The Dying & The Dead (Book1): The Dying & The Dead

by Jack Lewis

  Her chest was burning and her lungs were screaming out for her to breathe. She reached across to the boy and unhooked the mask from his face. It was taboo, the idea of taking a mask off another person, but she knew that he didn’t need it. For him it was just for show, just a symbol so that he could pretend he was like everyone else. She slipped it around her face and chugged as much air as she could.

  “Let’s go,” she said, panting. “Don’t let them touch you.”

  ***

  At home Kim boiled water and filled the bath with it. It took at least ten boils to fill the bathtub, and they could only spare the water for one of them. It was with some regret that a shivery Heather pushed the boy into the bathroom.

  “Take as long as you need,” she said, and shut the door behind him.

  She went into the bedroom, stripped out of her clothes and put on as many dry layers as she could. Kim stepped through the doorway and took a seat on the bed.

  “What are we going to do with him?” she said.

  To her credit, when Heather had arrived home with a mask-less boy drenched in flood water, her daughter hadn’t said a word. Without needing to be asked she’d started to boil water to fill the bathtub. Her daughter was more resourceful than she gave her credit for.

  “He’s not our responsibility, said Heather. “I’ve done my bit, and bad things will happen if they ever find him here.”

  “I know what the Capita do mum. I’m not a kid.”

  “You are a kid, and no you don’t.”

  Kim looked her in the eyes.

  “If they find you hiding a DC they take you outside, pull off your mask and make you breathe. Then they make your family watch you turn.”

  Heather rubbed her forehead. Her skin felt cold but clammy at the same time. She hoped she wasn’t getting something. She’d made sure not to breathe the infected air with her mask off, but that didn’t stop her getting some kind of bug from the water.

  “Where the hell did you learn this?”

  “If you don’t turn…if you’re immune….it’s worse,” Kim carried on.

  A figure emerged in the doorway behind Kim, and Heather saw that it was the boy. His hair was drenched and he had a towel wrapped around his waist. Stood like that she could see how much his ribs stuck out from his skin.

  “They take us to the farms,” he said. “They make us grow and then they feed us to anyone who gets infected.”

  A shudder ran through Heather. She’d heard of the farms. She’d heard whisper of the rich Capita citizens feeding the flesh of the immune to those who were recently infected but hadn’t fallen into comas. She had never believed it until now, but she supposed the boy had no reason to lie. She wouldn’t do so either, especially not to her daughter.

  “What’s your name?” she said to him.

  He looked at his feet, then back at her.

  “Eric,” he said. “Eric Heaton.”

  With that she knew Eric Heaton would be staying with them. She couldn’t abandon him again.

  10

  Heather

  The smell of spilled coffee was a testament to the trader’s fortune, because it meant that he could waste boiled water on luxury. Not that water was hard to get; the world was still made of two thirds of the stuff. It was just that fresh sources were often a mile or two from settlements, and boiling it was a chore. To most people the idea of a hot coffee in the morning was the hangover of a happier time.

  Wes’s hair looked better groomed than ever, and each meticulous strand had been tamed into place. The trader’s face had a roundness that was becoming desirable these days. A full face and heavy figure meant you had plenty of food and that you could take care of yourself and any potential mate.

  She stretched her arms across the desk and folded her hands, noting how thin her own wrists looked. She and Kim cut back on food at the best of times because they were trying to preserve and store away as much as possible, and two days ago another hungry mouth had been added to their household. The boy had proved ravenous, eating whatever was put in front of him in seconds and always asking for more. He never wore the spare mask she’d given him, despite Heather explaining that Capita men could spot check the house whenever they wanted. He was a lot of trouble, and as much as she wanted to help him, she didn’t like the way he prodded their equilibrium.

  “Do you hear news from outside the Capita?” she said.

  The trader held his hands in front of his face and inspected his nails, which were all filed to a uniform length.

  “From time to time. Not much changes. People get by, people die. Towns pop up and the Capita shuts them down.” He paused for a second, and then added: “Or the infected overrun them.”

  The last thing Heather wanted to do was to sit at Wes’s desk and try to prise information from him. There was nobody else to go to, though. The trader met with all kinds of people, and he had communication webs that stretched miles outside of the Capita lands. He’d surely know where the Resistance were based. Yet Heather had to get the information without him realising why she needed it.

  “Do you hear from anyone else?” she said.

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Wes’s gave a shifting glance to the door behind him. He always did this. He’d turn his head ever so slightly so that the door was in the corner of his vision, then he’d look back at whoever sat across from him. Nobody knew what lay behind it.

  “We’ve known each other long enough, Heather. You know enough about me to get me thrown in a Capita cell. Just spit it out.”

  In truth, she was tired. It was all she could do to get out of bed in the morning, and it seemed like her duvet grew heavier each day. Sometime soon it was going to get so bad it would trap her in her bed and refuse to let her go. Mentally, her head was fogged. She had so many lies stored in there that maintaining them was like spinning a hundred plates. Lies she told Kim, lies she told herself. Lies she told her students.

  Yes Kim, of course I’m okay.

  Come on Heather, you can do this. There’s a way out.

  Yes children, the Capita is there to protect you.

  She was tired of it all, and she didn’t know how long she could hang on. Before the outbreak she’d worked in an office, and as a manager with a promising future she had duty after duty thrust upon her. Partly it was because her bosses knew she could take it, but another reason was because they wanted to break her. She was sure of it. Day after day she’d feel the energy drain out of her so quick that even a full night’s sleep wasn’t enough of a recharge, and she got through her days by going zombie-like from one task to the next, never really present. Finally she’d gone to the doctors. He signed his signature on a scrap of paper and sent her away. She went to the surgery with problems, she left it with pills.

  That wasn’t even an option anymore. There were no doctors. No self-help books were being published. Clean living no longer meant green tea and yoga; it meant wearing your mask and boiling your water. The lies just added to the weight, and she could feel her shoulders starting to break. So as much as she didn’t trust the trader, she grabbed the chance to lighten the load.

  “Supposing I needed to get in touch with the Resistance?” she said.

  “Supposing I asked why?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you.”

  The trader sucked in his cheeks and just for a flash, as his cheekbones stuck out, she saw the handsome guy he had once been. It was a ridiculous thought, though, because his vanity didn’t appeal to her at all. A thought hit her.

  “Why don’t you wear a mask?” she said.

  “The air’s clear,” he said.

  “It can change in minutes.”

  “Not here.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table and then, as if realising he could destroy his nails, stopped.

  “I can put you in touch with them. I’m assuming that’s what you want? But nothing comes for free.”

  She didn’t like the sound of this. “Go on.”
>
  “It’s a price I know you can afford.”

  With this he looked her up and down, and she suddenly felt under-dressed.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  He smiled at her, and it felt like she was being smiled at by a hyena.

  “The food you’re growing. I want a share of it.”

  “How much?”

  “Half.”

  “That’s not a share. That’s robbery.”

  She pushed her chair back and almost stood up from the table, but the thought of helping Eric kept her there. She thought about the food in her garden and shook her head.

  “Give me half and I’ll set up a meeting with someone from the Resistance,” said Wes.

  If she gave him half their food, it would set them back months. Hell, there was every chance that by the time they got home the boy would have eaten half of it on his own. He ate like he was trying to fill a hole that grew deeper and deeper with every mouthful. Before meeting her, he obviously hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. He’d been alone with nothing but the groans of the infected to hear. If anyone but Heather had found him, it was probable that he’d be sat on the back of a Capita cart by now. She didn’t want to think about it. She’d heard about the screams that came from the Capita dungeons.

  Sounds of shouting came from outside the trader’s house, but Heather couldn’t tell what was being said. She looked out of the window but couldn’t see anything save dirt covered streets and houses beyond repair.

  “I’m not going to barter with you, Heather.”

  “It’s stuffy in here,” she said.

  “So open a window.”

  She walked to the window and pulled it open. From outside came the clip clop of horse shoes pounding on tarmac. Two horses pulled a cart through one of the streets, and five Capita soldiers sat on the back of it. This would have been enough to agitate her, but then she spotted a lone horse trotting at the back, and riding it was a man with a plague doctor mask. Heather felt like she’d been dunked into a bathtub of ice water.

  She couldn’t let the bounty hunter find her here. The trader town was a black market hive that the Capita tolerated with a blind eye, but it was certain that at some point it would open it. If Charles saw her here it would look too suspicious.

  Outside the cart stopped and the soldiers jumped off. One of them walked to the front and patted one of the horses. The rest separated and began approaching doors and knocking on them. Charles heaved his leg over the side of his horse and lowered himself to the ground. He turned his head from side to side as if stretching his neck, and then he walked toward the trader’s house. His pickaxe swung from his back with every step. Heather felt her chest tighten.

  There were three loud thuds on the door. More ice was dumped into Heather’s freezing bath. She looked around her. Wes opened his drawer, pulled out his mirror and adjusted his hair. Heather looked for an exit that wasn’t the front door, but found none. He couldn’t find her here.

  “I can’t stay here, Wes.”

  The trader put down his mirror. “Just act natural.”

  “You don’t get it. He can’t find me here.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The man knocking on your door. It’s Charles Bull.”

  “A man with a heart blacker than ash,” said Wes.

  Heather fixed her stare on the door behind Wes, the one she had never seen open. Wes turned his head, and then looked at her.

  “Don’t go in there.”

  She walked to the door and tried the handle, and to her surprise it turned and the door opened. She’d always assumed that it was locked. The room was longer than Wes’s main trading room and at the end of it was a set of double windows, but the daylight was shut out by blinds. A lightbulb hung from a chord from the ceiling and emitted a sickly yellow light. Four beds were in the room, two on each side, with I.V. drips stood by each one. In three of the beds were people who seemed to be sleeping.

  “What the hell is this?” she said.

  She felt Wes standing behind her. It was the first time she'd seen him walk from behind his desk for ages and sure enough he had his jogging bottoms on, making him look like a business man who couldn’t decide between going to the office or going for a run.

  Charles pounded on the door again.

  “Who are they?” said Heather, looking at the bodies in the beds.

  “If you insist on hiding then shut up and go in.”

  He reached across the wall next to the door and flipped the light switch, and then he swung the door shut. As she heard him put the key in the lock and twist it, she wished she’d found another way out. The darkness stayed thick while her eyes tried to adjust to it, but she knew the beds and the sleeping people were there with her. Right now, she wished she’d just taken her chances and jumped out of the window.

  Outside the room she heard the door open, and then there were thuds on the wooden floorboards as the bounty hunter walked across them. Muffled voices reached her, and she could just about make them out. Charles’s deep voice spoke first.

  “Has anyone come to you, Wes?”

  The trader’s answer came in a pitch higher than normal.

  “Just the usual undesirables,” he said.

  A chair scraped across the floor.

  “Christ. Is this what you call furniture?” said Charles. “Get up, I want your seat.”

  There were footsteps and then a thud as she presumed Charles sank into the trader’s chair.

  “Have you heard any rumours of a DC boy?”

  “Nothing, Charles. Why?”

  “There’s one on the run, that’s all. But I only mention it in passing. You know why I’m here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was silence. A few seconds later, Charles broke it.

  “Are they ready yet?”

  “Are what... Oh. No, not yet.”

  Heather couldn’t help it, but every time Wes spoke she felt a resentment grow inside her. The way he acted with Charles, the way his voice changed. It was pathetic, but the worst thing was the realisation that she sounded exactly the same. For all the battles that she fought against the Capita in her head, she wilted when she was faced with a man like Charles Bull. She said the things he wanted to hear, no matter how much the words stung her throat.

  “How long until they’re ready?” said Charles.

  “A day or so I reckon. Then we’ll know.”

  Heather shifted her body closer to the gap between the door and the wall to try and hear their voices clearer, but she had to be careful not to make a sound. She shifted her left foot a little and then moved her body across. She heard Charles cough, and then he spoke.

  “Where are they?”

  The trader’s voice was quieter this time.

  “Just through there.”

  “Maybe I should take a look.”

  If Heather had a mirror in front of her she would have been staring into a pair of wide eyes. She regretted coming to the trader’s today, and she wondered if she had the strength to push on the door and stop Charles from coming in. Maybe if he thought the door was broken, he would give up and go home. What a stupid idea, she thought. Maybe your head’s broken.

  This time Wes spoke louder.

  “Maybe you should get a warrant.”

  “I’m not a policeman, Wes. I don’t have policies or procedures. If I wanted to take everything you own, I would.”

  Heather held her breath as if it would stop Charles from wanting to come into the room. The consequences of being caught flashed by in a sequence of images which started with her arrest and ended in a cell in the Capita’s dungeons. Worse, she pictured Kim waiting at home and wondering where Heather was.

  Something moved in the room. Though her eyes had adjusted enough that she could make out basic outlines, she couldn’t peel back the darkness to see details. Her ears were perfectly attuned, and now they registered sounds. The groan of bedsprings as a weight moved over them. The slap as bare feet touched the h
ard floor. Uneven thuds as footsteps were taken. A couple at first, then more. She saw a black mass move in the darkness. It walked toward her, and for a second made her wonder if it would be better just to run out of the room and give herself up.

  Instead she shrank back against the door, bit her lip and peered into the black as the figure stepped toward her. What the hell is it? With her left hand she felt her way across the door and brushed the handle. She didn’t want to use it, but she needed to know it was there.