The Caretakers (2011)

by Adrian Chamberlin

  Andy coughed blood and spat on the floor. A reddish clump sat alongside Franklin’s plug of yellowish phlegm. Franklin laughed and dropped the finger. It landed, nail first, into Andy’s bloody spittle. The crushed bone glinted in the candle light. Andy stared at it, hardly believing that this piece of meat was once a moving, living part of his body.

  Then he remembered the same thing had happened to Jen. He looked despairingly at her slumped, motionless body. Even unconsciousness had not brought a temporary respite to her suffering. Her face was still creased in agony, her eyeballs rapidly moving behind squeezed shut eyelids.

  “You’re wrong, Franklin,” Andy’s words were barely audible, even to himself. “Can’t you even fucking see this? Or has your…devotion to your duty blinded you to what’s good and what’s evil?”

  “Good and evil. Who are you to lecture me on the nature of evil?” Andy could hear genuine anger in Franklin’s voice.

  “I’ve seen and performed things that would turn your mind inside out, Hughes. I’ve killed and tortured in the name of Queen and Country - in the name of duty. Yes, it came easy to me. In that respect I’m blessed.”

  “Blessed?” Andy laughed bitterly. “Able to leave your humanity outside the door like a shit-stained pair of shoes? That’s a blessing?”

  “It’s a gift, Hughes,” Franklin growled. “One that came in very useful when I was working for Intel. Dirty tricks, cover-ups…you have no idea what I had to do in Belfast, Iraq and the Falklands. All necessary, just so that you lot can sleep peacefully in your beds at night. And we never asked for any thanks, any appreciation…we knew it was our duty and accepted it accordingly.”

  “And we’re all eternally grateful,” Andy spat.

  Jen’s eyes opened. From this angle, only Andy could see her smile and wink slowly at him.

  “That’s just it.” Franklin’s eyes blazed in anger and hatred. “You’re not. Duty is a word your generation knows nothing about. All so quick to march on a protest against a war…because you have the luxury of choice. How quickly would you lay down your life for a cause?

  “Even the older generation weakens, fails to step up to the mark when duty calls. Look at our so-called Master! A man who could have brought destruction upon us all by failing his duty. He won’t weaken this year. I’ve steeled him -‘

  For the second time an explosion rocked the stone walls of the cellar. Jen moved with a speed that took even Andy by surprise, her arm moving to the trigger of the SPAS 12 laying between her and Franklin.

  The recoil powered the combat shotgun backwards, spinning on the floor. Jen cried out in pain as the sharp edges of the folded metal stock slammed into her elbow.

  Franklin staggered, his hands clamped to his ears - too late to muffle the sound from the shotgun. Andy saw him stagger, swaying on the blood-soaked flags like a drunkard, a dazed expression on his harsh features.

  There was fresh blood on the floor. Andy realised why Franklin was staggering across the cellar. The head porter’s right foot was a mangled pulp of meat, shredded black leather and shattered bone that dangled by several thin strands of flesh and tendon to the ankle.

  Franklin’s body rocked backwards and forwards. He put his weight down on the remnants of his foot, confused when it wouldn’t support him. With a wet, tearing sound the last pieces of flesh and tendon ripped away.

  He fell to his right, crashing to the floor with enough force to send the relit candles spinning away to the corners of the cellar. The flashlight remained clenched in his hand, and he shone it fearfully on his legs.

  Andy blinked at the harsh glare of the Krypton bulb bouncing off the stone walls. It illuminated Jen’s face briefly, and her grim smile of satisfaction. The beam moved elsewhere and her face was plunged into candlelit gloom once again.

  “Andy?”

  Her voice was drowned out by the inhuman sounds coming from the crippled head porter. Andy began to crawl over to her, his hands raised. Blood dripped steadily from the three stumps on his left hand.

  Dripped onto her cheek, her parted lips. And in return he felt her ravaged hand make contact with his right cheek. He felt the gap between her thumb and little finger and felt a resurgence of the rage.

  “Hey, tough guy. Supposed to be rescuing me, remember? Not the other way round…” Her words were shaky, trembling with shock and terror, but the strength in her voice - her very spirit - was undeniable. At that moment he loved her more than he had ever done before.

  Strength in the face of overwhelming evil. Black humour and an indomitable spirit that had refused to succumb to despair - this was Jennifer Callaby. This was his love.

  This was humanity, and a love worth dying for.

  And killing for, he told the black rage building within. He lowered Jennifer’s hands and kissed her deeply. She returned the kiss, the tears of relief and love mingling with the blood on his face. She tried to part his lips, but he shook his head gently. She hadn’t seen the damage Franklin had done to his teeth.

  Franklin…he released her hands and turned to stare at the head porter. The flashlight was transferred to his left hand now.

  Franklin had overcome the shock of losing his foot alarmingly quickly. Even though he must have seen numerous comrades lose limbs on countless fields of battle, there was something unnatural, inhuman, about the way he blanked the reality of it from his mind and concentrated on the immediate task at hand.

  It wasn’t about survival - a tactical withdrawal; getting away from the combat scene as soon as possible was the last thing on Franklin’s mind. Instead, his features were set in a determined grimace, his bleeding body forced onwards by the desire to face down the enemy and defeat it.

  The cat-like mewling sound had diminished, a grunt of satisfaction replacing it as his goal came into view. Even now his right hand was outstretched, his fingers brushing the sight blade on the smoking barrel of the SPAS 12.

  Andy shuffled forwards, each movement of his shattered ribcage a piercing agony. He leaned over and with his good hand dragged the shotgun from Franklin’s fingers.

  The mewling sound returned, softer, lower. The sound of a defeated man. The mewling became a wail when Andy took the flashlight from him.

  Andy heard Jen getting to her knees behind him. He felt her hand on his neck, heard her gasp at the full sight of the raw meat that was once his shoulder. He lifted the shotgun and struggled to his feet.

  “Jen. Take the flashlight. Shine it on this bastard, will you?”

  He ignored the racking agony of his cracked ribs, the ravaged shoulder and the mutilated hand. He focussed all his attention on Franklin’s increasingly concerned face, brightly illuminated in the shaking beam of light held in Jen’s trembling hands.

  Trembling because she knows what I’m going to do, Andy thought grimly.

  “Hughes. Think about what you’re doing. You kill me - if you deny Andraste - you’re condemning the world to a future of blood and pain. Think about it.”

  Andy stood fully erect. He towered over the defeated head porter, the shotgun raised. Franklin’s eyes flicked from the muzzle to Andy’s cold, hard glare and back again.

  His mouth dropped open, a gasp of disbelief escaping his lips. Andy Hughes had his ruined left hand under the pump of the shotgun. Squeezing his palm closed, ignoring the searing agony that punched shockwaves down his arm, with his thumb and little finger he pulled the pump back and slid it forward. A fresh shell was ready to be unleashed.

  “Blood and pain, Franklin?” Andy’s words echoed around the room despite the low voice he used. “I told you: that’s what you and your fellow caretakers have been watering Andraste’s farm with.”

  He shoved the barrel into Franklin’s face. The sight blade cut a deep groove in Franklin’s upper lip and twisted it up into a leer. The barrel was forced into Franklin’s mouth before he had a chance to close it.

  “No more blood and pain for the greedy bitch…except for yours, Franklin. Take care of this.”

  For the t
hird and final time, the Franchi SPAS 12 combat shotgun exploded in the cellar and the top half of Franklin’s head disappeared in a shower of red and grey confetti.

  Jennifer screamed and dropped the flashlight just as the contents of Franklin’s skull painted themselves on the stone steps leading out of the cellar.

  Andy threw the shotgun at the still-swaying body of Franklin. The folded metal stock made contact with the teeth of Franklin’s exposed lower jaw before it clattered to the blood-soaked floor. Then the body of the head porter of All Souls slumped forwards, falling to the ground and covering the weapon used to kill him.

  Andy turned to Jen. Even in the darkness he saw her eyes gleaming in horror. He took her arm, frowning at the cold clammy flesh, and knew she was going to go into shock. He had to get her out.

  He guided her past the dead body of Franklin, her arm around his waist and her head nestled in between his neck and right shoulder. They mounted the first of the steps and Jen cried out in horror. Her bare feet had made contact with the shattered bone fragments and warm, splattered brains that coated the stone.

  Andy closed his eyes, waited for her shuddering to ease, and then led them both up the steps again, out of the cellar and into the warmth of Old Court.

  Andy blinked in the glare of the harsh light, struggling to get his bearings as he searched for the source of the heat and light.

  “Oh, Jesus…”

  Jen looked up from his shoulder and followed his eyes. Her mouth dropped in disbelief. They both stared, silent and frozen rigid by the incredible scene in front of them.

  * * * * *

  When he was eight years old, his mother had made Rob Benson a trifle in the shape of a rabbit for his birthday party. It was his first taste of jelly and blancmange and it had made him sick. Now the memory of that wobbling, gelatinous lump of blackcurrant jelly and pink blancmange, freshly sliced from the midriff of the rabbit and passed to him on a cardboard plate came back to him. He was slumped on the tiled floor of the kitchen of All Souls, staring at the blancmange and jelly in his hands and wondering why it had come from his body.

  “Bunny rabbit…come from bunny…” his slurred words sounded far away and not his own voice at all. He looked up, dazed, and saw a huge, fat man in stained kitchen overalls. He was grinning and waving a knife at him. That knife looked huge.

  And it was covered in cherry sauce. God, why did mum insist on putting that on the trifle? What was wrong with cream or custard?

  The knife waved in his direction. Droplets of the cherry sauce fell on his face, making him blink. One fell into his open, slack jawed mouth.

  Then he knew where he was, knew what was happening and the pain hit him.

  His howl of agony reverberated across the gleaming metal work surfaces, the shining utensils and knifes hanging on the racks, the glittering silver serving platters that would be used to serve the meat.

  Cassell rocked backwards on his feet, momentarily surprised by the intensity of the scream. He winced, shook his head and then slowly grinned.

  Rob’s scream died slowly, but the pain remained. He was dimly aware of Cassell looming over him, the knife drawing back for a final blow. He didn’t care anymore. Everything else that had led up to this moment was forgotten. The arrival of Andy Hughes, the disappearance of Emma, the murder of Phillip Lotson and his family, the death of Jasper and his bosses, the attack in the woods by the boar, the rediscovery of Emma…none of it mattered. Only the pain mattered now. A pain that was so great he didn’t want to live anymore.

  And the smiling, towering bulk of the white-clad figure promised an end to that. Rob Benson almost smiled in gratitude.

  The expression on Cassell’s face darkened, changing to one of confusion. The temperature dropped once more and an icy blast of fresh air came whistling in through the open service door.

  The service door was nudged open by the nose of something very familiar. Something that now stood in the passage with bared fangs and a low, threatening growl escaping its throat.

  Rob Benson accepted it. He was dying, he knew that. All sorts of weird hallucinations come to you when your life slips away.

  First the rabbit trifle and now Jasper. Well, why not? No crazier than a tunnel of light or a beardy bloke in white robes…

  But, strangely enough, the head chef of All Souls shared his delusion. Cassell’s jaw dropped, a strangled cry of horror coming from his greasy fat lips.

  Fat fucker’s scared of shitbag. Why? Jasper won’t hurt a…

  The pain lessened slightly at the memory of what Jasper had done to the boar in the Granta warehouse. The ferocity, the lack of fear: the strength and fury that had driven him to save his caretaker from the impossible boar.

  It was all here now. Jasper’s lips were drawn back from his teeth, a snarl that until this morning was totally unknown to the dog. The growling increased, now a low rumble of thunder that threatened to break into a storm. And Cassell knew it. He backed away from Rob and the open door, moving slowly backwards through the well of the kitchen, past the other work surfaces. His hand was raised and the carving knife trembled in his grip.

  Jasper’s head turned to follow Cassell’s progress. His eyes were no longer that warm, soppy shade of brown that Geoff and Rob had known and loved so well. Now they were gleaming black orbs with no trace of white sclera - and a red pinprick that could only have been a pupil. Eyes just like those of the boar that had attacked him in the warehouse.

  His hackles were raised, his whole body tensed - even the torn muscles around the broken ribcage, through which Rob could see organs pulsing. A beating heart and working lungs, fuelling the body…a body that now powered itself forwards, tearing after the retreating head chef, leaping and landing with sharpened claws digging into the flabby gut.

  Rob sank to the floor and closed his eyes. He no longer felt cold. The pain lessened, slowly replaced by a feeling of euphoria…he smiled in bliss. Cassell’s screams of terror and howls of pain were a sweet lullaby.

  Great way to go, he thought happily. At least in a death-dream there’s some sort of justice…

  But he couldn’t sleep. Something wet was nudging him in the ear. He frowned and tried to turn over, wondering where his pillow was.

  A low whine. Another nudge of a warm, wet nose. This time he relented. He sighed, knowing he’d be late for work. Good of Jasper to wake him…

  He blinked, wondering why Jasper was licking his stomach. Then he felt the sticky crimson fluid on his cheek. Saw the ruined, steaming corpse of the head chef lying outside the door of the catering office, his innards exploded from his chest and scattered across the tiled floor like Christmas decorations torn down from the ceiling after a heavy office party.

  Now he knew why Jasper’s nose was so warm and wet.

  Cassell’s blood.

  Oddly, there was no pain from the dog’s tongue actions on his torn abdomen. If anything, the pain lessened. His head began to clear.

  After a few more moments he was aware his breathing had returned to something approaching normal. No longer deep, shuddering breaths of agony that made his uncovered organs flop from the gaping hole in his stomach. And the pain was…

  He stared down at the wound in his stomach. Revulsion would have been his first impression - revulsion that his dog was licking the torn flesh and fat of his stomach - if the wound wasn’t healing.

  The parted yellow fat of his belly was rejoining. Melting and merging back together with each lick from Jasper’s dry and ice cold tongue. He could no longer see the sliced blackcurrant jelly and pink blancmange of the rabbit trifle.

  He stared in bewilderment, his head shaking. He did the only thing he could think of. As ridiculous as it felt, it was the only thing he could do.

  “Good boy,” he said, patting Jasper’s cold head firmly. “Good boy…”

  Jasper’s tail wagged, just as rapidly as it had done when he was alive. The tongue continued its work, and feeling returned to Rob’s stomach, it tickled.

  He
fought the urge to laugh. He also fought the urge to take a closer inspection of his rapidly-healing belly. He’d wait; wait until all trace of damage had gone. That way he could pretend that he’d never had the stomach wound to begin with. That was the only way he’d cope with this. He thought back to his discovery of the contents of the wheelie bins outside the kitchen, the realisation that had struck him.

  It seems that flesh ravaged by the followers of Andraste’s ritual has special powers of its own…

  Healing powers. The power to transcend death. Flesh ravaged by the followers of Andraste…fed to the boar, the boar that Jasper had fought, bit into. Swallowed the flesh and blood of the creature that had consumed the offering to Andraste.

  That was why Cassell had been so alarmed. That was why he had panicked, demanding to know where the boar was.

  The meat was too powerful to be consumed without the addition of human flesh.

  “Good boy,” he said in a quavering voice. He continued patting the undead dog and wondered if he really was on the side of good.

  Again, he fought the urge to laugh. If he broke into giggles now he’d never stop, not until they came to take him away and bang him up in Fulbourn or Broadmoor.

  No point questioning this, he told himself. Just be thankful. And get the fuck out of here and find Andy and Jen.

  Jasper had finished. He looked up from the now-healed and blemish free belly of his caretaker and barked once. Rob shrank back. There was no blood on Jasper’s tongue, but there was a foul stench of putrefying flesh coming from within him. And Rob Benson knew now that the gaping wound in Jasper’s own belly was healing.

  Rob stared into the glistening black orbs of the collie and tried not to focus on the small red pinpricks of crimson light in the centre. He shivered.