dEaDINBURGH

by Wilson, Mark

“All right?” the boy had asked, with an awkward smile.

  Alys simply nodded, narrowing her eyes as she noted the quiver on his back and the bow in his left hand. Realising that she felt threatened, the boy placed his bow on the ground, stood straight and pulled down his hood to reveal a head full of shaggy blond hair and beautifully vibrant green eyes. He was around the same age as she was. That in itself was strange, she’d thought that The Brotherhood were all grown men. That he stood smiling at her with excitement in his eyes and a grin on his face took her completely by surprise. She’d heard that as well as being silent, The Brotherhood were perpetually numbed by a substance they inhaled to commune with the dead. This boy was anything but numb. His eyes danced with excitement. He had cocked his head to the side and was assessing her as she assessed him.

  Approaching him, Alys asked, “What do you want?”

  “To say thank you.” He nodded back towards where his people lived. “For the kindness.”

  “If I had any choice I wouldn’t bring it,” she blurted out. “Your people don’t deserve it.”

  The boy’s eyes lost a little of their sparkle and his smile flattened. Clearly hurt, he picked up his bow, raised his hood once more and turned to head towards the Castle. After walking a few feet, he turned to face her again.

  “Well, thanks anyway.”

  With that he took off at a run, executing a few little leaps and somersaults using the masonry and steps of the local buildings as launch pads. Alys heard him laugh as he whirled and ran his way up to the Castle Esplanade.

  She’d seen him many times since then; practicing with his bow, leaping and somersaulting through the Royal Mile and along the Castle buildings. She hated him for how carefree, how happy he seemed. He trained hard, and that impressed her. He practiced with his bow every day, but why should he be so free, so happy, when her people, when she, had to work so hard to provide for him and his people?

  She imagined him laughing with his Brothers at how gullible her community was for providing them with supplies. As time went on, she’d learned that the rest of The Brotherhood were indeed as silent, as disconnected from the world, as her people had described them as being.

  This boy – the boy with the bow – was the exception. She hated him even more for his ability to free himself of the constraints of his community and trained all the harder, fuelled by contempt for him, by jealousy, and in the hopes that she may one day discover a way to be as free as he seemed.

  Alys lowered her head and looked at her trembling hands. She’d made contact with her mother twice during their session. It was twice more than she’d ever managed before, and whilst her blows hadn’t really had any impact, the mere fact that she’d landed them lifted her spirits. She was definitely getting better. Placing her arms around herself in a hug, Alys took a last look up at the Castle to see the boy with the bow pulling another arrow from his quiver, lining up his shot and releasing yet another perfect arrow. The satisfaction she’d felt at her progress disappeared and she took off on a run up the Playfair Steps. The Brotherhood can wait for their free meal. I’ve got stamina to build.

  Alys punished her legs running up and walking down the long staircase for the next sixty minutes. Hunched over on all fours at the top, she looked along the mound and up to the Castle. Another convulsion racked her; she threw up what bile she had left in her stomach and glared upwards, daring the boy with the bow to show his face.

  Satisfied that she had nothing left, no reserve of energy with which to pull herself up the stairs once more, she made her way down the gentle swooping slope of The Mound, returning to Princes Street Gardens and the task of preparing The Brotherhood’s offering.

  Padre Jock’s Journal

  In 1645 the bubonic plague (or the Black Death) raged through the populace. Millions had died worldwide and the city’s residents were beginning to feel the effects of the disease. In a desperate attempt to isolate the infected and to save the remaining residents, the council leaders forced the sick into the underground streets of Mary King’s Close and sealed them in. Beneath the cobbles of old Edinburgh the infected, who begged to be released, suffered and were ignored. Eventually forgotten, they were abandoned and left roaming the underground streets of the crypts below.

  Above, on the surface, the children danced on Edinburgh’s cobbles, joyful that the plague had been contained. According to legend they sang,

  Ring-a-ring-a-roses,

  A pocket full of posies;

  Atishoo! Atishoo!

  We all fall down.

  A rosy rash, they alleged, was a symptom of the plague, and posies of herbs were carried as protection and to ward off the smell of the disease. Sneezing or coughing was a final fatal symptom and all fall down was exactly what happened. The people of Mary King’s Close were abandoned mercilessly.

  As all bacteria do, the plague bacteria evolved and it mutated.

  Underground for hundreds of years, and some survivors had children, they became something other than human: undead, shuffling through the dark crypts racked by a 400-year hunger, a ring-a-roses rash emblazoned on their left cheeks marking them as infected.

  On New Year’s Day 2015, the city leaders re-opened The Close, with the intention of erecting a memorial to the ancient plague victims and using the newly-opened Close for tourism. The Close’s residents poured out from their tomb and spread a new plague through the city. One that killed and hijacked what remained of its host and was characterised by the rash, that and the fact that the host was dead but somehow walking around with a hunger for human flesh.

  The word Zombie was thrown around in those first few days, but no one could say it without smiling. Zombies were make-believe, something from the movies or TV. These creatures in our city were real. We took to calling them The Ringed because of the characteristic rash. Some people still called them Zoms.

  The Ringed spilled out into an Edinburgh full of partygoers and New Year celebrants. The plague spread quickly. The Ringed began appearing everywhere.

  Within a day, many of Edinburgh’s residents were infected. Within a week, the UK government, recruiting the armed forces, had erected a huge and extensive fence around the circumference of the city bypass, quarantining the city. Edinburgh was declared an official no man’s land. A dead zone, its residents left for dead and to the dead.

  I had a chance to leave before they sealed us in, but stayed to help the survivors. I never thought for a second that they, the world outside, would leave us here and forget about us. For that first decade of isolation, I always believed that, sooner or later, they’d find a cure, that they would release us. I should have remembered my history.

  Chapter 3

  Joey

  Clattering his disassembled bow and the quiver into their hiding place, Joey retrieved his Communion robe, a black woollen poncho, from his dresser and took off at a sprint towards the main chamber where the ceremony was seconds from beginning. Brother Andrew, his guardian, wouldn’t be amused at his tardiness but it was too late to worry about that now.

  Time had slipped away from him, as it always did, while he’d smoothly loaded and released arrow after arrow from his bow up on the Castle Esplanade. Standing perfectly still in the cold Edinburgh wind, he’d focused on the centre of his makeshift targets and released a series of perfect shots, one after the other. With each arrow lipping smoothly from his bow, Joey felt more relaxed, more alive. During his practice session he’d become aware that someone watched him. Assuming that Padre Jock was tailing him again, he ignored the presence. He raised his left arm and primed the bow for another shot when a flash of movement from the Gardens below caught his attention. Lowering the bow, Joey narrowed his eyes and focused on the black-haired figure standing alone, face up to the rainy sky. It was her.

  Joey didn’t like her. They’d only met a handful of times over the years, but each time they had the girl had stared daggers at him. She seemed truly furious whenever they met. Joey wondered how someone who lived out in the open, under
the sky and in such beautiful surroundings, someone so free, someone so… beautiful, could be so miserable.

  Watching her march back towards the community’s main tent, Joey sighed, raised his bow and refocused on his shot. As he pulled the string back to his nose, pulling tension into the string of his takedown recurve bow, he said a silent thank you to whoever had left the bow for him in his chamber on the morning of his tenth birthday. At times his bow was the only thing that gave him any joy.

  In the five years he’d owned it, Joey had stopped wondering who had left it there for him; it was pointless. No one in The Brotherhood owned anything. Aside from some ragged clothes, each of them had discarded any personal items when they’d taken their vows. That left only Padre Jock, and there was simply no way that the creepy minister had given him such a gift.

  Brother Andrew knew he had the bow and, naturally, disapproved, but had allowed him to keep it and to practice with it on the surface, on two conditions: that he didn’t allow any of the other young Brothers to use it and that he handed it over for disposal upon taking his vows. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Five years spent perfecting his technique had made the bow part of his arm. Joey figured that he’d cross that particular bridge when he came to it.

  Approaching the main chamber, Joey halted his sprint, smoothed down his robe and painted on a convincing look of serenity. He pretended not to notice Brother Andrew scowling angrily at him as he took his place on a bench towards the rear of the chamber. As he sat, a loud creak of protest from the wooden bench echoed around the chamber. Father Grayson, The Brotherhood’s patriarch, stopped mid-sentence and glowered at him for a moment. Joey picked a spot on the concrete floor and stared at it until the chamber filled once again with Father Grayson’s commanding voice.

  “We,” he boomed, “Elisha’s chosen, have performed our sacred duties through four decades. It has fallen to us to walk with and care for the Children of Elisha who have inherited the world, by God’s will.”

  “BY GOD’S WILL,” a hundred strained throats cried back, sore and unused for three months. The Brotherhood winced collectively as they broke the silence. Some held their ears.

  Grayson continued. “Today, we give the daily offering of our blood so that the Children of Elisha may continue in their sacred existence. “

  “BLESSINGS BE UPON THE CHILDREN,” the Brothers croaked.

  Grayson spread out his arms in a crucifixion pose, a gesture made to include everyone in the chamber. His long black robes billowed slightly.

  “Today we receive our Communion directly with Elisha and his Children.”

  “BLESSINGS UPON THE HOLY ELISHA.” A ripple of excitement and of anticipation moved through the chamber as Grayson reached for the simple wooden bowls containing the Carrionite.

  “Step forward, Brothers, and commune with our blessed Saint and his Children,” Grayson commanded.

  Joey still had his head bowed but glanced up occasionally to watch the procession of Brothers in single file take Communion one at a time. As Brother Andrew approached the altar, Grayson scooped out a portion of the powdered Carrionite from the bowl with a silver teaspoon, tipped the powder onto the altar, drew a line around ten centimetres long and watched with approval as Brother Andrew filled his nose, inhaling every speck of the Communion powder.

  “Blessed are we,” said Grayson

  “Blessed we are,” Andrew replied, drawing the ceremonial blade in his right hand across the palm of his left. He clenched his fist over a large goblet, allowing a stream of his blood to flow into it. Finally he wrapped a clean cotton cloth around the wound and made way for the next Brother.

  As Andrew walked slowly back to his bench, Joey noted the familiar glaze had already slid over Brother Andrew’s eyes. His facial muscles had relaxed and he was effectively dragging his dulled limbs back to sit in his allotted position on bench two. The Carrionite kicked in fully as he sat, making his gaze and countenance look so much like that of the Children of Elisha that Joey might have considered running from the chamber, if he hadn’t seen the effect on the face of his Brothers dozens of times before. As he continued to observe Andrew, he saw him slip into the comatose state, characteristic of the Carrionite.

  “Joseph MacLeod, come forward,” Grayson boomed.

  Joey shot up to a standing position, in shock at having been called by name. Kids Joey’s age didn’t take communion; only fully initiated Brothers did so. He must’ve screwed something up when preparing the Carrionite. Public humiliation followed by atonement was very much a favoured technique in Father Grayson’s repertoire.

  Joey ignored the murmurs of those who hadn’t taken Communion yet and pushed past the catatonic bodies and floppy limbs of those who had until he reached the altar. Looking up at Grayson, he asked, “How may I serve you, Father?”

  Grayson didn’t answer, but lifted his spoon into the Carrionite and spread out an offering for Joey.

  He shook his head at the patriarch.

  “Father, I’m not of age.”

  Grayson didn’t reply, but used an open-palm gesture to indicate that Joey should take Communion. Was it a test? Was he being punished? Would he be wrong to take the Carrionite, or wrong to refuse?

  Hearing someone enter the quiet chamber, Joey glanced quickly over his shoulder towards the door to see Padre Jock strut in. It wasn’t unusual to see the old man at these events. He never took part but rather seemed to find some amusement in the ritual and pomp of Communion. Jock looked straight at Joey, then at the Carrionite in front of him, and finally threw Joey a look of pure contempt before leaving.

  The look cut Joey to the bone. Who the hell is he to judge me?

  Father Grayson reached down and placed a hand gently on Joey’s shoulder. “Take it,” he whispered.

  “Why?” Joey asked.

  Grayson’s eyebrows rose in surprise but he held his anger and spoke softly.

  “Some Brothers, for their own safety and for that of his Brothers, must be initiated early. Take it.”

  Releasing the boy’s shoulder, Grayson rose to his full height, spread his arms wide and yelled, “Today Brother Joseph leaves his old life, his childhood behind. Even one such as he,” Grayson pointed a long finger at Joey, “even this boy, despite his rebellious nature, despite the nature of his arrival into our midst, even he is welcomed into our sacred Brotherhood.”

  Joey’s ears pricked up at this. He’d almost never heard anyone refer to the fact that he wasn’t born into The Brotherhood, almost never heard any of the Brothers refer to how he came to Mary King’s Close as a baby. Exasperated at the futility, he’d stopped asking Brother Andrew years ago. That Grayson was mentioning his arrival in a public forum like this was astonishing. Was he about to tell him who his parents were?

  “Full members of The Brotherhood are privy to all of our secrets, young Joseph.”

  Grayson indicated again for him to take the Carrionite. Looking out at the assembled Brothers, Joey searched their faces for help. Bobby, Andrew, former friends all either turned their gaze away from his desperate eyes or were too high on Carrionite to notice. Joey found himself wishing that Padre Jock would come back to scowl at him, to inject some will into him with the anger he projected towards everyone in his line of sight. But Jock was gone, as disgusted with his participation in Communion as the Brothers would be with his non-participation.

  Grayson had trapped him. He’d made no secret that he felt Joey didn’t belong in Mary King’s Close. He didn’t like outsiders, people not born to the service. Joey had no idea why The Brotherhood had ever taken him in as a baby. It damn sure wasn’t out of compassion as The Brotherhood would dutifully leave any living person to be ‘blessed’, to be fed on by the Children of Elisha. If he refused the Carrionite, Grayson would make him leave. If he partook, he’d be just like them.

  “Do it, “Grayson screeched at him, losing his composure in his eagerness.

  Looking around the chamber, filled with the passive faces and bodies of t
he only people he’d ever known, Joey made his decision.

  “No,” he said simply and left for his chambers.

  Sprinting at full-speed along the tunnels of The Close, Joey reached his chamber within seconds and began pulling together all of his belongings. He had maybe twenty minutes before The Brotherhood began to rouse from their Communion and came for him. Grayson wouldn’t tolerate a non-believer in the underground town and would more than likely make him an offering to the Children of Elisha.

  Pulling his clothes and possessions into the middle of the cold, damp chamber he’d called home for fifteen years, Joey packed what spare clothes he had into a rough canvas rucksack along with some other items, including a pouch of Carrionite. He dressed quickly in black denims, thermal long-sleeved T and sturdy hiking boots, all scavenged from a mountaineering shop.

  Assembling his bow, Joey slipped his quiver full of arrows over his shoulder and onto his back and darted through the chamber archway, running straight into Padre Jock’s rock-hard chest. Thrown onto his ass, he launched himself back up onto his feet.

  “Get the hell out of my way,” he ordered the old minister.

  Silently, Jock stood aside and offered his palm out towards the door allowing Joey to dart through.

  “Good for you, son.” Jock smiled to himself as he listened to Joey’s footsteps race through the tunnel.

  Performing a quick check on his knives and other equipment, Padre Jock strolled off towards the main chamber at a leisurely pace.

  Chapter 4

  Alys

  “Go to sleep, Stephanie,” Alys whispered to her younger cousin who was sitting up in bed.

  “I can’t. Can I come with you, Alys?”

  She was a sweet kid. Ten years old and at that age when she was just beginning to become a competent fighter, under the tuition of the council, but was still young enough to consider her combat training fun.