Blight

by Kolin Wood

  “Hold on.” Becca’s voice again.

  A moment later something warm splashed against his face, and he felt the rub of coarse material against the skin around his eyes. This time, when he opened them, he felt no pain.

  Becca’s freckled face looked down on him. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice concerned.

  John coughed, turning his head to spit out the ball of congealed blood that had gathered at the back of his throat. A dull, prodding pain signalled from the base of his skull, which hurt more with each small movement of his head. His face felt like somebody had cut him and poured salt on the wound from where the tip of his nose and middle of his forehead had scraped the tarmac. Lower down, his knees and elbows burned with skin grazes, but nothing felt terminal.

  As his heart rate began to slow, John was able to prop himself up onto his sore elbows. On the floor to his right, a body lay prone. A thick and shiny pool of black blood pooled the ground around it. A dirty hand holding a sharpened screwdriver protruded out from underneath the body at an unnatural angle.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Becca’s voice suddenly screamed, wiping away any remaining confusion as to whether he was still alive or not.

  Murphy yelped as he was dragged out of the way and a finger suddenly pointed down into John’s face. He followed the arm up to a pair of angular shoulders and a slender neck before finally settling on her face. But this was not the calm face of his friend; this Becca was furious.

  “You stupid, bloody…” she yelled, but the anger within her was so much that she was unable to even finish the sentence. She clenched her fists and thrust her arms down to her sides. “Urrrgh!”

  John shifted uneasily. Everything had happened so fast and he was still trying to process the events. He looked down again, at his clothes, his hands, everything covered in blood, amazed that he was still alive. With every passing second, he could feel his skin becoming more rigid as it set hard under the blaze of the rising sun.

  “Do you realise what that man would have done to you? Huh? What he would have done to both of us?”

  Furiously, Becca stomped her boot on the road sending a small cloud of dust and gravel in John’s direction. “This is not a game, John!”

  She turned, and he could only watch as she marched away. Murphy immediately filled the space, panting hot breath in his face until John nudged him away.

  It took a few minutes before he found the strength to stand. He pushed himself forward onto his knees and then up, setting his hands out to either side for balance as his head rushed. Once the imbalance passed, John took a few, wobbly steps to his right, stopped and looked down at the body at his feet.

  The first thing that struck him was the lack of shoes. The skin on the soles of the feet was as dark as leather boots, and the tops were caked with mud and dark scabs of blood. The man had fallen awkwardly. A long, dirty green trench coat covered the majority of his body and splayed out to either side of him like a cape. A filthy pair of jeans, full of holes and covered in dark stains, protruded below the knee. Above the collar, the tangled mess of hair did nothing to hide the shiny, metal end of a crossbow bolt protruding from the back of the man’s skull, its’ bright, yellow feathers stained red with blood.

  A nauseous sensation suddenly gripped his stomach and threatened to make him spill. Becca, the girl that he found himself thinking about more and more, had just killed the man in cold blood. It was unlikely that she had even seen his face before taking aim and shooting him in the back of the head. It had not mattered to her, and she did not hesitate.

  He continued to stare at the man for a few more seconds, watching as a sticky-looking trail of blood rolled away from the body like a dark, crimson snake to stain a clod of earth at the side of the road. The circle of life, he thought. The very life-blood of the man was now nutrients for the plants and insects.

  Images of his dad—the jagged scar on his neck and the thick puddle of blood around the body—flashed before his eyes. He’d dispatched animals many times before, but something about seeing the freshly murdered man left him feeling weak, suddenly showing him the true extent of his own vulnerability.

  Tearing his eyes away, John walked on shaky legs over to the bus and gingerly poked his head inside. Becca was busy stuffing articles into both of their bags and although she knew that he was there, she did not acknowledge him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, with a strong sense of déjà vu from the previous evening. “It was morning and… I didn’t think.”

  Becca turned to face him. Her eyes were squinted and her face looked mean. “No, you don’t ever seem to think, do you, John?” It was a statement, not a question. She went to say something more and then shook her head, turning back to grab her bag. She picked it up by the straps and then suddenly dropped it again, turning to face him. “Are you some kind of idiot?”

  John did not answer. He was pretty sure that whatever he said, it would not be good enough. Best to let her vent her anger on him before he dare to reply. After all, it was no less than he deserved. He had been an idiot.

  For a while she continued, preparing the bags while muttering to herself under her breath. John simply stood and watched her. Eventually, she stopped and turned to face him. “You go outside without telling me or taking your weapon with you again, and I’ll stick one in you myself, I swear to God. Do you understand me, John?”

  John simply nodded.

  “Right, let’s get a move on. If my brother’s directions are correct, we should make it to the farm before dark.”

  13

  After a few miles, they turned off the motorway and filtered down the slip onto a long stretch of A-road, which cut an almost perfectly straight line through the countryside outside of the city. Thick swathes of trees crowded the way, making the space feel claustrophobic but at the same time blocking out the worst of the heat from the sun. With next to no water left and their food supply down to a single can of who-the-hell-knows, the three of them moved with purpose, their pace brisk and intentional.

  Becca had still not spoken to John. Several times she stopped to check the crumpled piece of paper in her pocket, not once conferring with him or letting him know how far there was left to travel. Since the bust up that morning, the atmosphere between the two of them had remained tense, with neither contributing much to a conversation and most of the flippant comments aimed in Murphy’s direction.

  John’s feet burned. His ill-fitting boots now rubbed in all the wrong places and were beginning to fray at the stitching around the soles. Inspection the previous evening had uncovered huge blisters on his heels and on the outside edge of his little toes. They left his feet feeling slippery, almost as though his socks were filling up with blood or pus; even if common sense told him that it was only sweat.

  But the road stretched on. Soon, the pain in the back of his mouth had increased to such a degree that he could no longer summon the saliva to swallow. The blood in his hair had long since dried into thick clumps.

  Something caught his eye in the tree line to his right and he stopped fast, gripping hold of Becca’s arm to slow her movements. Ahead of them stood a lone willow tree, its bows draped with hanging blue ribbons. Becca looked down at the piece of paper again and smiled for the first time that day. She nodded and, without saying anything, turned and walked directly into the brush opposite. Confused, John called for Murphy and followed behind, at the same time pulling an arrow from the sheath at his leg and setting it in the bow.

  Beyond the initial wall of foliage, the space opened up to reveal a pathway congested with knee-high grass and patches of bramble bushes. The path looked as though it had been cut away or bashed clear at some point in the not too distant past, a definite sign of human interference.

  Becca threw John a look and raised her crossbow to her shoulder. Begrudgingly, John followed suit, the knot still causing pain between his shoulder blades. Aside from the attacker on the road, it was the first sign of life since leaving the previous
town and Becca’s nervousness showed clear.

  They walked slowly, crouched low and choosing their steps, each of them taking a separate side of the path.

  John saw the gates before Becca did. He thrust an arm over the front of her chest to halt her in her tracks, drawing an aggrieved look in the process. The corrugated, red, metal sheeting had been badly sprayed green in an attempt at camouflage, but enough of it still remained to allow for an easy spot should a person be looking hard enough. John had always had a keen eye—Ryan had told him as much—something that his shooting of targets and small animals on the farm had been testament to.

  John called Murphy to his side with a small whistle and bent down to attach the lead and muzzle to the dog who looked far from pleased. Becca stooped down to join him.

  “So, what do we do now?” John asked, genuinely confused as to how they were intending to make their presence known to the relative that she had never met, behind the wall of the farm that she knew next to nothing about.

  Becca shrugged. “I guess we go knock.” The look showed him that she was serious. She reached behind his back, and he felt her slide the club stick from between the straps of his pack.

  “Stay here with Stupid,” she said as she dropped her own pack and crossbow to the ground.

  Before John could object, she stood up and marched out into the open space in front of the gate with the club stick hanging limply from one hand.

  “Becca!” he hissed.

  But she ignored him. Without looking back, she raised the staff up high and then brought the smooth rounded head down in three, swift strikes on the gate. The resulting bangs were deep, loud, and clumsy. John grimaced at the blatant act of noise from a girl who, up until that point, had been so precise and careful in her way. Birds shot into the air from the thick canopy of the surrounding trees, signalling their encroachment. If nobody had seen them coming, unless they were blind or deaf, they certainly would know that they were there now.

  Suddenly aware of his openness on the partially covered road, John quickly pulled both of their bags into cover under the over-hanging branches of a tree nearby, and crouched low again, his eyes like pins on Becca’s back. He was not sure if what she had just done made her brave or stupid, but he had a feeling that they were about to find out.

  “Don’t move!”

  A male voice rang out from beyond the gate which set John’s blood to ice. In front of Becca, the large entrance remained closed. With sweaty hands, he raised the bow and looked down the sights, scanning along the top of the fence in an attempt to find the spotter. Two thick, wooden columns sat either side of the gateway. A crowning twist of barbed wire adorned the top of each panel. Something flashed, a slight movement, almost unnoticeable up by the left hand pillar. He drew a breath to hold it and closed one eye. At first everything looked the same, thick green vegetation hung over the stockade at multiple points, and then he spotted it: the shiny, straight barrel of a gun. With horror, he saw that it was pointing down in the direction of where Becca was stood with her arms raised high above her head.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” the voice commanded again.

  Becca kept her arms raised and dropped the staff at her feet. John felt a pang of regret as he watched it leave her hands.

  “My name is Becca,” she said, loudly and confidently. “I’m here to see Len, and I bring news from the north.”

  Silence followed.

  John watched anxiously, his bow trained on the moving foliage above the barrel of the gun. If the guard decided to open fire on Becca, then the best that he would be able to manage would be a wild shot in the rough direction of where he believed the shooter to be. And, having never fired it, he still had no idea how accurate the weapon in his hands even was.

  Becca remained stock still, her poise confident. After a few moments, a rattling noise like a thick chain being pulled through a metal hoop sounded from the other side of the gate. A loud crack and the huge, panelled entrance opened a fraction. A soft murmur of voices followed which John could not decipher. Suddenly, she took a step forward and was gone. There was a loud bang as the gate was closed with the same rattling of chain as before. This time, when John looked up again in the direction that the guard had been, both the gun barrel and the bush above it had vanished.

  An hour passed before John once again heard that same loud, rattling sound. He climbed to his feet but stayed crouched, the stock of the bow pulled tightly into his shoulder once again. The thick bows of the low hanging tree kept them well hidden but granted him a view of the entire gate. His legs ached with the stiffness of three days walking. Beside him, uncaring as ever, Murphy raised his head lazily, eyes glazed over with sleep.

  The gate cracked loudly at the hinges and a man wearing full camouflage stalked out, a rifle drawn up to his face. He moved slow and steady like a pro, his footfall silent, training the gun from tree to bush carefully. John remained still, a sick feeling in his gut as he watched the gap in the fence with fear and realised, as the seconds ticked by, that there was no sign of Becca.

  He felt the first fluttering of panic. Suddenly, everything had changed again. This was exactly the situation that he had been dreading. She was still inside and he had no way of knowing what they had done to her or if she was even still alive. Sweat beads dripped from his forehead, tickling the skin on either side of his nose. He felt lightheaded. The person in the camouflage stalking him was only ten metres away now. With every step, they moved ever closer to where he sat hidden.

  So this was it; time to make good on the promise that he had made. His arms shook. John took a deep breath and blew out slowly, just as Ryan had taught him to do.

  Breathe. Just a little bit closer.

  With his exact location unknown he knew that his only chance lay in the hope that his bolt would strike true enough to ensure a fatality or, at the very least, inflict a debilitating injury. If he missed, he would never be able to outrun a bullet.

  Oblivious to the approaching danger, Murphy suddenly yawned and shook his head, flapping his ears to either side of his face. John watched in horror as the man spun in the direction of the sound, dropped to one knee and pointed the gun directly at him.

  He acted on fright as much as impulse. John’s finger squeezed hard on the trigger, pulling it to full tension. The arrow loosened from the stock. He watched it fly as a yellow blur toward the crouched man, horrified as it narrowly missed the side of his face by a mere inch and disappeared into the brush beyond.

  He waited for the bang from the gun.

  “No! Don’t shoot him!”

  Somebody ran out through the gate and John flicked his eyes up in time to see Becca, closely followed by another man.

  “John, come out! It’s okay!”

  John could barely hear her over the thumping in his ears.

  She continued until she was stood directly in front of the crouched man with the gun, blocking his line of sight.

  John blinked once more, as sweat drops ran into the corner of his eyes. He squinted to see her face; she was smiling.

  ***

  “You were lucky that you didn’t hit Frank out there, kid. He might have had something to say about it! What happened to you anyway? You look like hell!” The man laughed as he swaggered out in front of them, his muscular arms outstretched to either side.

  John reached up and touched the throbbing abrasion on his forehead, scowling as his fingers touched the stiff and sticky mess of hair that hung some way down in front of his face. He must have looked a mess. Ahead of them stood a large, grey, metal-clad building with huge sliding doors and several small windows high up. The building looked shiny and modern in comparison to almost anything that John had seen. As they approached it, the man nodded to another and the door was slid open on tracks. They followed him in.

  “These are the living quarters. At night, everybody on the farm is locked down. Thanks to the panels on the roof and out in the field, we have lights, rationed hot water, food, and refrig
eration in the summer… even movies and video games… but you’ll find out about all that in time.”

  Len spoke constantly as he led the way through the converted barn building. A plain, wooden roof ran overhead. The space beneath it had been poorly sectioned into separate rooms, including bunk rooms and various other communal areas.

  “But all this luxury comes at a price, of course. We have to protect the place with everything that we got.”

  At the far end of the building, several bays, complete with tools and hydraulic platforms, hinted at prior use as an automobile garage.

  They stopped at the bottom of a metal staircase, where a crudely constructed barrier blocked access to a mezzanine floor that appeared to cover the whole of the space above where they had just walked through.

  “That’s the Mezz. That’s where we post the scouts and where we keep the guns. All around us, we have sensor lights. There’s alarms rigged up so we know if people are coming, and enough fire power to ensure that they don’t make it far if they are stupid enough to try. We can see the whole area from up there. Nobody is getting close. But, that’s off limits to you guys.”

  The man fixed a stern look, first at John and then at Becca, to fully emphasise the seriousness of what he had just said. “Everybody here pulls their weight. There ain’t no freeloaders. Everybody has a role here.”

  “Where’s Murph?” John asked, ignoring the weighted comment. “And our bags, weapons?”

  Becca scowled and the man looked at him confused.

  “Sorry, Uncle Len,” she said. “He means Stupid, the dog.”

  This time it was John’s turn to scowl. In the hour that she had been missing, Becca had clearly already established a connection with the man that she claimed to be her uncle, and now followed behind him like a wide-eyed puppy, hanging on every word that he said. John, however, was not so sure it was warranted.

  Uncle Len nodded. “It’s okay! He’s worried about his animal, I get that. No pets allowed inside I’m afraid, young man. There’s other dogs here too; they all stay out in the old pig sties at the back. Plenty good enough for them in there. He’ll be fine, I assure you. You can check up on him tomorrow.”