by Casey Lane
The men caught my hand's movement and one nudged the other as they smirked and scoffed. One swallowed a laugh as he stared at me. "Going out on patrol today, Taylor? I hear some of those Turned need mending, what with ripped off arms and all."
Their shoulders heaved with laughter at their joke. I swallowed. No retort rose to my tongue. Life wasn't fair. They carried cavalry swords while I wielded a needle and a pair of scissors. If my parents hadn't held me back, I would have stood beside them. Perhaps I would be on the detail to protect Miss Sophie.
Perhaps then she would know I existed.
"Anything else?" I asked my mother, ignoring the taunt with my gaze fixated on Sophie's high cheekbones and ruby lips. A girl like her would never look at the likes of me, but a cat may gaze upon a king. Or a humble tailor could drink his fill of the beautiful young aristocrat.
Some of the village girls liked my height, and they giggled when I passed. The baker's daughter had traced my square jaw and declared it manly. My sister and I both inherited dark, wavy hair and brown eyes from our mother. It wasn't my face or lack of uniform that kept me from being noticed by Sophie Abrahams, but my station in life.
With no reason to stay in the showroom, apart from being mocked by the two soldiers, I headed toward the back of the shop. I slipped through the peaceful quiet of the stacked rows of bolts to the rear of the room, pushed open the back door, and stood on the steps for a moment, blinking against the bright light. Long hours spent sitting inside did nothing to fill out my lanky frame. If my father were a blacksmith or a farmer, I would labour outside and build some muscle and add colour to my pasty skin. While I garnered a small amount of attention until the soldiers came home, girls preferred lads with bulk. The type who could pick a girl up and swing her squealing into the air. Their gazes skimmed over me and rested on fellows who performed more physical labour than threading a needle. A smart uniform also helped, or a scar earned in the war.
A sigh heaved free of my chest as I picked a direction. I wanted to avoid the main road full of thatched-roof houses and the people who would be going about their business. Instead, I headed inland across the grass, kicking stones as I went. Seagulls wheeled above the beach just past town, and the crash of waves against cliffs played a constant melody in the background.
I had a couple of mates, fellows likewise left behind due to age, situation, or infirmary. We stuck together, but that day I needed to be on my own. In the neighbouring stretch of trees I planned to find an old oak or elm and pound its trunk as I raged about how my fate was decided long before I was ever born.
My family had been tailors for so long, we even retained the surname Taylor. It was all we had known for generations. Our babies were practically born with a spool of cotton in their mouths. No silver spoons in our family.
Laughter welled up in my throat and I let it loose, scaring a sparrow that had alighted on a branch near my head. The only woman I wanted to see me was forever beyond my reach. I should probably try for the attention of a shop girl, but Sophie's cool beauty tugged at me like a snag in fabric, and I couldn't see anything except her.
A rattle and groan caught my attention. The sort of noise pranksters would make outside your window late at night to make you believe a ghost walked past. Probably the soldiers on patrol having a joke at my expense.
"Hello?" I called out, peering through the trees for the source of the sound. A shadow flickered and then formed itself. A man. Or was it a woman? I stepped closer and then froze as realisation dropped through me. Turned.
Dirt, leaves, and bits of twigs matted shoulder length hair, making it resemble a bird's nest. Mud and other dark stains caked filthy clothing. Rips and tears in the long skirt made my hand itch for the needle caddy hanging from my belt. This unfortunate creature had once been a woman. Now it was walking death.
Grey flesh dropped from its bones, and tendons moved and flexed as it waved outstretched arms. The eyes were milky white, as though it were blind. But if they truly were blind, how did they find their way? Nobody knew. Scientists worked to find the answers to so many questions about these creatures.
It took short, clanking steps sideways, but didn't move forward. It also didn't seem interested in biting or scratching me. Even the undead didn’t want me. I kicked the tree to my left and immediately regretted it as pain flared across my foot. My luck I would break my foot lashing out at a tree and the Turned would fall on me. That would give the soldiers something to laugh about when they found my body.
I drew my attention from my injured toe back to the Turned. Keeping a tree between us, I circled around, wondering why it didn't strike out or simply carry on its stumbling path.
The chink noise bothered me. Most undead didn't rattle. Then I found the source, a rabbit trap that had caught a different type of prey. The jaws of the trap were sandwiched around the Turned's foot. A chain ran through the leaf litter. Normally traps were staked to the ground so the rabbit didn't run off with the trap. This larger critter had pulled the chain from its secure anchor, only to run afoul of a far larger one. The stake end had snagged on a broken trunk and stopped the creature's forward progress.
From the state of its decomposition, it would probably lose its hands if it tried to prise the trap open. That left it with two available options, sever its foot or try to free the chain. Only the larger leg bone wedged in the metal stopped the lower limb from falling off.
One of the commodore's patrols would be around somewhere. I should find them and lead them back to dispatch the poor unfortunate before it broke free and attacked someone. My hand caressed the top of the pinking shears. Or maybe I could deal with this one myself? Perhaps it was time the timid tailor found his backbone.
Soldiers carried swords to decapitate the creatures. I had no such weapon, and so would need to improvise. Another faint clink drew my eye. The strands of green beads around its neck, and between the small globes the glint of wire. But would it be strong enough to remove a head?
Judging by the state of the creature, it had departed life some time ago. Flesh hung off exposed bone. Time and the Turned plague likewise ate at bone and made them brittle. I crept closer, trying to ascertain the state of its neck. The beads had worn a groove through its skin, and a dull cream vertebra shone from under the mess of hair. I just needed some way to tighten the necklace.
My gaze lighted on a broken branch at my feet. I picked it up and tapped it against my leg. The wood seemed sound, with no evidence of rot. Now the unpleasant bit, creeping up behind the vermin. It still showed no interest in my presence as I neared. But I didn't become complacent. It only took a small bite or nick to spread their contagion.
The creature shifted left and right, its focus on going forward, but the stump held its chain. I circled behind it and held out the branch. I stood so close the sweet, cloying rot tickled my nose. To stop from gagging, I held my breath and prayed it didn't jump around. I slid a smaller stick under the chain and lifted it away from the vermin's rotting back as I slid the larger branch through and then turned it end over end. Tighter and tighter the wire wound, as the necklace became a tourniquet squeezing the neck and shredding off the loose grey skin.
Beads cracked and popped as the wire dug and pulled them hard against each other. The Turned emitted a high-pitched wail as wire sliced through the remaining flesh of its throat, oesophagus, and then met the resistance of bone. How did it make any noise when I had severed its windpipe?
Now my job became harder. My muscles were unused to this type of labour as I leaned on the branch to make another half turn. The creature began to thrash and throw its arms around, but it leaned against the end of chain, further immobilising it. I gritted my teeth. So close. Before me I conjured up the approving stare of Miss Sophie, and I shoved as hard as I could against the wood.
A loud crack startled a flock of birds into flight. I peered from between screwed up eyelids. The creature was now a foot shorter. Or should that be a head shorter? It continued to strain against its con
fines as though it hadn't noticed the loss of a major appendage.
It crumpled at the knees and then sunk to the ground, yet its body continued to struggle as though it wrestled an invisible opponent. I had done it. I had dispatched a vermin.
Chapter 2
I sat on the tree stump and watched the body twitch and shake like a fish hauled out of the water and thrown to the sand. I decided to do something useful while I waited for the creature to finally realise it was dead. Any sighting of the Turned had to be reported to the commodore. I patted my pockets and found the notebook and pencil I used to write measurements during a fitting.
My tailor's eye came in handy, and some details of the creature's physical appearance sprang naturally to my mind. Height, bust, waist, and hip measurements were normally taken with a tape measure, but after long years of practice you got pretty good at estimating. It didn't matter that the flesh had fallen from this woman's body, the cut of her clothing told me the size of what once filled it.
Next, I cast a critical eye over the clothing. Ignoring the rips and stains, I noted the fabric and cut of the walking suit. An outdated style, it was from before the war with its ankle skimming length and a deep, double breasted collar that had once been edged in contrasting velvet. My scribbled notes might allow the commodore to match this creature to a person who once breathed and loved.
By the time I had filled a page with notes, the vermin's struggles had ended. Just to be cautious, I waited until it had lain still for some minutes before I ventured closer. It looked dead, but then it had been dead when originally interred, and that didn't stop it from rising up to wander the countryside. My feet felt braver than the rest of me, so I nudged it with the toe of my boot.
Nothing happened. Maybe this time it was really dead.
The next step to dispatch one of the undead was to burn its body. I didn't want to risk a forest fire, so I would need to drag it out to the open field. I baulked at grabbing its hand—what if it grabbed me back? But if I lugged it by the ankles, the creature's skirts would ride up, and it wouldn't do to expose a woman like that, even in death.
I pondered my options and decided I would rather risk exposing its dead body than having it scratch my arms as I moved it. That left only one little problem. The rabbit trap and chain. The creature's struggles had embedded the chain and stake deep into the tree stump. When I hauled on it, the metal didn’t so much as wiggle.
I could prise the trap open, but didn't want to risk losing a finger. I needed all of them to wield a needle. What use was a one-handed tailor? That left the vermin's ankle as the easiest point to tackle. The flesh was stripped to expose bone and tendons. It wouldn't take much to snip those free, if I dared.
My hand dropped to the leather pouch hanging from my belt, and my fingers slid into the large handles of the shears. I knelt on the forest floor and drew the scissors.
"It's just a dress mannequin," I told myself as I began snipping with the serrated blades. Easier to think it was a faceless form we used for draping fabric before stitching. Then I used the scissor edge to slide under the rounded point of the leg bone and separated the foot.
I imagined moving an inanimate object to avoid thinking of the person it had once been. Once I was satisfied it was far enough from the trees, I dropped the weight and wiped my hands on my trousers, hoping nothing stuck to me.
With that task done, I fetched broken branches to stack around the body and retrieved the head, tucking it under the creature's arm. I drew a box of matches from my trouser pocket and lit a tuft of dried twigs. A single flame curled around the dry matter and sparked. Bit by bit, its appetite grew until it licked at the larger pieces of wood.
I stood back, satisfied my work was done. My attention flicked away from the rising smoke as hoof beats thudded across the field. Four riders in dark blue uniforms approached. They halted upwind of the sweet smoke and the lead rider dismounted.
"Are you all right, lad? Did you get yourself into a spot of trouble?" he asked, casting an eye over the shape beneath the flames. This man had greying hair at his temples and lines carved in his face. A worn soldier, used to ending those who thought they were fine only to discover the smallest scratch or bite transformed them into the enemy.
"No, sir, I'm just fine. I came across the creature in the forest and slayed it." I pointed back to the tree line where a rabbit trap, anchored to a stump, still clung to a foot. As long as they didn't wander off and investigate, my story sounded quite brave.
His gaze swept over me and a frown crossed his face. One hand dropped to his sword and rested on the hilt. "You're unarmed. Did the Turned bite or scratch you?"
"A tailor is never unarmed.” I tapped the leather pouch at my side. “I have my shears. I snuck up on the creature from behind and it didn't touch me." The Turned hadn't even noticed my existence, much like Miss Sophie. Perhaps in life it had also been one of the gentry and only working class vermin attacked working class people.
A short burst of laughter shot from his throat. The three men behind me made similar noises. "Surely you jest? You used a pair of scissors?"
"They're very sharp pinking shears." Call it professional pride, but after being mocked that morning in the shop, I wanted to prove tailoring tools could be as deadly as a rifle or a sword. I never said I used the shears to dispatch it, and they did come in handy for removing its trapped foot. Surely it wasn't a lie if the soldiers leapt to the wrong conclusion?
That reminded me, the scissors would need a good clean when I got back to the shop. I didn't want lingering traces of Turned blood or skin decorating the next suit I cut out.
The soldier's gaze widened and he shook his head. The laughter died away behind him. "The commodore will want to hear of this."
"I noted all the identifying details of this one so I can file a report." My hand moved to the pocket holding my notebook.
The soldier stared at me a moment longer and then nodded as he climbed back into his saddle. "Deliver your report this afternoon, to Gillsford Hall. I'll send a detail back to bury the remains once the fire has burned down."
"Yes, sir." My hand wanted to rise in a salute, but that wasn't the done thing for civilians. Instead, I turned back to watch the fire to ensure no stray spark escaped. An hour later, two men with shovels relieved me. Then I walked home, sure my parents would be irate at my prolonged absence.
"Where have you been?" my father said as soon as I walked into the workshop.
"I encountered one of the Turned in the forest and had to deal with it and dispose of the carcass. Then I had to wait for a patrol to relieve my watch." I managed to say it in a matter-of-fact manner as I placed the shears on the table and found the small can of oil and a rag.
He stared at me. Any rebuttal died on his lips as my mother pushed through the door to the shop. "Whatever is that horrid smell?"
I sniffed at my shirt. "Smoked Turned."
I had to narrate my story twice to my horrified mother and incredulous father. They didn't quite believe me on the first telling. Then they insisted on inspecting my arms and legs for any scratches before I could bathe and change clothes, in case any tiny sliver of dead flesh clung to me. An hour later I saddled our horse and rode out to the commodore's estate.
No one from my family had ever been invited inside Gillsford Hall before. My world never collided with theirs, except in the shop. The hall had stood for over two hundred years. A dark stone building built in the gothic revival style, it had a formidable presence in the countryside. Soaring arched windows and spiral finials looked out of place this close to the beach. It made me think of a grand abbey that had been caught up in a tornado and dropped hundreds of miles from its home.
Like all working class folk, I knew my place and rode around to the tradesmen's entrance at the back. A footman listened to my story, looked at my waved notebook, and then ushered me through the servant's hall to the family wing. He gestured to a door that stood open, where loud chatter rolled out into the dark, panelled hall
way. His job done, the footman then disappeared back below, clearly deeming a mere tailor unworthy of any further attention or introduction.
I followed the deep laughter into a parlour that had been transformed into what I recognised from the newsreels as being a war room. Men were clustered in groups of five or more, talking and waving their hands. A few turned to raise an eyebrow at me, then returned to their conversation. Smoke drifted from lit cigarettes and curled around the light fittings.
I walked to the end wall, covered with a topographical map of Dorset. Coloured pins were stuck all over the map, and thread ran from one to another in a strange spider web with no discernible meaning. Four desks lined another wall, as though they waited for school children or secretaries. Baskets on each desk were piled high with papers. Two held typewriters waiting to be fed a fresh sheet of paper.
A man in his late fifties appeared, dressed in dark blue with white trim and yellow insignia at his cuffs. Large yellow epaulettes adorned the shoulders of his uniform. His sparse hair was trimmed so short he looked like he stood in line when the shearers did the sheep. He didn't have an ounce of spare fat on him, a man of lean energy and action. He strode across the room toward me, his piercing blue gaze fixed me in place.
"You the lad who dispatched a Turned with a pair of scissors?" A bushy grey moustache rose and fell with each word.
I swallowed. "Pinking shears, sir, and they came in handy to tidy up the job."
"Tidy up the job?" He stared hard for a moment and then burst into laughter. The loud booming noise must have echoed in the close confines aboard a ship like a foghorn. "You're the tailor's lad?"
"Yes sir, Vincent Taylor. I made as complete a description of the unfortunate as possible." I held out my sheet of paper.
The moustache wiggled but he kept silent. He read my notes and then looked up. "Well done, lad. Your description will make our task of finding where the poor woman originated far easier. I wish my soldiers were as observant. What are you up to tonight?"
