upon Morden’s desk.

  He surveyed the room once more, a sickly smugness radiating through him as he pondered the history – the danger – he was about to erase from the Society’s charter. Standing in the doorway to the office, he flicked open his Zippo lighter, held it high for a final moment of victory and tossed it upon the desk. The rag ignited hungrily within an instant. Callum was already at the front door by the time the desk itself was ablaze.

  He afforded himself one more minute to cross back to the cottage. He stepped just inside the kitchen and paused, silently. He held his own breath to listen. He could still hear The Caretaker’s groans and strangled breathing. It pleased him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  William Spender relaxed with his feet on his desk, pushing his weight back into his comfy leather recliner chair as he lit another cigarette. He checked his watch again. 7:03am. It had been a long night. He had released the orders to be given to Callum Laing at short notice, it seemed, but in truth he had been planning it for ages. He and the rest of the Inner Circle knew what was to happen, but in true Society fashion they kept all details on a need-to-know basis. Callum Laing, he decided, didn’t need to know anything until he was being asked to do it.

  By now the deed would be done. The Caretaker was due to return to the house at six a.m. but deep down Spender knew better than to plan for that. The Caretaker must have known the target had already been painted on his back by that point and had prepared for it. He would – should – have known the Society was listening to him at all times. Giving a false time to Zero Morden and returning earlier to Spinwood to extract him from harm’s way would have been The Caretaker’s real plan. Let truth be known, Spender would have been disappointed if that hadn’t have been the case. He had, however, trained all of his men well. The Caretaker included.

  There would be no emergency call from neighbouring properties when they saw Spinwood had gone up in flames. Not in time, anyway. Spender had put measures in place to intercept calls to the emergency services that night, from all properties within a one-mile radius. This would help inform him when the fire had started and when to send his clean-up crews in. They had been despatched an hour earlier. Due to the size of Spinwood itself, and it’s proximity from the nearest neighbours, it had taken a few hours to even be noticed.

  The kid, Zero Morden, had also been taken care of. Doctor Chandler’s office had already called to say he had been collected by another of the Society’s trusted employees, known simply as The Driver. He would be of no further consequence.

  Spender reclined some more, taking another deep drag from his cigarette, and smiled. Finally, after all of these years, his mind felt clear. Morden was gone. The boy was gone. The snitch, the mole – The Caretaker – was also no more. And Morden’s own intelligence – the years-worth of files he had snaffled away from the Society’s clutches – were now nothing more than ash and dust.

  Still, there was a niggling feeling in the pit of Spender’s stomach. There had still been no news from Callum Laing. He had been ordered to call in as soon as the deed was done and he was a safe mile away from Spinwood. But still nothing. Spender took another drag to calm his nerves.

  Just then there was an urgent knock on the door, and before he could permit the caller’s entry the door swung open and Frederick Falmer appeared in front of him. Falmer urgently closed the door behind him. His forehead glistened with sweat. There were dark patches on his shirt under his arms. Falmer spoke before Spender had the chance.

  ‘The Driver is dead,’ he said. William Spender paused, cigarette in hand, as a chill took hold of his stomach. ‘Did you hear me?’ Falmer urged, irritably. Spender nodded and stubbed the remainder of his cigarette.

  ‘And the boy?’ Spender asked, looking dead ahead at the wisp of smoke drifting up from his ash tray.

  ‘Gone,’ Famler said, himself unable to meet Spender’s gaze. Those piercing blue eyes shot straight towards Falmer as he said it, although no other part of him moved.

  ‘Get hold of Laing,’ Spender ordered.

  ‘We’ve already tried. There’s no answer,’ Falmer replied.

  ‘
Trace the line’, Spender suggested. All Society-issue mobile phones were fitted with trackers so, even without the call being answered, they would know where their agents were at all times.

  ‘We have’, Falmer replied urgently. ‘It’s still showing he’s at Spinwood.’

  For the first time, Spender’s brow furrowed. This would mean one of two things; either Laing was dead and an extra victim of the blaze or…

  He didn’t bear think that a prized asset such as Callum Laing had betrayed and deserted them in the same way Morden and The Caretaker had. Spender slammed his fist on his desk, before bringing his hands together again and rested his chin on them.

  ‘However,’ Famer continued, taking a step towards the desk and setting down the laptop from under his arm. Opening it up, Falmer span the laptop around so Spender could see the map on the screen. A blue dot flashed as it moved along. ‘We can still track his car. He’s on the move.’

  Spender watched the dot as it moved further south-west. His face hardened as his scrambled thoughts merged. Although he knew Falmer was desperate to tell him where they surmised Callum was going, Spender already knew.

  ‘Let him go,’ Spender said.

  Falmer looked at his boss, concerned. ‘But sir,…’

  ‘Let him go!’ Spender roared, standing up as he tapped a fresh cigarette on its box before placing it between his pursed lips. ‘This could all work out very well for us, after all.’ Spender dismissed Falmer, ordering him to task Logistics with monitoring Callum Laing’s movements.

  When he was alone again, he poured himself a large brandy. He may have managed to convince Falmer, albeit weakly, that everything was still in hand. But in reality, he was shaken. He was now wishing that Callum Laing had died at Spinwood. It would have been a kinder fate for them all.

  *****

  It was Doctor Victor Chandler that had made the call to Frederick Falmer to let him know about The Driver’s demise. However, it was not Chandler himself who found the body. He had received direct contact from David Baker, one of the Society’s clean-up crew who had been despatched thirty minutes after The Driver had left the hospital with Zero Morden. Baker had already been given the location to which The Driver had been told to take his passenger to, as an insurance policy in case The Driver had been unsuccessful in his own assignment to assassinate the boy. A very necessary contingency, as it turned out.

  Chandler knew it would likely be a suicide mission for Baker. He had read extensive reports of what had happened to many people within close proximity to Zero Morden ever since he was a child, to the point that Chandler had memorised them. However, Chandler’s retention of the gruesome details was not a reflection of his studious nature – which in itself was impressive – but a testament to how horrifying the reports had been. In order to gauge Baker’s own chances of survival, Chandler quick-fired some seemingly standard questions.

  ‘Describe what you see,’ Chandler urged. There were a few long moments of Baker’s heavy breathing before he responded.

  ‘I can’t...ah, God…’ Baker swallowed hard, forcing the nausea back down. It would overcome him sooner or later, he knew that, but hoped it would stay at bay long enough to get this call over with. ‘Deceased still lying on his back. All exposed outer flesh has been destroyed.’ The words sounded absurd in his mind, but his eyes told him that what he was saying was very, very real. ‘Traces of a tar-like substance still present at various parts of the exposed and damaged…whatever is left of him.’

  From his perspective, The Driver’s body looked like fresh, jellied minced beef. The Driver’s still-present trousers and bomber jacket were the only thing that gave the form any human-like quality, but only because they were still intact. David Baker gagged as he thought of what was possibly left of the man’s left beneath the fabric. He caught the vomit in his mouth and reflexively swallowed it again. He breathed in deeply through his nose, the taste of bile burning. ‘Temperature of the deceased at this stage unknown, but by the look of the steam still emanating from his corpse…this guy has been cooked.’ At that, Baker’s guts took control and expelled his breakfast at his feet.

  ‘Good work, David,’ Chandler said flatly. ‘Any chance of transporting him back here?’ Chandler already knew what the answer would be, but felt he had to ask, to give Baker some sense of reality.

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend that, sir,’ Baker replied.

  ‘Very well, we will take care of him there. Tell me David, have you touched him?’

  Another moment of silence, but this time not even the sound of Baker’s breath. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘OK David, thank you. Please put one of the others on the phone. Await further instructions. And well done. Good work.’ Baker nodded as he handed the phone to another of the clean-up crew behind him, one of three men decked out in head-to-toe protective HAZMAT suits. The man took the phone as Baker turned away, no longer able to bear to look at the viscera that was once The Driver. The man on the phone responded to Chandler’s instructions with single-word answers. Baker vomited again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he heard the space-suited operative say ‘You got it, sir’ and hung up the phone.

  As Baker turned to the man once more, about to receive his next instruction - already looking forward to getting the hell out of there – but only saw the man nod to the operative standing directly behind him. The world then disappeared in a flash of white as the bullet shot through the base of his skull and exploded his brain inside its casing.

  Two of the men then picked up David Baker’s body and dumped him on top of the grisly remains of The Driver. The third returned to the van, flamethrower in hand, and torched them both. Take no chances, Chandler had told the man on the phone. Put an end to it.

  Chandler knew from the off that Baker would not leave the site alive. It was too much of a contamination risk. Whatever it was that spewed from Zero Morden was nothing like he had ever witnessed before. And he would not be held responsible for bringing it back anywhere near his men.

  Chandler was already guilty of lying to William Spender by not divulging the full details of The Driver’s demise – punishable by death – but had only done so through necessity; mainly to keep himself alive. He felt hemmed in at all corners, as if he was in a room with the walls closing in, only the walls were covered in long steel spikes. It was a dramatic vision but one that threatened to keep him awake at night nonetheless. Had he told Spender exactly what had happened to The Driver, he knew that Spender would have sent the same precautions to wipe Chandler and all of his crew from the payroll. Not simply for the threat of spreading Zero Morden’s disease, but Chandler’s head would be on the block for one simple reason; he had fucked up. He had let Morden leave the hospital – not once, but twice – with the insistence that it was all in control and Chandler’s assurance to the board that The Driver would not fail.

  But he had failed. And now Zero Morden was missing and with each passing moment slipping further from their grip, having made use of The Driver’s car. Two of his men were dead, and Chandler had to ensure no more followed. The bodies burned silently, unnoticed. Chandler was tired, but thanks to his actions he knew he could now look forward to a good night’s sleep.

  COMING SOON

  Poison In The Well: Part Two

  A sneak preview of the next instalment in The Wildermoor Resurrection. What horrors does Wildermoor hold in store for her two returning sons?

  *****

  Stand on the most northern tip of the great central plain, your back to the grand farmhouse that once commanded Tewke’s Range, and you’re given the most undisturbed and cherished view of Wildermoor. Even from that point you can view tufts of lush green grass bowing gently to the wind as it floats across the basin. It was the one reason why the Childs family – once one of the two families whose sweat and toils Wildermoor owed its renewed existence to – chose this spot for their homestead.

  Follow the dusty dirt path back to the house, rounding the bulk of the stables to your rig
ht, and down the modest gravel courtyard, following the road for half a mile and you would find The Weary Traveller; another of the Childs family’s gifts to their community. The tavern had long since been the centre of the town; to some it served a loftier purpose than even St Jude’s Church. Even in the depths of winter, when the ground was covered in white for as far as your sight could behold, a warm glow emanated from the windows of the pub. Laughter could be heard inside. Scenes of merriment could be viewed simply by the shadows cast against the heavy curtains during nightfall.

  People laughed. People loved. People lived. For centuries it had been the same. True, as the world changed around them, the citizens of Wildermoor were largely powerless to stop such change creeping into their homes. New technologies replaced the things that were once considered vital to every man, woman and child’s everyday life. Horses were withdrawn from the roads and retired to the fields and stables. Their carts were broken down and used for firewood, soon replaced entirely by new hunks of metal powered down the streets by oil and steel engines. The warmth of the fireplace soon gave way to pipes hidden beneath walls, radiating heat from within. Silently. Unseen. The need for conversation by firelight were soon replaced by bouts of silence in front of the glare of a television set.

  Life had changed. In some ways, for the better. In many ways, for the worse. But no matter how much we deduce and dissect it now, we cannot escape the one blinding fact; at least there had been life.

  That was then. But now, Wildermoor was a much different place.