Class Four: Those Who Survive

by Duncan P. Bradshaw

  With dextrous fingers, Francis bent the metal to an approximation of the lock. After a few moments jiggling it around within the chamber, the clasp opened up, Nathan let out a muted cheer. “I wasn’t always a security guard, you know.”

  He passed the bent stick of metal to Zena. “Get those who can still move free. I’m gonna go get Russ and we can get the hell out of here.”

  Zena nodded furiously and started to pick the lock. Francis bent down by Nathan. “Whatever happens, kid, you make sure you stay safe. If something don’t look good, get out of there, okay? Your mum would be proud of how brave you are. You’re a good kid.” He finished by ruffling Nate’s hair before standing up and walking towards the closed sliding door.

  Nathan stood up and called out. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”

  Francis sagged, turned and said, “Everyone comes back these days, kid,” before storming off towards the end of the barn.

  Francis peered through a crack in the frame and saw Russ lying trussed up on a metal table. His feet were tied together by rope, which in turn led to a winch. He could hear Russ speaking, cursing at the three men surrounding him. One stood by the winch, pulling the cable taut. He was the man who had trapped him in the pit. Another was cleaning items on a tray, while the third stood with his back to him, patting Russ on the head.

  Grabbing hold of a pitchfork which he found standing up against the wall, he formulated a plan. Checking that the door was off the latch, he rested a foot against it. From inside the room beyond, he heard the sound of a winch grinding and frenzied shouting. With a mighty push, Francis pushed the door open and charged into the room.

  The pitchfork met ‘Url square in the guts as he turned to the sound of squeaking metal. Francis twisted the implement like a door handle and, with one foot resting on the bone armour, yanked the weapon free.

  ‘Url screamed in agony as his stomach and intestinal tract were ripped out. They slopped to the floor in a steaming pile. Francis swung the pole around and caught him on the side of the face, sending him to the ground. A rope of intestine linked the offal pile to its owner, who was now convulsing on the floor.

  The winch continued to whirr and Russ’ body, up to his waist, was now dangling in the air. Vints was caught in two minds between manning the winch and stabbing to death the intruder who had eviscerated his kin. The indecision allowed Francis time to close the distance. With his broken skull discarded, Vints looked like he had applied fake tan to his cheeks.

  Whirring ceased as the winch hauled Russ up to full height. Vints growled and fumbled for his weapon. Francis swung the axe down and it carved off the side of the savage’s face, from the corner of his eye diagonally down through the middle of his mouth and through the jawbone.

  Frantic hands tried to hold his face together, but to no avail. Holding one bit meant that another segment was neglected. Whilst trying to hold his jaw together, and stop teeth from falling out, his eyeball bulged through the wound and swung across his face, hitting his nose and coming to a rest.

  As he instinctively went to catch his eye, he let go of his jaw, which swung downwards and broke off, landing on the floor with a dull thud. Francis lashed out and caught the eye in his free hand. Squashing it in his palm elicited animalistic howling.

  Like a ripcord, Francis tore it free and cast it aside. Vints collapsed to the floor. Blood seeping from his disfigurement, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  “Uh uh uh.”

  Francis turned to see Juhn grabbing Russ’ head by his greasy hair, exposing his throbbing jugular, against which was held a blood-flecked bone knife. “Easy pal. You put that down, and I guarantee you can walk away from this,” Francis said calmly, holding his arms out as a symbol of acceptance.

  “New as suun as I seen you, that you wood be trubble. You slain ma kin, vink it only fair I call you on that,” Juhn grunted, a smile bloomed on his face.

  “NOOOOO.”

  As Francis dived over the table, Juhn ran the edge of the knife across Russ’ throat. Like a bag being unzipped, it opened up, spraying blood in a wide arc. Francis tackled Juhn to the ground and, in a cloud of fury repressed from the events of so long ago, he pummelled his fists into the savage’s face.

  The skull mask chipped and fractured; the ochre-lined eyes burst with blood vessels and turned purple. All the while, amongst the sound of skull smacking against concrete and fists striking skull, was the sound of cackling.

  Francis looked down on the misshapen face he had formed with his anger. From behind, he heard a gasping gurgling sound. He leapt up and put an arm under Russ’ hanging head. “HELP ME, SOMEONE, HELP ME!” he bellowed.

  “Stay with me, slim.” Francis looked into Russ’ fading eyes. Tributaries of blood had run down his face like melted wax. Russ moved his lips. “I can’t hear you, slim,” Francis said.

  Russ closed his eyes and huffed. He rolled his eyelids open and through wet gurgling he mustered, “I’m going home.” Upon utterance of his words, he fell slack in Francis’ arms.

  “Behind you,” came a call from within the barn.

  The warning came too late. Francis felt something slide into his back, pushing ribs aside and cracking one as an icicle of pain burrowed into his body. He released Russ, who swung gently, liquid still pumping out of him, tip-tapping against the metal like a leaky pipe. Francis looked down to see a section of sharpened bone sticking out through his skin and clothing. Then it was gone, along with the pain, only to appear again a moment later. He saw the spear of bone jutting from his chest, a cackling the soundtrack to his assault. Francis clutched his front and fell to the floor. A boot rolled him over onto his back. He could feel his top growing wet. He felt cold, his legs felt numb, he looked up and saw the bruised visage of Juhn looming over him. “Aww, looky here. Looks like you’re bleedin’ out bad, Mister.”

  The knife was waved in front of his eyes, seeking out the next place to desecrate. Having decided, it was pulled back from view, and Francis braced for impact. He didn’t care anymore.

  Instead of the expected stabbing sensation, he heard a solitary crack which ended the maniacal laughter at once. Juhn fell on top of Francis, a claw hammer embedded in the crown of his skull. He felt the deadweight being dragged off him and then a child’s face appeared in his vision. “I got him, Francis, just like the Red Mask from Mars.”

  Francis softly wrapped his arms around Nathan and pulled him to his chest. “Great kid. Don’t get too cocky now, you hear? Remember… stay…safe…”

  May 14th 2014

  21:32

  The room was deserted, save for Diane’s body, and the baby which was pulling itself free of the cavity in her torso. It plopped onto the side of the table with a wet slurp. The umbilical cord tethered the infant to its mother. On unsteady podgy arms, it started pulling itself towards Francis.

  “George…my son,” he gasped. The boy crawled through a puddle of slime and blood towards him. As the child lay a bloodsoaked hand on top of his, Francis recoiled. Then another hand, one he was intimately familiar with, was slapped on top.

  “Diane?” Francis asked dumbfounded. The woman he had spent the past eight years with sat up slowly. As her torso stretched, a number of organs took the opportunity to escape and slopped out through the incision.

  A low moan rumbled out of her diaphragm, causing Francis to stumble backwards. Dead eyes looked at him. Mother and child reached out for him, eager to grab hold and resume the unholy communion.

  “No…please…this is just a dream, please,” Francis begged out loud. He bumped into an oxygen tank as he backpedalled from the couple. He looked down and knew what he had to do. He picked the tank up and held it above his head.

  “All I wanted was for us to be a proper little family. We’d spent so long planning for this moment, but this…this is not what was supposed to happen.” A tear ran from the corner of his eye and soaked into his moustache.

  “I love you both,” he said softly, before he brought the tank down again and agai
n, until no more murderous hands reached for him.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “Where are the others?” Zena asked. Anton ran a finger across his throat and shook the blood from the end of the axe. She nodded and looked back to Francis, who was lying down on a pile of hay bales. His face was white. Around his body, lengths of bloodsoaked rags were wrapped, ripped from the bodies of those who no longer needed them.

  His eyes flickered and opened slowly. He looked as if he thought he was somewhere else. “Where’s Diane? And George? I thought they were right…right here, with me…” he mumbled. Zena held his hand and stroked his hair.

  “Francis?” Nathan asked.

  “Hey kid…how did…no matter. I ain’t got long, can feel it, gonna be a time real soon where I won’t be there to look after you. I done my best to get you this far…I…” Francis’ voice rose and fell as waves of pain wracked his failing body.

  Nathan squeezed Francis’ hand so tightly that the skin turned white and yellow where they met. A tear bulged in the corner of his eye and trickled down his face. “Please don’t go, Francis. I don’t want to be on my own,” he begged softly.

  Francis closed his eyes to ride out the latest pulse of agony. When they opened again, he seemed relaxed, calm. “You won’t be, kid. I ain’t much for believing in God, but I know that as long as…as long as you remember someone, they’re always alive.” He tapped Nathan’s chest. “In here. Your journey goes on, kid. I gotta stop here and get off, but these folks here will look after you now, won’t you?”

  Zena nodded gently and continued to stroke his hair reverently. Anton stood over him. “You bet we will. You guys saved me, I’ll look after him. You have my word on that.”

  “Hmm, good. You better, pilgrim, or Zena here will end you.” He let out a chuckle. “Keep going to Rhayader. There’s a man there called Jim. Tell him that…that we saw his brother in the factory. You should be safe there. You should all be safe there. Another thing, when I go, one of you will have to make sure I don’t come back. It won’t be easy or pleasant, but I don’t want to come back as one of them, promise?”

  Zena nodded. “Of course Francis.”

  “Good.” Francis looked into Nathan’s eyes. “I’ve seen things people wouldn’t believe, entire cities on fire, burned to the ground, turned to ash and dust. I’ve witnessed my family die and come back, and had to…kill them. I’m glad I found you, kid. You saved me from myself that day, and I will always be grateful for that. You gave me peace. Don’t mourn me when I’m gone. Get to safety, stay safe, get through this, cos it will end, but most of all…”

  Nathan leant in closer. “What was that, Francis?”

  Francis coughed, his eyes rolled back. “…live.”

  Crudely-formed gravestones, fashioned from broken cupboard doors, were hammered into the fertile land at the head of two mounds of freshly piled earth. The spring air felt crisp, but not cold. The morning rain had made the task of excavating the earth less back-breaking, but Zena had longed for the toil.

  Anton stood behind the pair. He stood as a solemn guard, feeling almost like an intruder into their grief. “I’m gonna leave you guys to have a moment,” he said, laying a comforting hand on their shoulders before turning and heading towards the yawning gate.

  Zena bowed her head. “I’ll look after you, Nathan. Both of us will, at least until we get to this place, then we’ll see what the future brings, eh?”

  Nathan pulled Russ’ cap down to shield his eyes from the low sun. Having had to already pull the band as tight as it would go to make it fit, he nodded glumly. Zena saw a glint of silver flash in his hand. “What you got there?”

  The child held up a watch. The time stuck at 7:27. “Francis told me that when his Grandad died, the watch he was wearing stopped at the exact time he passed away. That at the time he stopped living in one way, he became something else, energy again. I always thought it was one of those stories that grown-ups tell kids to make things seem easier. This was his watch, and it did the same.”

  Zena knelt down and pulled Nathan into a bear hug. “It’ll be okay, Nathan.”

  The kid hugged the woman and then pulled away. “I know, Francis will always be with me. In here.” He tapped his chest.

  “With mummy.”

  The pair took one last memory photograph before turning from the graves.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Most of the inhabitants in the RV were asleep. The past few hours had rolled by like a slug on sandpaper. Devin looked through the morning fog, focused on getting back to the mill as quickly as possible.

  The Apostle rubbed dirty fingers around the inside of his mouth. He pulled out a chunk of broken tooth and flicked it out of the window. “Next time, Malky, can you go a bit easier on me? I lost two teeth last time. You may have noticed the lack of adequate dental care these days. I would appreciate keeping them for as long as possible.”

  Malky huffed and looked down at the man. “If I recall, I was reluctant to strike you. You made some unnecessary comments about my mother, and the origin of my true father.”

  “You can be such a sensitive soul, can’t you? Regardless, at this rate I’ll be needing to start checking corpses for dentures in a few months.” The Apostle wiped his dribble-covered fingers on his trousers and put his feet up onto the dashboard. “Where to now, Your Grace?”

  Devin stared ahead. “We rest for a week, replenish the men we lost and resupply. Then we head towards the next haven of falsehood.”

  “We need some penitents, too. They are becoming a scarce commodity,” Malky growled.

  “The other chapters have been on the lookout for more. Don’t worry, my friend. Your cage will soon be full again with pathetic whelps,” Devin sighed as the fog became denser.

  “In the land of the dead, the one eyed man is king.”

  Chapter Fifty

  “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with…S,” Otto said, sounding as bored as a child during Mass.

  Huw looked around. The raised platform bolted to the cabin roof offered decent views of the valley, though the blooming forest canopy now hid the ground from prying eyes. Beneath them was the general hubbub of people going about another day of surviving.

  Campfires hissed as water bubbled over from boiling pots; children grumbled at another breakfast of porridge made from water or day-old bread, toasted to within a speck of its existence.

  “Sky?” Huw offered.

  In truth, they had been playing the game every time they were on sentry duty, so they had long since exhausted every viable thing, from branch through smoke, and onto water.

  “Amateur,” Otto quipped. He whittled away the end of another arrow, adding it to the pile of pointed sticks, ready for fletching by someone infinitely more able than him.

  Huw pointed out to the track which had been trampled through the countryside, from the water’s edge to the camp. “Survivors, look, coming out of the trees.”

  Otto cupped his hands over his eyes and smiled. “Been a while since we seen some of those.” He looked down into the milling people, before shouting, “JIM, MAIN GATE!”

  Jim kissed Sophie on the head and ran to the gate, gesturing to the two guards to get ready to open up. “Keep your eyes open, lads. Been some weird reports coming in recently.” The guards nodded in agreement and drew their weapons; one was a near unmanageable claymore while the other patted a solid steel mace in gloved hands.

  The gate was fabricated from row upon row of felled tree trunks, lashed together, though they could open up like double doors. These days, most incoming and outgoing trips necessitated only the one mighty door to be in use.

  Jim stood in the gap, flanked on either side by the lightly armoured guards. Down the trail they could make out four people, moving swiftly up the dirt track. “Get ready, they might have some stragglers after them, the speed they’re moving at,” Jim warned.

  A child was the vanguard of the group, his legs pounding against the ground as fast as they co
uld. Each step sent up puffs of dust. He reached the open gate and pulled off his cap, running his sleeve across his sweat beaded brow. “M…mmmm…mister,” he stammered through burning lungs. “Please help.”

  “What’s going on?” Jim asked sternly. The kid stood there panting, out of breath, his hands resting on his aching thighs.

  “We need help. This man, he’s…he’s hurt,” the child blurted out.

  Jim looked back at the camp, to where a crowd of people were forming. “Fine, you two follow me,” he said, and ran off to the three people stumbling up the makeshift path, the gate guards in tow. The kid followed suit, though at a far reduced pace.

  As they approached the trio, the man in the middle collapsed to the ground. The others sank to their feet and were checking his vital signs. Jim reached them and looked at the group. One was a woman. Her blonde hair was tied back and she wore a pair of DMs that were on their last legs.

  The man attending to their stricken companion had a carpet of hair on his head, made into no style, just stuck to his head with sweat. As he looked up at Jim, he noticed a ring of small scars around his left eye socket.

  “Please, mister, we’ve come a long way to get here. Me and Francis met someone called Philip at a factory and he—”

  Jim held up a hand. “You saw him? When?”

  The boy gave a French shrug and continued. “He said to come here, that we would be safe, to ask for Jim.”

  Jim knelt down by the boy. “Well, kid. That would be me. You mentioned Francis? Where is he? I never really got a chance to thank him properly.”

  The kid looked to the ground and shook his head. “Francis is dead. He died saving us from these bad men in a farm who wanted to eat us.”

  The guards moved Zena and Anton aside and checked over the wounded man. “Are you all together?” Jim asked forcefully.