They Remain: A post-apocalyptic tale of survival (The Rot Book 2)

by Luke Kondor

  “It is good that you survived,” Byron said. “We are sorry to make you come back here.”

  “It’s okay,” Keaghan said. “As long as we— Argh.”

  Keaghan’s foot caught on a large rock, rolling his ankle to the side and forcing him to the ground. The crutch fell beside him as he threw his hands over his head. The fall was hard. Dust kicked up off the floor.

  Byron was at his side. “Keaghan? Are you okay?”

  The poor boy clutched at his leg. Byron inspected it for any sign of bleeding but saw none. “I’m… I’ll be fine. I just need to get up. Here. Help.”

  “It’s no use pretending,” Byron said, pulling the boy to his feet. “He can’t come with us.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “No, you can’t. Look, I’ll stay with him. I saw a sign for an old underground carpark we can hole up in until you guys get back. But he’s only going to slow us down, make some noise, he’s a liability, and I’m worried about that leg.”

  “Are you sure?” Colin asked. Anton showed little sympathy, clearly wanting to just get on with their mission.

  Byron nodded, catching the keys which Anton threw. Colin demanded that Dylan joined them before they left, but they could keep Whisper. Keaghan protested at the idea of staying back, but soon they heard the Ranger kicking into gear and reversing down a side street and out of site. Once the noise had all but faded, Colin turned to find that Anton was already up ahead, climbing a long set of stairs up the side of a former corner shop. By the time Colin caught up, he was already crouched up on the roof.

  “What if someone sees you?” Colin called up. Anton shrugged and pulled out a bronze telescope from his bag. A real Jack Sparrow one which he extended to a foot long and looked out, squinting with his free eye.

  Colin couldn’t help but laugh. “You see anything?”

  He shook his head, offering an arm to Colin. He passed an uncertain Dylan first, then hauled himself up. Anton handed over the telescope.

  It was a typical British town. The kind that some part of Colin had thought he may never see again. Just ahead of them was the town centre. A real town centre. Not like the makeshift one back at Hope. There was an Odeon cinema. A chip shop. An arts and crafts shop for the oldies to grab their bits and fiddles. A small row of tables filled with the moulding remains of fruit and vegetables. And in the centre of it all sat a broken fountain. A circular pool fixed around a white statue of some regal chap on a horse. The edges of the white brick were burned and smoothed over with wax where the clacking of kids on skateboards would once have been grinding against it. It reminded him of watching the skaters on London Southbank with Fletcher a few times. Laughing when they failed and cheering when they succeeded.

  “Don’t get any ideas in your head,” he’d smirked as a young teen with a too-baggy vest top and dreadlocks kicked the board in the air, caught it, then dropped in on the half pipe.

  “Sure, Dad,” Fletcher grinned, his eyes transfixed.

  It seemed a sad sight to see the desolate town. At this time on a Saturday afternoon it would’ve been bustling with local activity. Now, it seemed as though someone had burned a doll’s house and dropped the pieces. There were bodies, bodies as far as the eye could see. As Colin zoomed in on a few more grotesque specimens, his eyes caught the bright colours of graffiti across many of the metal shutters in front of the shops. Words of desperation. Words of anger. Words of loss.

  One particular legend read, ‘The government will come for you’. Another simply read, ‘End of days. Buy one get one free.’

  He lowered the telescope.

  “It’s awfuls. Isn’t it?”

  “I’d heard that the government had extended its reach to try and clamp down on the rot. Heard it from the mouth of an infirmary soldier a month or so after the initial outbreak.” Colin’s hand moved to his chest. “But this… I never truly imagined what it meant to try and protect mankind. To wipe out the population in such a brutal manner, all for the off-chance of catching the rot inside the chosen few. It’s all so…”

  “Barbaric.”

  They sat for a moment, looking out over the townscape. It was almost all greys and browns as far as the eye could see. Varying levels of houses rising and falling over hills. A few wider streets and roads for the main thoroughfare of traffic. And a ways away on the horizon, a crown of green as a large hill protruded from the top of it all. The Green Giant’s bald head poking out of the town. A couple trees visible from this far away. And there…

  “Wait,” Colin said, returning the telescope to his eye. He clocked a figure, stood in the centre of the hill where open tents sat in concentric circles. A lone person stood next to the smoking remains of a fire. Their face obscured as they looked down, body slumped as if they were sleeping where they stood, transfixed by the smouldering orange blacks of the ash.

  “I see someone.”

  “Where?” Anton took the telescope. “Well… I’lls be.”

  They climbed down and returned to the road, sparing a glance back at the direction from which Byron had taken the Ranger. Dylan busied himself sniffing the floor.

  “Should we goes back and grab a few more things? The flamer perhaps? Who knows if we ares going to find the rotters?”

  Colin considered that a moment. “No. We use silence as our weapon. Keaghan and Byron will certainly need it more than us. And besides,” Colin said, kneeling down and stroking Dylan’s chin, “we’ve got the best rot-detector in Hope.”

  Anton rolled his eyes and drew his Glock from his bag. “Still, it’s best to be prepared.” He placed the gun in a holster at his side. He then passed Colin a medium-length knife with a serrated edge (Byron’s old hunting knife – a present to Colin) and then they were headed up the main road to the town centre. All eyes fixed for movement. All ears straining for sound. A collective feeling that behind each closed door, each dirty window, and in each crevice, there were eyes watching them.

  Colin took a deep breath of the smoggy air. “Well, Toto. We ain’t in Kansas anymore…”

  ~ 16 ~

  The smell of death lingered deeply in the air. They felt it with every step forward, mixed with the smoke from the fires, soot and putrefaction. As if the stinking souls of the deceased had climbed into the pores of the bricks and nested. It was silent, too. The sound of their footsteps was thunder in the quiet air. Their blood beats thump-thumping in their ears. The sun out in the sky now, feeding the green moss that grew on the walls where the soot of past fires hadn’t caught.

  A couple times Dylan attempted to stop and sniff a rotting corpse. Colin felt sorry for the pooch. The poor creature’s senses likely in overdrive from smells and colours and tastes he would have long forgotten about caught up in that filthy cage. Colin pulled him onwards, constantly grateful and amazed at the dog’s temperament. He could barely believe that this was the same dog that pierced his flesh. This new Dylan was obedient with a good working temperament.

  Everything that Wheat hadn’t been.

  They passed the moss-covered water fountain they had spied from the rooftop and Anton pointed to a cobbled alleyway that led off into the backstreets of the town. It was a smart move. They were far too in the open now. If they had seen the fountain from afar, who’s to say that no one was watching now? Better to take the back roads and have some form of cover.

  It was a funny thing, though. To be outside and see so little life. A few birds flew overhead, maybe a couple mice and rats ran here and there. But other than that, the only sight of any kind of humanity were the corpses and the mannequin heads that stood in the lonely windows. Yet somehow it still didn’t stop that voice in Colin’s head telling him that someone was watching. A presence you can’t quite see, but you can feel.

  After a couple more quiet streets he thought of saying something to Anton. Perhaps he was experiencing something similar?

  “Psst. Anton—”

  “Shhh.” Anton stopped abruptly. Holding his arm at a right angle to the sky. He strained his
ears for a moment, slowly scanning across the back alley storefronts. Large glass panel windows sheeted in dust with bold white letters.

  A whimper.

  “In there.” Anton pointed ahead to a door that was slightly ajar. Above it was a red and white candy cane sign. The call of the barbers. They advanced slowly, cursing every pebble that kicked beneath them. Dylan sniffed the ground and bared his teeth, his body stiffening.

  There were three large white mannequins in the window. Behind them, all was dark, though Colin could just make out the outline of the mirrors and chairs. A desk. Peeling photos of old boy band stars.

  A mannequin moved.

  Colin laughed. It was only his reflection.

  “Shhh,” Anton hissed. “Something’s nearby.”

  They turned right, climbed over a low brick wall, and headed over a gravel carpark. There were several blackened picnic benches underneath the skeletal frame of an old umbrella. A large sign on the wall above them read, ‘THE OLD BELL INN.’ Sat on the doorstep, presumably a drunk’s last attempt at finding his way home when the military came, was an old man with a beard stretching over his ribcage like some ancient burned-out forest. His eyes were missing – as so many of them were. The gaping mouths where they’d once sat had been vacant for a long time. Similar to this pub.

  Anton raised his Glock and flicked off the safety.

  Dylan growled. There was movement.

  It took Colin all of two seconds to catch sight of what had startled them. Through the open window of the Old Bell Inn, through the cracked glass held on by a thin mesh of metal, someone was running out of sight. Ducking into the pub.

  “Take it easy,” Colin tried to say. But Anton had already given chase, knocking over the old bearded patron as he yanked the door open.

  Colin rolled his eyes, whispered at Dylan, and they both sped after.

  The air inside the pub was thick with dust, recently disturbed from the stranger’s footsteps. They careened around to the bar and stopped when they saw Anton aiming his pistol down at the bottom of the bar’s counter.

  Anton turned, held a single finger over his mouth and pointed ahead. Amongst the optics and bottles hanging on the wall was a Jim Beam mirror angled to the floor. Through the reflective glass, Colin could make out the shape of a young boy, crouched with his hands over his head, whimpering. He was shaking from head to toe, oblivious that they could see him cowering.

  Anton took a step forward, the sound echoing as his shoe clapped on the wooden floor. Through the mirror they watched as the boy looked into the air, revealing a face not much younger than Keaghan’s. His eyes were streaming red tears. He thumbed away at his sniffles. His lips spoke a silent prayer.

  It was when Dylan barked that the boy looked at the optics, caught sight of the two of them in the mirror, and stood up abruptly. Hands in the air. Almost comical in his appearance. He reminded Colin somewhat of Shaggy from the old Scooby Doo cartoons.

  “Don’t shoot!” the boy yelled, voice breaking.

  “Don’t moves!”

  “I’m not! I won’t! Sorry!”

  Anton looked uneasily at the boy, then to Colin. “Good.”

  Dylan barked again.

  “It’s okay,” Colin grinned. There was no threat from this boy. He was certainly no scavvie.

  Anton instructed the boy to step around the bar to where they could see him properly. He obeyed without question, tears still falling down his cheeks. Hands in the air. When they got a good look at him they saw he was a scrawny little runt with a rat-hair beard drawn clumsily on a non-existent chin. His limbs were like snapped matchsticks propping up a sandbag of woolly jumpers and knitwear.

  “If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” the boy mumbled. “I can’t do this anymore. Just fucking kill me.”

  Colin moved a step closer, feet crunching on chunks of crumbling plaster and glass. “We’re not going to kill you.”

  “You’re not?” The boy’s eyes lit up. He looked like he was about to run and hug Colin when his eyes found Anton’s pistol again.

  “No. We’re not. At least not yet. First, we need you to do some talking. Here,” he threw a bottle of something brown at the boy who caught it instinctively. “Have a few mouthfuls of the elixir of Anton’s folk. That ought to calm your nerves and loosen your tongue.”

  “My folk?”

  “You’re Dutch, Anton. Remember?”

  “Ja, oke. Ik weet,” he said as he sucked on his gums.

  The boy warily sniffed the bottle, then brought it to his lips. He exploded into coughs at the first mouthful, then tried to hand it back to Colin. “Oh no, snowflake. I said a couple mouthfuls.”

  The boy seemed to weigh his options before resigning to his instructions, draining a third of the bottle on his next swig. Colin took the bottle back from him and took his own draught, then offered it to Anton.

  “No thanks.”

  They waited a moment as the boy fought with another rack of coughs. When he eventually settled, his tears had stopped. He wobbled slightly on the spot, but his eyes looked brighter. “Who are you people?”

  Anton lowered his gun.

  *

  They sat around a dusty table as Anton gave the boy the lowdown on his and Colin’s mission. He told them of the scout that had heard gunfire from the camp, and the journey they had made overnight to discover the truth of what had happened. All the while Colin couldn’t help but notice that, at times, Anton used phrases that were undoubtedly lifted straight from Henry’s mouth. Words of encouragement that seemed strange coming from the lips of the Dutchman.

  “So why didn’t you bring more people? If you heard gunfire at our camp, wouldn’t it make sense to bring a whole army? Not just two men and a dog?”

  Colin dared two more mouthfuls of the rum. He felt the buzz creeping through his skin. “He’s a wise one, ain’t he?”

  “We haves more men waiting in a car on the edge of town with more dogs and a few extra weapons. Our mission was a silent one, to find a few survivors and brings the story back to Hope. We needed to see whats was goings on here before we risks the life of all of Hope.”

  And then it was the boy’s turn. His account was very much the same to Keaghan’s. A tale of ambush in which scavvies arrived from all around, mowing down anyone that dared to move or run or escape. The people of King’s Hill had outnumbered the scavvies, but they were considerably handicapped in the way of firepower, and so the boy fled. Along with the remainder of the town.

  “So everyone else is dead? You’ve seen no one else in town who managed to do what you did and hide?”

  The boy’s eyes shimmered again. A fresh memory seemed to stir behind the browns of his eyes. “I’ve seen… people. But they’re hardly people anymore.”

  “Whats do you mean?”

  The boy looked at Anton as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They woke up.”

  The boy broke down into fresh sobs. He brought his knees to his chest and rocked, muttering the words, “Dead, dead, dead,” under his breath.

  “Whats he talking about, Bolton?”

  Colin seemed to glean the meaning simply from the fear in the boy’s eyes. “He means the scavvies are gone. They’re not the real threat here. Isn’t that right?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Tell us, what did you see?”

  The boy took a deep breath. “I saw a man, Ronan, who I thought to be dead on the pavement. Face down in the dirt with bullet holes riddling his back. He was blocking the entrance to an alleyway that I knew would lead me down towards the old theatre. I figured I could go hide in that place for a while. It’s a labyrinth in there. Somewhere to get away from the gunfire. But as I jumped, he woke up. Grabbed my ankle. I fell. I kicked at him until I was free, but before I got a chance to run I saw the white threads tearing out through his wounds. The cold eyes watching as he struggled to get up again.”

  “The rot,” Colin stated.

  “I’ve heard more of them outside, wanderi
ng the streets. Faces dark with tattoos. So far I’ve managed to keep my distance.”

  “We need to get a move on,” Anton said suddenly, standing up and shouldering his pack, “round ups as many survivors as we can and dropping them back with Byron. If the boy survived, there’ll be others.”

  “Others? Have you not heard the boy? If we go any further we’re going into fresh rotter territory. I don’t know about you, but that’s a place that I don’t want to be. We’ve been lucky so far. We’ve found a survivor. We need to go back to Henry and tell him what’s going on. The boy is right. We need more men.”

  In a whirling rage, Anton grabbed the remainder of the bottle and threw it across the room. He stood sharply, causing the boy to flinch in his seat and throw his arms over his head. Anton’s face was a mask of fearful anger. “No. We’ve come this far. We need to find Susie, first. I need to know she’s okay. We need to find hers.”

  A silence filled the old English pub, only disturbed by the gentle dripping of rum falling off the far wall onto the floor. Anton’s chest rose and fell as he met Colin’s eyes. Colin had seen that look a thousand times before, in the early days. Running from camp to camp. A look of desperate affection. Needing to know that someone you care about is okay. Did Anton have something with this Susie K that he wasn’t telling Colin?

  As his thoughts raced, he didn’t register the boy turning in his seat and standing in front of Anton. “How do you know my mother’s name?”

  Anton’s head tilted to the side.

  “She’s a… friend. Who are you?

  “I’m Quinton Kendall. Susie’s son.”

  “You’re Quinton?” He grabbed Quinton’s shoulders. “Do you knows where your mother is? Have you seen her?”

  Quinton shook his head sombrely. “Not since she tore off into the town with Grandpa.”

  *