Ghostland (Book 2): Ghostland 2

by Whittington, Shaun

  Nobody protested or asked what he was doing. They didn’t have chance. Once he was gone, Helen bolted the side door and everyone inside the cabin could hear Donald Brownstone hollering outside, trying to entice the dead away from the cabin and to follow him.

  Dicko was impressed and thought that it was an incredibly selfless act, but felt it was all for the benefit of Helen and David, people Donald deeply cared about, and not for him and Yoler. Despite that, it was still a brave thing to do by Donald.

  The smacking of hands and the groaning slowly but surely dissipated, and the individuals inside the cabin guessed that Donald’s hollering had attracted the dead, and most of them had moved away from the cabin and were hopelessly trying to pursue Donald, going deeper into the woods.

  It was clear that they were moving away, because the slapping and the scratching had almost stopped, and Dicko said to the others, “It’s working.”

  Yoler shook her head and managed a smile. “The mad bald bastard.”

  “What do we do when it’s all clear?” Lisa asked in a whisper.

  “Nothing,” said Dicko softly. “We stay here until the morning. Try and get some sleep. Donald will be back.”

  “What if Donald doesn’t come back?” Lisa asked Dicko.

  Dicko smiled at all three females. “He’ll be back.”

  After six minutes had passed, there was silence. The dead were gone.

  All the Canavars had moved elsewhere, thanks to Donald Brownstone.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Donald Brownstone’s heart was in his mouth. His breathing was erratic, but he knew that what he was doing was for the benefit of five lives. The main two lives he cared about were Helen and the boy. Lisa seemed nice as well, but he wasn’t bothered about Dicko and Yoler. They had never bonded the whole month he had stayed at the farmhouse, and they were eventually desperate to see the back of him.

  The burning candle that Donald was holding had managed to survive the short journey he had taken so far, thanks to the lack of wind. It had now gone out due to his increased pace and frantic turning around every three seconds to see where the dead were.

  The last time he looked, before the candle died, they were ten to fifteen yards away. He was making progress, but he wasn’t sure if there were any in front of him. He put his hand in his pocket and realised he had left the lighter in the cabin. Cussing, he threw the useless candle to the floor and was now holding his blade, ready for any nasty surprises.

  The noises of snarling and clumsy feet from the Canavars behind was beginning to diminish the further he walked, and he thought about increasing his pace to a jog. The trouble was that he couldn’t see what was in front of him, and he was bumping into the occasional tree and branch just walking through the heavy plantation.

  “Come on, Donald. You can do it.”

  He wanted to reach an area where there was space, even a main road. It didn’t matter where he ended up. He was sure that he’d be able to find his way back to the camp. It would still be pitch black, but these woods had other dangers as well as the Canavars that were pursuing him.

  He thought for a second about climbing one of the large trees and staying there until the morning, but common sense prevailed rather quickly.

  What happened if he tried to climb one and then fell and sprained his ankle or broke his leg? Any kind of injury in this new and nefarious world was something best to avoid. Even if he climbed with success, and was twenty feet off the ground, what would he do if the dead somehow knew where he was but couldn’t get to him? These persistent bastards would surround the tree and would never move until he fell or climbed down.

  No, the tree idea wasn’t going to work. And it would also mean that he would be sleep deprived the next morning, as sleeping in a tree was near impossible.

  He continued to walk briskly, aware that there could be holes or ditches that could make him lose his footing and sprain something, or a dormant animal trap that could easily break or injure his foot.

  He waved his arms in front of him, like a blind man who had lost his cane, and occasionally slapped the trunk of a tree and felt the scrape of a hanging branch, but at least his feet were treading on level ground for the time being.

  He felt a small gust of wind stroking his face, and could sense that an open stretch of road was up ahead. The trees were thinning out and he was now hitting fewer trunks, and fewer branches were trying to scrape and prick and stab at his body.

  He finally stepped out into the open air and looked up to the stars that looked like scattered glitter, then wondered where he could go to ride this episode out until the morning. He didn’t want to be walking for the rest of the night/early hours of the morning, because he was too tired, he didn’t want to bump into any further danger, and he didn’t want the daylight to return and realise that he didn’t know where the fuck he was.

  Donald walked along the road, his tired feet scraping along the tarmac, and somehow managed to follow the road that began to bend. He stopped walking when the sound of scraping could be heard up ahead.

  “Fuck. Not another one,” he moaned.

  For months, Donald had hardly seen any of the dead and had put this down to two things: being in the countryside, and the fact that there probably weren’t that many around anymore, due to being destroyed by humans and literally rotting away to the bone.

  His walk continued and his mind began to wander. He thought about his ex-wife, and wondered if she was still breathing, but he very much doubted it. He had nothing against his ex. She was a nice woman, and Donald knew that it was his bad temper and excessive drinking that had caused a rift in the marriage, even when Charlie was alive. But as soon as his son passed away, the marriage died with him. The bad temper and the excessive drinking increased, and Donald’s wife was left with no choice but to get rid of the man that frightened her.

  Donald’s daydreaming came to an abrupt halt when he heard something. It was something Donald hadn’t heard for a while. It was the sound of a vehicle.

  He sidestepped into the woods and could see the dipped headlights of a vehicle brightening up the main road. He could now see the lone Canavar, shambling along the road, the one that he had heard before his daydream. It was heading in Donald’s direction and had its back to the headlights.

  The vehicle stopped, still drenching the road and the ghoul. The dead figure turned around and began walking ungainly towards the headlights.

  “Right, Stuart,” a man’s voice called out. “This one’s yours. And hurry up. I don’t like being out here on a night.”

  “Why?” a young voice asked.

  “Because it’s late, and we don't want to bump into the meat wagon,” said the male voice.

  The young man cackled and said, “Meat wagon? That’s just a myth.”

  “I’m telling you,” the man began. “Joe Kelly, months ago, was out with his wife and decided to go into the woods for a piss. The van pulled up, she was dragged into the back of it before Joe had a chance to run after her.”

  “You know what they do to people, don’t you, Stuart?” a new voice spoke up.

  “They’re cannibals,” said the young voice. “They abduct people and kill them for food.”

  Donald peered out from the long bracken and could just about see that the vehicle was some kind of pickup. There were three guys in the front of the vehicle, and had the interior light on with both windows wound down, and he could also see a young man holding a baseball bat, walking towards the Canavar. The young boy, Stuart, looked nervous, and Donald thought that maybe this was some kind of initiation test for the youngster, something that would make him accepted by the gang.

  The young man, who couldn’t have been older than nineteen, stood sideways, bent his knee and pulled the bat back.

  He waited. And waited.

  Donald, for whatever reason, was hoping that the young man would do it without any help from the others. The young man took in a deep breath and swung the bat once the dead being was in striking d
istance.

  First strike!

  The Canavar fell to the ground, producing a cheer from the other three guys that were sitting in the cab of the vehicle, and the youngster hit the thing once again. With the adrenaline taking over, young Stuart brought the bat down again and again, until the head was turned into a bloody mushy mess.

  The men cheered, Stuart turned to his audience and punched the air, but then he turned to the side and threw up, causing laughter amongst the three men.

  “Don’t worry about it, Stuart,” the driver called out, head hanging out of the window. “It happens after your first time. All you need to do now is drag the body to the side of the road and get back in the pickup.”

  Stuart did as he was told and apologised to the men as he headed back to the vehicle.

  “It’s okay,” the driver said. “We won’t tell Orson that you threw up.”

  There was that name again, Donald thought. Orson.

  The vehicle began to move again, once all were inside the pickup, and went by the hiding Donald. The place was covered with a blanket of darkness once again.

  Now that the coast was clear, Donald stood to his feet and made the short walk out of the woods and walked along the road again.

  He looked around him and literally couldn’t see anything. He needed to find somewhere to sleep. Soon.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Yoler and Dicko were the first to wake in the cabin. They guessed that they had about four or five hours sleep. They felt okay now, but knew by the afternoon that the lack of sleep would catch up with them. Once everyone was awake, Yoler and Dicko told them what they planned to do. Yoler and Dicko needed to go back to the farmhouse and bury Simon, and also tidy up Imelda’s grave.

  “I should really go with you,” Helen said. “I really liked Simon. I should be there to say goodbye.”

  “You stay with your son,” Dicko said with a comforting tone. “You can say goodbye to him once he’s been buried. We can all go up later on.”

  Helen agreed and said, “We’ll wait for Donald to come back. I’m dying to brush my teeth.”

  “We’ll see what there is left at the farmhouse,” Yoler said. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath. I’ve got a feeling that it’s been burned to the ground.”

  Yoler and Dicko unbolted the door and popped their heads out to see if it was clear. Everybody inside was certain it was. They hadn’t heard a thing from outside since Donald had left.

  The two left the cabin and walked through the woods, heading for the pond in silence. They went by the pond, through the cluster of trees, and walked through the long grass of the field. They stopped walking and looked at the farmhouse from a distance.

  They gazed at the smouldering farmhouse with sadness. Even the small barn had been torched. Like Yoler had guessed, it was ruined. It was a shame. It could have been a great home for them, long term, but it never worked out, thanks to Hando.

  They were at the hill within minutes with their quick pace and went up it, with their breath now getting heavier, and their hearts trotting at a quicker pace. They stood and looked at Imelda’s ruined grave, and then their eyes fixed on Simon’s body that was still wrapped in the sheet, flies buzzing around it and crows circling above them.

  Thankfully, no stray animal had come along and had a nibble, and Dicko was also surprised that not one Canavar had tried to eat him. Maybe he wasn’t fresh enough, or they simply didn’t know that a human body was wrapped in the sheet, and they were distracted by the fire and the fleeing people during the melee.

  Yoler remained staring at the back of the place and shook her head with sadness. Dicko went to the side to see the Mazda smouldering away, and then returned to the back and stood next to Yoler.

  “There should be shovels by the trees, next to Imelda’s grave,” Dicko said, finally breaking the silence between the pair of them.

  “I know, Dicky Boy.” Yoler looked at the side and flashed Dicko a cheeky smile. “It was me that put them there.”

  “A shame about Simon,” Dicko said. “I really liked the guy.”

  Yoler agreed and nodded. “We should be used to it, me and you. I mean, how many people have you got to know over the last twelve months and have lost them?”

  “Too many,” sighed Dicko. “Although for many months, like I’ve already told you before, I was on my own and kind of lost my mind for a while.”

  “I think I was a little lost as well, mentally. But what you’ve been through, losing your family ... that’s something I couldn’t even comprehend.”

  “We’ve all suffered, Yoler. It’s not a competition.”

  They had a minute breather before heading over to the shovels. They finally grabbed them and went over to Simon’s body. They stood by the body, gazed down and used the shovels to lean on. They then looked over at Imelda’s grave that had been vandalised by Hando’s men.

  “We’ll fix Imelda’s grave first,” Dicko began to speak. “Then we’ll dig a hole next to her and put Simon there.”

  He looked at Yoler for a response and could see her head down, her eyes filling. He had never seen her upset before. Not like this. He placed his hand on her shoulder and she looked up.

  “You okay?” he asked her.

  “Never better,” she responded sarcastically.

  He took his hand off her shoulder and nodded at Imelda’s grave. “Shall we?”

  Dicko took a step over to the grave, but Yoler stopped him from going any further when she said his name.

  Dicko turned around and asked, “What is it?”

  “Give me a cuddle.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need one.”

  Dicko dropped his shovel and Yoler did the same.

  The two adults embraced and remained in that position, the pair of them crying. Two minutes later, they broke away from their embrace and dried their eyes, almost embarrassed that the two tough cookies had let themselves go in such a way.

  Minutes had passed, and Imelda’s grave had been fixed. Simon’s grave had been dug, and the body had been put to rest, with Dicko grabbing Simon’s shoulders, and Yoler taking the legs.

  Dicko and Yoler then placed the dug up soil over Simon’s body and were finished after fifteen minutes. Altogether, they had been away from the cabin for over an hour, and both dropped the shovels and walked away from the two graves without uttering a single prayer.

  “Wait,” Yoler spoke, stopping Dicko in his tracks.

  “What is it?”

  “Not everything is ruined.” She pointed over at the vegetable patches and the buckets of soil where the potatoes were planted.

  Dicko smiled. “We’ll come back for them. Come on,” he urged his female companion. “Let’s go back to our new place. I’m exhausted.”

  Tired, Yoler Sanders and Paul Dickson made their way back to the camp, to their new home.

  Chapter Forty

  Refreshed and hydrated, Gavin Bertrand and Grace Newton were ready to hit the road. The two of them had been up ‘til midnight, talking about their past and present, and Gavin announced to the young woman that in order to survive in the long term, they needed to leave the street. There was nothing here, but he told Grace that he knew a place where they would be safe. It was a farm, a place he hadn’t been to before, but a place where he knew that good people stayed. Grace liked and trusted Gavin, and agreed to go with him.

  They stepped out of the musty smelling house and went out into the street.

  “What a shame.” Gavin turned and had a look at the diminutive street they were about to leave.

  “What’s a shame?” asked Grace. The eighteen-year-old ran her fingers through her dark bobbed hair, and rubbed her crusty eyes. She had only been awake for an hour, but Gavin insisted that they should leave as soon as they could, so they had plenty of daylight to play with.

  “If we had the supplies, a nearby pond or brook, then this place would be perfect. The street’s abandoned, there’s—”

  “But we have nothing, n
ot really,” Grace moaned. “Nothing that could even keep us going for a week. That’s why we’re leaving. It’s nice that the place has nobody in it and is safe, but that isn’t going to help our grumbling stomachs.”

  “Okay, okay,” Gavin began to laugh. “Don’t ruin my fantasy.”

  Grace asked Gavin if he was ready to go, and she verbally asked the man why they were standing around like a couple of fannies.

  Gavin smiled at the cheeky teenager and told her to start walking. He put a bag over his shoulder that had snacks and a couple of bottles of water inside it, and then began to lead the way.

  “So how long do you think this’ll take?” Grace asked, trying to lengthen her strides so that she could keep up with Gavin.

  “Dunno.” Gavin shrugged his shoulders. “How long’s a piece of string? Just keep up the pace, and hopefully we’ll get to that farm by the afternoon.”

  “It’s not that far, is it?” Grace moaned.

  “Well,” Gavin sighed. “I’m not sure where I’m going at the moment. Maybe I’ll recognise something the more walking we do.”

  They walked side by side, with Grace struggling to keep up with Gavin’s long strides.

  Grace huffed and puffed and could see that Gavin was getting ahead of her. As the minutes went by, the more he seemed to be progressing ahead, and he didn’t seem to notice until he turned around to speak to her.

  “Keep up,” he said, and then laughed. “Bloody slow coach.”

  “You’re too quick,” Grace whined. “I can’t keep up.”

  “The trouble with you...”

  Gavin Bertrand suddenly stopped walking and never finished the sentence that was directed at Grace. Grace also stopped and looked at Gavin, wondering what was up.

  “What is it?” Grace’s impatience had got the better of her and she had to ask. She couldn’t help herself.

  “Two things,” said Gavin. “I think I know where I am now.”

  “Okay.” Grace looked at her companion with a scowl. “And the other thing?”