Blight

by Kolin Wood

  His eyes itched. John took a deep swig from his canteen and set it back in the bag. The split of the road now left him with three viable options; left, right, and straight. He decided on straight and began up the road opposite, his thought process being that this way he would have crossed the village in a straight line, optimising his chances. The rest of the village continued on in much the same manner, occasionally interrupted by the blackened husk of a building burned to ash.

  Just as John was beginning to think that Harrison had been wrong about the train tracks, the uniformity of the village ended and he saw it: the station. The building itself was thin and compact but long and rectangular, the green roof with patches of red hinting at its former prevalence on the landscape. Like every other building in the village, the door was missing. A gentle concrete ramp led up to a waiting room full of plastic chairs, many with their backs broken, and a smashed ticket office in one corner.

  The bag straps were biting into his shoulders so John removed it, happy to be out of the sun. He sat in one of the chairs, deliberately careful to test that the rusted structure would hold his weight. The metal frame under the plastic seat creaked but held, and John allowed himself to relax. Birds crowed from the eaves. The floor, a blood-red tile to match the roof, lay littered with rubbish. Empty food packets and bags, bottles, and other assorted plastics pushed into corners. Evidently, the station had been used by somebody as accommodation, but judging by the state of the place, he surmised that it had not been the case for some time.

  For the first time since he’d set out from home, John considered his options. Somewhere inside, he’d harboured a hope that he would find some sign of Ryan simply by locating civilisation. But from what he had seen so far, there had been nothing to hint at any sign of life. The village was deserted and completely devoid of people. How far he would have to travel until he came across more people was anybody’s guess. From here on in, his options were simple: follow the tracks south or turn around, go back, and wait.

  The plastic bottle crinkled loudly as John unscrewed the top and took a swig of lukewarm, gritty water. Amongst other things, he had no way of knowing where his next source of water would come from. On the farm, Ryan had constructed the solar still, a small desalination contraption which trickle fed a large tank, providing them with clean, if not slightly rank-tasting, water. John could never remember going thirsty for more than a few hours in recent memory. But now, the two bottles on his back—one of which was half empty already—provided his only source of fluids for the journey. Aside from the supplies in his pack and the club in his hand, he did not even have anything to trade with. Sense would tell him to turn around, to go back to the farm and wait for Ryan to return. However, memories of the long winter, his bleeding hands, the lonely nights with his demons and their friends held him back from following sense. What if Ryan did not come back? How long would he stay there alone, waiting, wondering, with nothing but the company of his dog and the haunting songs from the ocean as they whipped in through the cracked windows upstairs? Just the thought of another night like that brought a shiver to his spine.

  “What do ya reckon, Murph?” John said as the dog plodded in through the door, his nose hovering only a few millimetres from the ground. “You wanna go back?”

  Hearing his name, the dog raised his head and barked loudly, one ear cocked askew.

  “Nope, me neither.”

  With a final swig, John re-screwed the lid and set the bottle back in the bag. Outside on the abandoned train platform, the red and white stripes of the train barrier and a large grass-covered mound of gravel marked the end of the line. John walked to the edge and set his toes on the faded yellow caution markings; the tracks stretched for as far as he could see, onward into oblivion in the other direction. Bushes and other assorted foliage marred the lower section of the view but the trees on either side remained apart, giving an impression of distance. Above them, the sky shone clear and blue.

  “Well, boy,” John said, looking down to Murphy, who was sitting obediently to heal. “Looks like we found our route.”

  Without hesitating, he crouched down, set a hand on the sun-warmed concrete and jumped onto the tracks. His boots crunched loudly in the rough stones as he began to walk away from the barrier. Murphy hovered on the edge for a few moments longer before turning in the direction that John was facing and running off up the platform to find an easier route down onto the tracks. There would no turning back now.

  4

  John walked for two days, stopping to camp only when necessary, walking well into the night. Today, the weather was hot, unnaturally so; the breeze from the ocean nothing but a distant memory. The sweat held his clothes to his body and itched at the soft skin on his face as it dried. The landscape around him had remained unchanged for the majority of his journey, the thick forest eventually thinning to allow glimpses of the vast, barren vista beyond. Huge hills and mountains crested the horizon to his left. On his right, lay the ocean, although he was unsure how far inland the tracks had brought him.

  Soon, the sides rose up around him, funnelling him down into a lush, green valley. The tracks began to turn a corner and John slowed cautiously and then stopped altogether. Ahead, the unmistakable profile of a town in ruin lay blocking the route like congested fat in an artery, a dark brown smear on an otherwise green perspective. His heart rate spiked and, unconsciously, he gripped the handle of the club tight. Already the ornately-carved, heavy, wooden cudgel felt necessary, its weight comforting in times of doubt. And this was one of those times. For years he had existed, living uninterrupted on the very edge of the country, hidden from view. An honest existence, John enjoyed the toil and humbleness of his life; sedation after the horror of his first memories. The town ahead of him offered an unknown presence in contrast to that comfortable existence.

  John walked slowly, hugging the tree line. As he approached, his eyes scanned the rooftops for any signs of smoke—fire now a constant necessity for people in the wake of an almost total loss of fuels—but the only movement that he could see was that of the birds. From the safety of a thick gorse bush, he stopped again. The train station lay on the outskirts of the settlement. Bigger than the one that he had entered in the village, it had platforms on either side to cater two tracks: one allowed trains in, and the other one funnelled them out. A tired and rusted metal gantry ran overhead, joining the two. A canopy overhung the platforms, casting the building beyond into shadow.

  John waited until his legs began to ache. Once satisfied that the station was deserted, he jumped up onto the closest platform and into the shadow of the canopy. Splinters of glass littered the moss-covered tarmac. Monitors devoid of screens dangled precariously from wires overhead. Inside, the single vending machine had been smashed open, its highly-prized contents a long time looted. John checked the bottom of it anyway, just in case, but came up empty.

  Looking around, his heart sank. The station offered no signs that Ryan, or anybody else for that matter, had passed through it any time recently. It was much like the last had been: a barren space, dirty, cold, and without life.

  With his hopes fading, John gripped the club tightly in his hand and made his way through the smashed double doors out into the town beyond. A church spire rose up above some buildings at the end of the street, its adorning crucifix oddly ironic given its current surroundings. The whole scene was one of devastation. Rows of low, white-washed buildings were dark and abandoned, their dark, slate roofs ineffective and in a state of collapse.

  The floor before him shimmered and John blinked his eyes. It took a few seconds of staring to realise why. The entire street, from doorway to opposite doorway was flooded. A dirty carpet of dark brown water licked at the bottom of the buildings closest, carrying a fleece of assorted and spoiled items which bobbed about on the gentle tide. Judging by the fact that John could still see the bottoms of the windows in the shops, he guessed that the water was only a foot or so deep. However, the farther on down the high street he
looked the higher the water line seemed to creep up the fronts of the buildings until the entire doorways of some of the premises looked to be under water. The hot afternoon sun reflected a glare burning his eyes.

  Murphy bounded into the tide, splashing and wagging his tail, happy for the chance to cool down. Briefly, John considered wading in himself to check some of the shops closest for anything usable, but decided against it. It had been years since the culling; anything of use was already long gone—especially from the shops. Occasional loot could still be found in lucky houses but to search them took time and diligence. Besides, he had no idea how far he would need to travel in order to locate Ryan, and the idea of doing it with wet boots did not much appeal to him.

  John followed the water line, continuing down a side street until he reached an open space completely submerged by the deluge. The top of a red, stone bridge poked out from somewhere near the centre and John guessed that this was perhaps the location of a river which had since burst its banks. A flock of gulls had taken flight from the bridge as he approached so he watched them for a while, unable to shake the sadness that had taken hold of him.

  So this was the town that Ryan had spoken of. His friend had been here, or at least he had said that he intended to come here. But the town, just like the other villages that he had passed through, looked completely deserted.

  Where was everybody? He could understand the small villages laying in ruin but this was a town of fair size and population. Had Ryan seen the same things and pushed on regardless? Was it his plan to not stop until he reached civilisation? He had said that he intended to go down as far as the Refuge, but surely things must have seemed odd to him too.

  For the second time since the start of his journey, John felt the pangs of doubt begin to creep in. Every step took him farther away from the place that he had begun to think of as home. But what was there for him anyway without Ryan? The man was not his father, but it was the only thing that even resembled a relationship in John’s life. He refused to believe that Ryan would simply abandon him like that. Ryan had saved his life, and for that he owed him a debt.

  Using his fingers against the horizon—another trick that his friend had taught him—John determined that he had roughly three hours until sundown. Without knowing how far he might have to travel before he found another town, it seemed like a safer option to hole up here and set off first thing in the morning. Besides, he could use the time to explore and at least try to find some things of use. He had already journeyed much farther than he had hoped to, but now, with the possibility of travel stretching on indeterminably, he would need to pool his resources and collect whatever he found to shore up his supplies. To his right, a suburb of uniformed houses stretched back down into the valley. From where he was standing, he could see that some of them had escaped the flooding and would therefore be a good place to start.

  Dusk had already dropped when the pair finally stopped scavenging and settled into a property for the night. The houses were rows of the same with many at least partially underwater. Of those that remained accessible, one of the kitchens had thrown up a small bounty of cat food tins, hidden at the very back of a small, collapsed cupboard under a shattered sink.

  John had been pleased as—up until that point—the question of how to feed Murphy had not really crossed his mind. Generally they shared, but with rations now likely to be stretched to exhaustion, any additions were welcome. And even hungry, John did not much like the idea of eating cat food.

  Murphy wolfed down an entire tin while John lit a small fire in an empty hearth in the living room and heated some water to make a tea from his stores. Soon, the two of them were settled back against the wall, listening to the crackle of the flames as they licked the flaking paint from the wood that he had found. John sipped a tart brew and looked down at the dog.

  “We might be gone for some time, boy. Think you can handle that?”

  Murphy raised his head and turned it to one side curiously, one ear up, the other bent forward.

  “Dunno where everyone has gone, but either they all left or else they are hiding real good.”

  The abandonment of the entire town puzzled him. A thick layer of dust covered the insides of every property that he had ventured into. On the journey north from London all those years before, Ryan had been careful to avoid people where possible, but the presence of others was still clear in pretty much every place that they had quietly passed through. Although the culling had done a job on the population, there were still plenty of survivors around.

  “Guess we’re gonna have to keep going south until we find someone to tell us what’s going on, huh? Maybe they’ve all gathered together in one of the cities.” The thought of a city chilled him to the bones. “Maybe everybody is in the Refuge.”

  Murphy huffed. John ruffled his head.

  “I know, boy. We’ll find him. I promise.”

  John drained the last of the tea, grimacing at the grittiness of the leaves on the bottom of the mug. Then he shuffled down until his head was resting on his bag. His stomach growled, but the uneasiness left him feeling queasy and he did not want to risk wasting any of the food; better to eat it when he would enjoy it at least.

  Murphy stood and turned a few circles before settling down into the crook of his arm.

  The windows in the room were intact and the night sky had painted the pane black. John lay there, looking up at it for a while, twirling the smooth pommel of the club against his palm. Tomorrow, the real journey began. The road out of town would take him south to the motorway and from there he could follow it all the way down to the Refuge. He thought about the time he and Ryan had stayed there, remembered the girl who had rented them the room, his friend’s strange behaviour every time he had been around her. Ryan had been miserable for weeks after they left. Something inside of John told him that the girl had something to do with this whole situation. If he could retrace his steps back to that room or building, then perhaps he could pick up Ryan’s trail from there.

  His eyes hooded over and he pulled the small blanket that he had been carrying up around his neck. Regardless of what lay ahead for them, one thing was for sure: he would need the rest.

  5

  The strands of the rope bit into the soft skin of his neck as he surveyed the devastated landscape. The forest stood dark on the horizon beyond the crumbling castle wall, surrounding them on all sides; the tops of the trees only visible above a sea of milk-covered mist. Above him, the sky was a swirling tempest of grey; a complex sheet completely blocking out the sun. Huge black birds with wing-spans far larger than the reach of a man swooped and soared, fighting to maintain a steady position in the sky; their beady black eyes fixated on the procession below.

  Dotted along the intact sections of battlements and clinging to precarious looking platforms attached to the inside of the higher walls, masked men with guns and bows kept check on a rowdy group who had gathered to watch. Dirty faces and greasy hair shouting unintelligible obscenities at him; some throwing clumps of what he hoped was mud and the occasional rock, which stung his skin.

  A loud, confident voice boomed out from somewhere behind, bringing an instant quiet to the din. “Ladies and Gentlemen… If I could have your attention please…”

  John tried to swallow but the rope was pulled so tight that his Adam’s apple caught on the noose. His shoulders ached and his wrists burned under the duress of the way that they had been tied high up his forearms and behind his back.

  “You are about to witness first-hand the price of treason.”

  Panic gripped him and it felt as though somebody had just punched him in the guts. Warm liquid flooded down the insides of both legs and, even through the soul-sucking fear, he felt his face flush with embarrassment. Something moved in the blind space to his left and suddenly the rope pulled tighter, forcing him up onto his tip toes and then farther still until his feet no longer touched the ground. The sound of blood rushing in his ears drowned out the crowd, but he could still
hear the grunts of exertion as the person hoisting him pulled hard on the rope.

  John’s face burned hot as he clenched his teeth and attempted to tighten the tendons in his neck against the bite of the noose. Tears streamed over his flushed cheeks, and he blinked his eyes repeatedly, desperate not to lose the last moments of his vision.

  A broken tower, positioned over to one side, emerged through the tears; a single narrow window the only thing to stand out against the facade of moss-covered brick. John fixed his vision on the window, not wanting the vile faces of the crowd below him to be the last thing that he should see. The darkness inside was complete but as he struggled for breath, he was sure that he saw something, a flash of movement within. Hands grabbed at his legs, a weight pulling down on them, the extra force turning the rope into a saw.

  John stopped thrashing and allowed his body to go limp in an attempt to lessen the building pressure in his face. With every bounce of his body, the dark edges of death encroached on his vision, framing it in black until it felt as though he were looking down a long tunnel.

  At the end of the tunnel, he could still see the window, but now the picture was clear; crisp in every detail. A person filled the frame: a woman wearing a long, flowing dress, her hands outstretched, fingers clawing in his direction. A light from inside the tower back-lit the scene, causing her dark hair to look alight with a flickering auburn flame.

  At the sight of the person in the window, for reasons unknown to him, a slither of hope suddenly penetrated through his fear-constricted heart.

  Another bounce on his legs and the rope bit again. The cordage severed through tendons and veins, catching on his windpipe. He tried to scream, but found himself unable to open his mouth.