“Why?” she persisted. “Why doesn’t he wake up?”
There was no point beating around the bush. Dicko had seen this many times before, so he decided to tell her straight. “He’s slipped into a coma. He won’t wake up now.”
“What do you mean?” she cried. “What are you saying?”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Dicko groaned. “He’s going to turn.”
Helen shook her head and continually said the word no over and over, but she knew that Dicko was right. She knew that the reality was that her baby boy was as good as dead. He was beyond help.
“Listen,” Dicko began. “I know you don’t wanna hear this right now, but he’s gonna have to be taken care of. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
She nodded as tears streamed down her face.
“You’re gonna have to say your goodbyes pretty soon, because once his heart stops, he’ll start to turn.”
“How are we going to do this?”
“It’s okay. I’ll take care of him.”
“No, you won’t,” a voice bellowed from behind, making Helen and Dicko gasp. It was Donald. “I’ll do it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Next Day
It was two minutes after midnight, not that time mattered so much in this new world, and a new day was upon the group of survivors. The candle in the cabin was still alive and flickered, and the one outside that had been placed into the ground was still alive, although it had gone out on a couple of occasions and had to be re-lit.
Helen had spent many minutes clutching her son and kissing his head, refusing to let him go. The longer she stayed with him, the more likely he could turn in her arms. This was something that had to be delicately explained to the woman, and although she understood, she begged for one more minute with her only child.
Donald, the volunteer to put David to rest properly, held his knife in his right clammy hand and crouched next to the distraught mother.
Helen Willis gave her son one last kiss, tears streaming down her cheeks, and reluctantly gave Donald a nod.
She stood up and her legs wobbled, then Yoler entered the cabin and hooked her arm with Helen’s and the two females slowly exited the cabin.
Helen collapsed to the floor and broke down. Helen’s fall had taken Yoler by surprise and she couldn’t hold her up in time as the distraught woman fell.
She was on the ground and being comforted by Grace. The sobbing coming from the mother made Yoler wince for a few reasons. Losing her child must have been the worst feeling in the world. And the selfish reason why Yoler was uncomfortable with Helen’s breakdown was that her crying could entice more of the Canavars from afar.
She decided to hold her tongue.
What could she have said? I know you’re hurting, but is there any chance you could keep the volume down?
Yoler and Dicko watched helplessly as the two females who had lost a family member consoled one another. Dicko’s eyes then turned their attention to the cabin. He couldn’t see anything. The door was open, and the candlelight revealed a part of the place, including the foot of the bed, but neither Donald or the deceased David could be seen. Donald was a tough man, and although he loved that boy like he was his own son, he was sure he could put the boy to rest. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was the right thing to do.
A minute had passed and Yoler and Dicko hadn’t exchanged a single word. Dicko puffed out a breath and headed for the cabin, leaving Yoler standing by herself and the two broken-hearted females on the floor.
Dicko climbed the few steps to the entrance of the cabin and peered inside. Donald was sitting in the corner of the wooden place and had embraced the boy, little David, in his arms. Donald was crying and stroking the boy’s head. The scene almost moved Paul Dickson to tears when the memories of his own son’s death, nearly a year ago, were brought back to his attention.
Dicko was about to clear his throat to get Donald’s attention. He wanted to tell the man to hurry up, as the boy could turn any second, but Dicko quickly spotted the bloody blade by Donald’s feet.
The deed had been done.
Dicko left the place, giving Donald some peace, and made slow steps back to Yoler.
“Everything okay?” she asked him.
Dicko nodded. “We need to dig three graves.”
*
The three graves were dug at the right side of the cabin. There was only one shovel and the ground was tough, but Donald insisted on digging all three.
Dicko and Donald were the ones to lay the bodies in the shallow grave. Donald looked exhausted, and despite the trauma of the night, he looked like he needed to sleep. They all did.
Dicko offered to cover the bodies with the dug up dirt and Donald agreed and sat down. It seemed cruel that only David was wrapped in a sheet and Gavin and Lisa lay with nothing but the clothes on their back. To pile dirt on their uncovered faces seemed cruel and unjust, and Donald insisted on using his own sheet to wrap David in.
The five remaining survivors stood around the three graves at the right side of the cabin, three of them in tears. Yoler and Dicko, the only ones that weren’t in tears, looked at one another. They were both thinking the same thing. It sounded heartless. But the longer they stayed outside, with the sobbing and the light from the candle, the higher the likelihood of more Canavars turning up.
Eventually, people decided to turn in, and both grieving females shared the bed, sobbed gently, and hugged one another. The candle from outside was blown out and all five went into the cabin and Dicko placed a small cabinet against the door because the lock had been broken when Hando had kicked it in.
This whole scenario brought it back to Dicko when he had to bury his own son. He remembered being at Sandy Lane, with his friends to either side of him. Kyle Dickson had been tightly wrapped up in sheets, and had already been placed into the shallow grave that was just over three feet in depth when Dicko had arrived.
He remembered most of the people’s names that were there. There was Lee James, Rick Morgan, Bentley Drummle, a girl called Sheryl, Charles Washington, Henry Winter, Garth Bateman and Jon Talbot. Dicko remembered a woman called Rosemary who stood behind with a young sobbing girl called Lisa, and a woman called Gillian Hardcastle was standing next to a tearful young woman called Jasmine Kelly.
After the few words were spoken, a young girl called Lisa sang the opening lines to Stevie Wonder's You are the Sunshine of My Life, a song that Dicko and his wife used to sing to Kyle, especially when he was a baby.
Yoler and Dicko sat at the side of the cabin with the other three at the other end. Donald was lying on the floor with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Helen and Grace held each other on the bed. The red stumpy candle was slowly diminishing the longer it burned, and Dicko asked the four of them if he could blow the candle out as they all needed to rest, despite the extremely difficult circumstances Grace and Helen were experiencing.
Nobody responded, so Dicko blew the candle out and lay on the floor, next to Yoler. He felt wide awake, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and it seemed like he was staring into the darkness for hours.
*
Dicko’s eyes opened when a chill shook his frame. The sound of the wind alerted him even more, and the man sat up and looked around the cabin. The door to the cabin was open by a few inches and the cabinet against it had moved. Either somebody or something tried to get in, or somebody had snuck out and tried to put the cabinet back.
He stood to his feet and could see that dawn was breaking and could see that somebody was missing.
He crept around the cabin, trying not to wake anybody up, and heard the voice of Donald Brownstone.
“What are you doing, Dicko?” he snapped. “Fuck’s sake, I’m lucky to have gotten two hours sleep, you dig what I’m sayin’?”
“Somebody’s missing.”
“What do you mean?” Donald took out his lighter and lit the candle that was on the floor. As soon as the flame lit the cabin up, D
onald cried, “Where’s Helen?”
“Shit.”
The two men moved the cabinet from the door and left the cabin, leaving Grace and Yoler stirring and groaning from the noise. Dawn was breaking and thankfully there was some light to guide the men.
“Donald, wait up!” Dicko called out.
Donald ran through the cluster of trees to their left, heading to the pond, and Dicko tried to keep up with him. There was no one at the pond area and both men could see that the field, and the hill that led up to the burnt-out farmhouse, didn’t have a soul on it.
“Where could she be?” The panic was hard for Donald to hide and he was getting more anxious by the minute.
“Maybe she’s gone for a walk.”
“No.” Donald shook his head. “Let’s try the woods.”
They went through the group of trees again, went by the cabin, and entered the woods. Donald was running and Dicko was struggling to keep up. He yelled at Donald to slow down and warned him about the ditch that Hando had fallen in. The day had begun, but in the woods it was still risky, as the trees hid the sun that was slowly rising. Donald had run ahead and was about ten yards further than Dicko who was finding it difficult to keep up.
Dicko felt like his lungs were on fire and was about to give up running, when he saw Donald, from about twenty yards away, standing still, facing right and looking upwards. Dicko walked in the direction of Donald and was baffled why he suddenly decided to stop running, and once the man dropped to his knees and placed the palms over his face, Dicko feared the worst.
Dicko could see the ditch a few yards on the left and decided to peer down. The two Canavars were still in there, but there was nothing left of Hando, except blood, bones and bits of his clothes. Dicko winced at the thought of such a gruesome death, and made his way over to a distraught looking Donald, who was still on his knees, bent over, and crying so hard that Dicko thought his heart was going to break.
No words needed to be said.
Dicko looked to his right and could see that the thought of life without her son wasn’t worth living. She had made a drastic decision, and it was something that broke Donald. The blue rope that she had taken from the cabin had been tied around the thick branch that was nine feet off the ground and a noose had been made and placed around her neck. She must have climbed the tree to get to the branch and then jumped off, but how long had she been swinging?
Dicko walked a few steps by Donald’s side and placed his arm on the shoulder of the man that was still on his knees. “I’m sorry, Donald.”
Donald shook his head and gazed at the lifeless body of the woman he loved. Her face was colourless and he couldn’t imagine what the last minute of her life was like.
Donald gulped and sighed, “I’ll cut her down.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Donald climbed the tree and had cut Helen down. Instead of allowing the poor woman’s body to drop in a heap to the ground, Dicko stood underneath her, ready to catch the falling corpse.
Once the rope was cut and the body caught, a sobbing Donald climbed down and took her from Dicko’s arms.
The two men silently walked back to the camp, under a cloud of melancholy, and when they arrived at the cabin, Grace and Yoler were waiting for them by the steps. Both women placed their hands over their mouths once they clocked Helen in Donald’s arms, and started to form tears.
Donald fell to his knees, still holding Helen, and kissed her on the top of her head as the other three helplessly watched.
“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I tried everything to keep you and David safe, but ... I failed. I failed miserably.”
“It’s not your fault,” Yoler decided to pipe up. “If anything, Dicko and I should have told you when we first saw Hando, we...”
Dicko placed his hand on Yoler’s shoulder as she paused and both hugged. He looked over at Grace. The eighteen-year-old girl stood with her head bowed, sobbing. She had no one left in the world now. She had lost her sister, and now her mother and friend.
Dicko broke away from Yoler and went over to console Grace. This had been his saddest day since burying his son. Even the death of Isobel Washington wasn’t as bad as this. They had lost four people in one night. One of them was a child.
Dicko broke away from Grace and knelt by Donald. He rubbed the man’s back and told him he was sorry.
Donald nodded and said, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“It’s surreal,” was all that Dicko could manage.
Donald cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. He stood up, prompting Dicko to ask where he was going.
“It’s only right she’s buried with her son,” Donald said.
Dicko nodded. “Okay. I’ll get the shovel.”
*
It took half an hour to dig a grave and bury Helen and after that, Donald announced he needed to go for a walk. Yoler and Dicko were unsure about his idea, but decided not to talk him out of it. The man appeared mentally unstable and unpredictable. Maybe the walk would do him some good.
He told them that he had a knife with him and that he would be away for about an hour or so. Dicko asked Yoler and Grace if they were hungry. He knew what the answer would be, especially from Grace, but he asked anyway. All three decided to skip an early breakfast and sat on the steps of the cabin and watched the sunrise. No one said a word for minutes and Dicko was the first to break the silence.
“I’ll take a walk to the pond soon,” he said. “Need to grab a couple of buckets and scrub the inside of the cabin.”
“You won’t get the blood off with pond water and a tea towel,” Yoler scoffed.
“I need to give it a try.”
“Waste of time, Dicky Boy.”
“Have you got any better suggestions?”
There was silence from Yoler Sanders, and she chose not to react to Dicko’s snarling query. Everybody was upset, angry, and emotions were riding high after losing Gavin Betrand, Lisa Newton, David Willis, and now his mother.
“Well, whatever his motives for doing this,” Dicko spoke, referring to Hando, “he certainly did some damage.”
“At least Hando suffered before he went.”
Grace listened to what they were saying, but chose not to respond. She couldn’t believe it. So this was done on purpose? By this Hando guy?
Dicko stood up and Yoler asked where he was going.
“I’m going to the pond,” he said.
“To wash the blood away?”
“No.” He shook his head. “You’re right about that. Pond water alone won’t shift it. I’m just going for a walk. Need to splash my face.”
The man in his forties walked through the trees and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand once he was at the water’s edge.
He crouched down and dipped his hands in the glorious icy water and splashed his face. He groaned in delight and wet his face a few more times before standing up straight. He looked past the field and smiled as his eyes clocked the farmhouse. He had only stayed there for a short time, but he had good memories of the place. He liked Simon and Imelda, and when Yoler came along he had a lover that was his first since his wife. He had lost everyone during the beginning, and with Simon and Imelda no longer around, he feared that he would lose Yoler one day. He didn’t love her, but he was aware that he liked her more than she liked him.
He crouched down and splashed his face once more and ran his wet hands through his hair and beard. He made his way back to the area where the cabin was based. Once he stepped out of the trees and was out in the spacious part where Grace and Yoler were sitting, he could see that Donald had returned.
Dicko stood near the girls and folded his arms, feeling the cold, and needed to get inside and grab his jacket.
The forlorn group, what was left of them, were tired and weary. Grace especially looked exhausted and had only managed to drop off for an hour before the Canavar intrusion that took the lives of Gavin, Lisa, David, and, indirectly, Helen Willis.
�
�I’m leaving,” Donald suddenly blurted out. He looked up to see the reaction of the three, but there was no emotion on the faces of any of them.
“Where are you going?” Yoler was the first out of the three to speak.
Donald shrugged his shoulders. “No idea. Anywhere away from this cursed place.” Donald looked around and suggested, “Why don’t we all just go?” His query was greeted with silence, so he added, “We have a van. We have food. Let’s start somewhere new.”
“I don’t mind,” said Dicko. “I’ve been moving around since this shit started. Another move won’t bother me. Worst comes to the worst, we can sleep in the van.”
“Isn’t it dangerous to be out on the road, though?” Grace spoke up, unsure whether she liked the idea.
“Of course it is.” Donald ran his fingers over his face. Tiredness was crippling his body. “But with the meat wagons out of the way, it won’t be as bad. We’ll be fine. We won’t travel far.”
“Where are we gonna go?” Grace asked. “Down south to London? Up north to Scotland?”
Donald groaned, “I don’t know yet. Any suggestions?”
“Just drive and see what happens.” Yoler smiled after her sentence. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
Grace nodded in agreement. Her mother’s body was just yards from her, at the side of the cabin, but leaving her wasn’t something that bothered her. She was gone. She wasn’t coming back.
“Let’s try and get some rest,” said Dicko. “And then we’ll move the tins into the van and fuck off somewhere ... anywhere. I’ll take a walk to the van and see if it’s okay, make sure it’s still there,” he joked.
All agreed with Dicko’s suggestion, and Paul Dickson walked into the woods and told them that he’d be back in ten to twenty minutes. Yoler asked if he wanted some company, but he told her no and that they should all get some rest.
The van had turned out to be fine. It was still hidden, and Dicko returned to the cabin. He pushed the cabinet against the door once it was shut and was the last person to lay down his head.
Ghostland (Book 3): Ghostland 3 Page 17
