by Kolin Wood
“Argh,” he hissed.
In the cold light of the morning, John was able to assess the true extent of the severity of the injuries. The front of the once blue jumper was torn to shreds and hung in congealed, blackened strips at his waist. The skin that poked through was cut and swollen, glistening with fluid and no doubt infected by the dirt and filth from the claws of the animal. As tenderly as he could manage, John lifted up the bottom of the garment and heard Becca wince behind him.
“You are going to need to get that tended to,” she said. “And soon.”
Consciously, John dropped the hem of the jumper. He shifted position, leaning forward away from her. “First, we need to get off this roof,” he hissed, as the movement brought fresh pain. “Then, we’ll go in there.” He gestured to the smouldering remains of the barn. “The rear end looks intact. Maybe there’s some medicine or antibiotics or something.”
“And some weapons,” Becca added. “I’m not taking another step until we get our asses properly armed.”
John looked back at her. “We?” he asked.
She sighed. “There’s nothing left for me here now, John.”
John nodded, relieved. With Murphy gone, he suddenly felt very alone. To his right, the jagged, purple edge of the city skyline thrust into the hazy sky above the trees. He had no idea what to expect, or even if the city was still standing, but if there was even a chance that Ryan was still alive, then he had to try.
22
The smell of charred pork and ash had attached itself to the farm building. The latent heat remained, intense and threatening all around them. The fire had ripped through the inside like a biblical famine during harvest, consuming the thin, dry wooden partitions in its wake; the perfect tinder stick for such a blaze. Blackened husks—clearly not palatable to the pack—lay strewn all over. Smoking carcasses devoid of hair and clothing lay scattered; any remaining skin was shrunken like crackling on their visible bones. Amongst the carnage, thick, black pillars stood proud like smoking wardens, their forms pitted and scarred as if watching over the scene of a mass execution.
John held the bottom of his shirt over his face with one hand but still found himself choking on the smog. His dry throat burned, causing his speech to sound cracked and swallowing to be painful. He picked out slow, careful steps, never staying still long enough for fear of melting the soles of his boots. Around him, from the floors to the walls, everything looked black and melted together.
Becca followed behind, her face covered in much the same way. The tears were clear in her eyes, and John hoped that they were from the soot. Ahead, the door to Len’s office stood partly open, and a fresh plume of smoke billowed out from inside.
John slowed to a stop outside the door, turning to face her. “I’ll go in,” he said, coughing to clear his voice and failing. “You needn’t see this.”
There was a noticeable change in her stance as Becca straightened her back and pushed forward her chin. “No, I’m coming in,” she said, adding nothing more.
John did not argue.
Like everything else in the building, the door and the walls surrounding it were now carbon black. John was not sure if it was a trick of his eyes or whether the handle was actually glowing red hot, but either way, he decided not to touch it. Holding on to Becca’s shoulder for support, he kicked out with his leg, smashing the door inward on its hinges with a loud slam. A shower of sparks rained down from above and both of them were forced to huddle together and shield their eyes. Once the fallout had stopped, John gave Becca’s shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze and poked his head into the gap.
Inside, the office remained largely intact and how he remembered it. A black ring of carpet lay still smoking in the doorway. John walked over it, relieved at the diminishing heat. Drawers, including those in the desk and all of the cabinets along one wall, had been turned over and now lay smashed on the floor. The desk itself remained and, splayed over it with his arms outstretched like an imitation Jesus, lay Len. A large knife protruded from between his bloody shoulder blades. Underneath him, the light wooden desk top now bore a dark crimson colour. His head lay twisted in the direction of the door and John noticed that his eyes were already whitening and shrouded with death.
Before he had time to process what he was seeing, Becca suddenly moved in behind him. Uncomfortable and unable to find the words, John could not look back. He simply stood stiffly and stared straight ahead. The quiet weighed in on him for a few moments and then he heard her hawk loudly, lean in, and spit at the body.
“Somebody’s been through the place,” she said, looking around.
John opened his mouth and then closed it again, surprised at the callousness of her action.
“You… err, think it was Frank?” he managed, still without looking directly at her. From the corner of his eye he saw her shoulders shrug.
“As if it matters. Let’s just search what’s left and get the hell out of here,” she answered.
John did not argue. Although it was unlikely, if Frank was still at large, then he was the last person that they wanted to be bumping into. Together they began to search through the small room, John taking one side and Becca the other. In a corner, partially hidden behind a spilled office chair, they found Becca’s pack. All of the zips had been opened to show that it had been searched, but to her relief, much of the stuff inside had remained intact. A large wooden cupboard gave up a selection of assorted items of clothing, including a pair of worn but sturdy army boots that John seized for himself. They were a size or two too large but definitely an improvement on the decomposing pair currently attached to his feet. On a rail above hung a black, leather biker jacket with a small tear at the arm which he took also, immediately enjoying the feeling of compactness and protection that it offered his torso. Once he had changed the boots, he stood with a grin, happy with his findings. Becca, who was kneeling on the floor checking through her bag still, merely looked up and shook her head with a roll of her eyes.
“Here,” she said, her arm outstretched.
John looked and saw that she was holding his club. He reached out and took it from her, strangely happy to be reacquainted with it, frowning as he noticed that the pommel on the end was dark with dried blood.
“Thanks,” he said. “Is everything there?”
She nodded. “I think so. Everything important anyway; except our bows, of course.”
They continued to search. Finally, the cabinet at the back of the room revealed what they had really been looking for; an odd assortment of vicious looking knives and an old shotgun complete with a single box of ammo. There was also a small, compact medical kit with some sterile field dressings and gauzes, but no medicines.
John took a knife—complete with sheath—from the drawer and set it down on the chair. When he cracked the gun open on his knee, two brass shells sat snugly in place.
Game changer, he thought as he snapped the gun closed again and offered a stunted smile in Becca’s direction.
“Should help.”
Becca nodded but did not reciprocate the smile as she finished doing up the zips and shouldered her pack. She reached down and took a knife herself; a thick bladed Bowie effort with a smooth wood handle and brass pommel. The viciousness and size of her selection surprised him, but he said nothing.
Next to them on the table, Len’s glazed eyes stared up and through him. John shuddered.
“Let’s hit the kitchens, and see if there’s some food we can salvage,” he said, keen to escape the confined space as soon as possible. “With a bit of luck, some of it might have weathered the fire.”
He watched as her eyes fell down to the corpse for one last time then he followed her out of the room and into the smoke-filled corridor.
Ten minutes later, the pair were outside in the fresh air once more, their collars up against the flow of the steady rain that continued to fall. John now carried the pack, insisting that he take it from Becca after they had weighed it down with unidentifiable tins of
food and bottles of water they had filled from the huge tank at the back of the building. Becca had been reluctant to hand it over at first, but eventually had given in to John’s persistence. Now, as the straps bit painfully into his skinny shoulders even through the leather jacket, he was almost regretting his chivalry; a pack this heavy would slow him down, big time. The water weighed him down, teasing him, but he knew that he would need to boil it first. The only food choices available had been scarce. He remembered the rows of fresh produce outside the gate, but right then the idea of eating anything not sealed tight in metal did not appeal at all, given the circumstances.
They walked slowly across the blackened courtyard in the direction of the solar field and the main gate, careful to avoid the dark and glutinous puddles of blood pooled in the uneven concrete. John scoured the space, looking for any sign of a human form. Unlike the inside of the building, however, there was not a body to be seen; the area really had been picked clean.
At the end of the courtyard they passed through into the solar field that Frank and Len had marched him through only two days ago. No longer under the oppression of an armed guard, John looked around. His eyes followed the path of a thick clump of cables encased in a metal mesh. The cables ran under the fence in the direction of the burning farm unit. With no electrical training or understanding, it was impossible to say how much damage had been done to the system, but it was safe to say that the site would likely be useless for some time to come. Noticing he had stopped, Becca did too and followed his gaze.
“Seems like a waste,” John said, watching the rain running in rivulets down the black, shiny face of the solar panel closest to them.
“Seems like a purge,” Becca replied.
Again John felt the added weight of the comment but did not push for clarification.
They continued on. Following the path across the field to the main gate, they stopped momentarily to check inside the small guard hut where John had heard the whimpering only a few days earlier. Inside the hut, the dark space smelled thick and rank. A stinking cot bed took up much of the room alongside a single chair and a stack of crumpled and decaying pornography magazines. But there was no sign of the guard or, to John’s dismay, a gun.
Suddenly he heard a scream. With his heart in his mouth, John tore out through the gate, his gun raised, skidding to a stop as the reason for the outburst became clear. Two corpses had been unceremoniously hung from the fence on either side of the gate. The steady rain had washed their faces clean of any blood and filth, leaving white skin with a faint blue hue which made the bodies look unrealistic. Wild, bloodshot, and staring eyes bulged above twisted, open mouths with limited teeth. Dark patches peppered their grungy clothing, revealing gunshot wounds that had ravaged their bodies.
John turned away. He knew that it was the same men that had chased him from his fire in the wood. The way that the men had run—the jerky movements and the sounds that they had made like animals—had left him with no doubts that the men had been infected. He knew that there was a strong chance that the woodland would be home to more but, for the time being, he decided to keep the encounter to himself. The Refuge lay beyond the forest; therefore, it was through the forest that they would be travelling. And this time he had a gun. If people needed putting down then he would do it. There would be no more running. He could and would protect them both, come what may. Besides, where else would they go? The farm lay in ruin. Somewhere nearby was a nest of killer vermin who would undoubtedly return as soon as it was night to scour the space for the chance of second pickings.
Becca took a deep breath and turned away from the bodies. Her shoulder brushed up against his and she looked up at him. Her large brown eyes shone with a deeper meaning that he could only hope to decipher someday. For a few moments he held her gaze. Finally she smiled, reached down and took hold of his hand.
“Let’s go,” she said, and together they turned towards the path. It was still early and they had miles to cover before dark.
23
“Please,” Ryan mumbled. A thin spindle of black drool connected his chin to his chest.
An audible click sounded as the man stood in front of him pulled back the hammer of the gun. A keen eye focused down the sights. The knuckle on the finger of his right hand turned white as he increased tension to the trigger. The gun was a double barrel, with a smooth walnut stock and chipped end. It had been mounted unceremoniously onto a flexible wooden, tripod frame, which allowed the gun to spin on a bevelled axis, granting a steady spread of one hundred and eighty degrees.
“Rules are rules, I’m afraid,” Tidus Church, the self-appointed peace-keeper of the Refuge, proclaimed from behind his haphazard-looking lectern. “How could I possibly begin to make an exception with you?”
“B… but… she… loves me!” Ryan coughed, as fresh blood and foam leaked down onto his already sodden top.
With a bored expression, Tidus shook his head. “I beg to differ with you on that point. You see, I spoke to her myself, here, in this very room this afternoon. And I can assure you that at no point did she show anything but utter and loyal devotion… to me.”
Ryan kicked out with his legs and cried out. “What did you do to her, you fuck?”
Tidus frowned. The man holding the gun looked back for a signal.
“Oh, God. Wait, okay?! For Christ’s sake, just wait… wait a minute!” Clots from Ryan’s broken nose choked his speech. Both of his eyes were almost completely swollen shut, leaving his vision beyond the gun limited. Pink foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll… leave, okay? Right now. I promise. I’ll leave… and go back up there, and you will never see me again.”
This time Tidus laughed. The laugh was warm and crisp as worn parchment and it carried around the stark room like a spectre. “I am afraid it’s too late for that. Neither God nor Christ will help you, Ryan. The false prophets are not long left of this world. The sooner you and the rest of the heretic believers realise that the sooner the natural balance of things will return.” He nodded.
“Ple—”
The gun stock kicked hard against the shoulder of the man wielding it, silencing Ryan mid-sentence. Hot, thick blood sprayed a shiny new coat of paint on the wooden cubicle walls behind, which splintered in multiple places. For a few moments nobody moved as the boom from the shot slammed the four corners of the room.
“What do you want me to do with—?” the man holding the gun began, but Tidus raised a hand, immediately silencing him.
Now was not a time for talk. This was the part that he relished the most—the intoxication of the escape. Before him, the body bucked, its top splitting open like a snack packet. He could feel the crackle and pop of death in the air around him, and he basked in the energy. To bear witness to the transference in such a raw form was truly wondrous to behold; a primal necessity for somebody as in touch with the gift as he was. His skin prickled all over. A killing as violent and as sudden as this one kept the energy fresh and untainted by self-doubt or thoughts of repentance.
Gradually, the moment ebbed away. Tidus breathed in deeply and opened his eyes.
A few feet away, Ryan’s limp and tattered body hung supported from the damp ceiling of a thin wooden cubicle by chains attached to his wrists. A bloody stump now resided where his head should have been. Shards of bone, severed ligaments, and even a few teeth could be seen swimming in the gory mess that remained. Blood bubbled and popped like soup on a gentle heat.
Drunkenly, Tidus smiled.
“What shall we do with him?”
The man stood before him had on plain clothes and his head was completely shaved clean. He was small in stature, had a thin angular face, a long pointed nose, and bulging eyes—the only features that could discern him from the rest of the congregation and Tidus’ purposeful intention.
“Why, take him to the kitchens, of course,” he said with a cursory wave of his hand. “The children of Ruin are always hungry!”
The man flicked his eyes over to t
he body, swallowed, and then looked back.
“But, he had the sickness. I saw—”
“Trust me when I tell you that there is nothing left within him to worry about now,” Tidus interrupted. “His body has the same relevance as the dead skin on the bottom of a rotten foot. Add him to the stock while he’s still fresh and bleeding. Do it quickly. Go.”
The man whistled loudly, and another two men—dressed in similar, plain attire, and who also had their hair shaved—entered through a doorway and set to work cutting the corpse from its chains. Huge blades thudded down as both arms were cut off cleanly at the shoulders. The legs followed suit on the floor, and finally the torso was lifted into a blood-stained wheelbarrow and promptly wheeled from the room. The first of the men, the gunslinger, then nodded and followed them out.
Now alone in the dank, concrete chamber, Tidus glanced down at the shiny patch on the floor and then up at the ceiling. Two arms hung like joints of meat in the butcher’s window above him, stumps dribbling profusely. He smiled. Justice in its truest form had just been served; within the Church of Ruin, there were no courts and no hearings of clemency. Justice came by way of either the trials or the gun—no jurors, no exceptions. The culture of blame that had plagued the old world, feeding on the insecurities of a people divided like an aggressive cancer, would no longer be given freedom to breed. He was going to see to it personally.
Farther down the corridor, a door banged loudly, snapping him from his semi-delirious thoughts. Tidus turned in the direction of the sound and strode from the room. After all, there was no time to waste. He walked with purpose, his thin, muscular body moving fluidly upon a supple frame, the long tresses of his gown flowing behind him. This deep into the heart of the huge, unfinished building, the warm air from outside could not penetrate the harsh sparseness of the concrete, and the coolness of the space swept like a cleansing breeze over his own cleanly shaved and scarred head.
