by G. P. Moss
I don’t go to it. Going backwards is not an option. Following us as we set off, it’s getting closer. A dirty white underbelly that still looks fluffy - scruffy fluffy. Focus, Mercy. Storm marches ahead but I don’t let the gap between us widen too far. Jogging a little, I catch up, turning as I reach her. The dog must have run too, quietly. It’s only fifty yards away. Johnny’s dog’s eyes were a piercing, glossy dark brown. I can see this dog’s eyes now. Soft and lighter brown, clean but misty. I turn to the front. Focus.
Storm darts me a hard, sharp look as I give a short but soft whistle. It’s here, wagging its tail, long, feathered and bushy. Storm’s eyes narrow - she’s wary. It looks at me with eyes that suggest trust, of seeking acceptance. It puts its body close to mine but I shoo it away. It gives me space but doesn’t leave.
“Another mouth to feed,” Storm says, muttering, again.
“Looks like it’s done okay by itself,” I reply, defensively, again.
It has. I left as one and now we’re three. I briefly worry. If, or more likely, when, we next come under attack, will it deflect my attention, putting us all in danger? I swallow, biting my lip. No, focus! If it stays, it earns its keep, somehow. We move fast. Compass, sun, compass. We’re on course. I think of names for the dog. Focus, Mercy!
The ground gets harder. Brown-black, cracked, dead. My senses are heightened but I can’t help telling Storm that we should name the dog. It’s a male. She looks at me like I’m crazy. I can’t deny it. I’m here. We focus. We think. I want something I can call it. Quick. Without thinking, without wasting breath. I like ‘Karma’ - Storm likes ‘Deathbite’ - both two syllables.
“One too many,” I say.
It’s scruffy, unwanted until now. I want him, anyway. I settle on ‘Rags’. Storm snorts.
“Okay, whatever,” she says.
I smile. Focus, Mercy. I don’t like this place. It’s too quiet. If somewhere could smell of death and trouble, this would be it - a whiff of decay clings to the air. The sky is pale blue but I have a horrible, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach that it’s deceiving us. The air is suddenly cut through with a large, black bird, cawing as it passes overhead. We had some birds in the valley, smaller, chirpier, and never black apart from one time I was with Mum at the north-west boundary when she pointed out a crow. Storm even saw game birds higher up in her land - the air was cleaner there though. I never saw this new type before. It’s crow-like but much bigger. It scares me.
Rushing in again, this time it shrieks, the high-pitched sound cutting through me. I know we’re in for trouble of some sort. I pat the sword. Rags looks at me as I try to control my breathing. Stopping, Storm quickly takes bolts from the pocket loops on her trousers. I take a paring knife, wrapped in leather, slipping it in my back pocket. It’s useless for throwing but better than nothing for close combat. Please no, not that. Storm loads Ghost.
There’s woodland straight ahead. It’s too wide to skirt around. A road runs straight through it, from the right. I can see rectangular, flat buildings, black-stained with smoke and grime.
They’re a way off but still too close. The asphalt road cuts through the trees. Lopsided and fallen wells litter the landscape now - even the woodland’s a mess. Trees are uprooted, starved of nourishment, dying or dead.
The road is straight, going for more than half a mile that I can see. Woodland is on each side with plenty of places to hide, perfect for an ambush. Of us. We hear them just before we see them. Two hundred yards in front. Two hundred yards behind. There’s movement to the sides, too. I can smell them, the rancid odour of drooling menace. Not like Rags. Hellhounds, poisoned, full of hate.
Rags stiffens, his hair bristling. As two Hounds leap from the left, I arc and cut. Right sliced. Left sliced. Two attack from the right as Storm dispatches the first. The bolt hits, square in the head. She can’t fire the second. It’s too quick, lunging through the air. Storm staggers back but regains her balance. Rags has caught the Hound, in its hind leg. Stumbling, it manages to turn, leaping at Rags.
It drops from a new bolt. Subs run at us now, from both ends. Rags turns, and turns, unsure of which way to face. Adrenalin surges through me. The black bird screeches overhead, excited, waiting for more death.
I hear my laboured breathing, like fast bass drum beats. My steel sword glistens from sunlight and blood. There’ll be more, hopefully not mine. Rags shows no sign of nerves but he must be petrified, like us. I bite down on my lip, hard, immediately tasting blood. They’re coming. Storm holds off for a few seconds more. She fires two bolts, then turns, shooting off two on my side. Subs fall.
They’re almost on us. Rags bares his teeth. He’s quiet, saving energy. I start my rhythmic arc. Left, right. I swing the sword. I hear Storm firing, reloading. She’s running out of bolts. Twenty yards ahead, there are huge breaks either side of the trees. More Hellhounds. They’re attacking the Subs. Screaming, ripping flesh and bone. It’s surreal.
Each time a Hound turns its attention to us, we kill. It’ll be us next. On Storm’s side, in the middle stands a huge Hound. I mean massive. It’s devouring Subs, shaking them like dolls. Subs not chewed to bits are dragged deeper into the forest. The Hounds are taking them, somewhere. They must be dead. The huge one glances at us briefly. Its fangs are embedded in the neck of a Sub, mouth a huge gash of red as it deals with blood, mangled flesh, and bone. It’s busy but follows the rest.
The road is clear, except for dead Subs. More than ten, including Storm’s kills. We pull what bolts we can from heads and necks. We run, lungs struggling to cope with the new, urgent demands for speed. My legs are moving faster than ever, boots slamming into the asphalt, driving me forward. Rags stays parallel. He could go faster but he stays with us.
Nothing has followed. I search with focussed eyes, left to right. No Subs. No Hounds. We’re out the other side.
“Let’s set it alight!” Storm says suddenly, urgently.
I agree. Everything here is death-dry. We strike flints, igniting the brush easily. Fanning the flames, we kick some into the trees. This forest is already dead, the trees tall but devoid of colour – I’ve no time to waste grieving for it. The fire spreads quickly, bright orange flames licking the trees as they take hold and spread, climbing, jumping, and devouring. It’s going well. I think of Mum. Mum’s gone.
I bite my lip, tasting blood again. Maybe the fire will take out some Hounds, maybe not. They’ll be driven back out. Others’ problem, for now. They have their own fires, their own defences. We must move. Setting off, I pat Rags as I feel him brush my leg. It’s the first time I’ve touched him. He did well - I’m already proud. There’s no sign of the black bird.
Chapter Six
I look back briefly. The fire’s taken hold and I think I hear howls - it’s hard to tell above the roar of the flames. It’s so hot we feel the heat on our backs, as if we’re about to be scorched. Storm keeps checking behind, for escapees - there aren’t any. I plot our course. Compass, sun, compass. The more I use it, the more I’m beginning to trust it – the magnetic poles guiding our way. I glance at Storm. We march. She grins.
“I never thought…”
“Me neither,” I reply quietly, my voice no more than a whisper, carried on a heated breeze.
I’m full of gratitude for the escape. The odds were…terrifying. We should have died but we didn’t. Even in our situation, I’m so thankful I could cry. I don’t. Focus, Mercy. I chew some jerk, giving a piece to Rags. He tries to chew. I thought dogs just swallowed. Looks at me, as if to say, ‘you eat this stuff?’
The ground is still dry. Way ahead, the colour changes. An illusion? I don’t know. I hope it means something. This hell we just walked through, it was horrendous and I’ve no idea what lies ahead. I hope it’s not like…this. Don’t hope, Mercy. Pray. Rags has run off to the right. He’s out of sight. I start to worry. Storm raises her hand, cuts me off before I speak.
“Forget him,” she says. “We don’t need him.”
I�
�m quiet. I disagree. As we faced the horde of killers, he stayed, not running like he could have. We need to focus, not argue.
I shield my eyes. I think…hope…there’s more railway track. If we’re lucky. Tracks mean sheds. The two I’ve seen before were untouched, perhaps not large enough for Subs to bother destroying. We pass more wells, wrecked like the others. There are fewer here though. Fewer is good - less damage to the surrounding area. Much of the poison gas came from these - forced into the air with enormous pressure. Cheap energy for the future. Future. Storm says we’re back five hundred years, maybe more. She knows more than me but I hope she’s wrong. I miss Rags already.
It’s track, buckled in places. We cross rusted rails, watching, always watching as we walk. Not everything is dead on this side. We have enough water, for now. If it’s in our way, I’ll heal it. Any chance - it’s the key to renewal.
We’ve walked for a few hours, passing houses, cattle sheds, farms, even the occasional shop - wrecked, burned, or both. This looks better now, at least some of it. We need shelter. Rags has gone. Mum’s gone. Focus, Mercy. Storm picks up the pace. I follow, the need for rest ironically driving us forward.
We ignore large buildings, even those with roofs. Experience tells us that these are favoured by Subs, and Hounds. We keep to semi-open ground, the best place for spotting Hounds - bad for exposure to Subs though. There’s no woodland here - the land is flat, some of it brown-black, a little with a hint of green. Green’s good, it means there’s water somewhere nearby.
Following the track as it curves to the left, we see a shed. It’s large and like the others, intact. There’s no lock. I can see the door is open, just a little. A sudden, heavy fear lands itself deep in my gut. The hair rising on my neck, I point to the door. Storm has bolts loaded. I can smell its hatred - I hope it’s alone. We step back, moving around. There are rocks nearby - large, fist-sized pieces of granite. I choose one quickly, quietly. How many? It. Them?
Our presence will have been noted, too, probably a while ago. Storm nods. The sword’s in my left hand, left arm raised. Right arm back, I throw hard, quickly swapping the sword into my right hand.
The rock slams into the door with a mighty crash. Snarling, dripping fangs appear. The head is large. This Hellhound is huge. Its bright, fiery eyes shine deep, dark crimson as it rears to attack. Storm lets one bolt fly - it’s hit in the neck. Still it comes. My sword arcs, slices into its left shoulder. It falls but it’s still moving, trying to get up. Storm holds still, firing one in the head. If there were more of these we’d be dead.
Standing still, I shiver with fear, feeling sick as bile rises in my dry throat. This was much bigger, probably a leader. I pray it’s a one-off. What we don’t need is…a pack of them. I throw another rock for caution. No response. I enter the shed with care as Storm covers with Ghost.
We need rest but after permanently evicting the Hound we make a fire boundary, quickly. As it roars and throws its heat, we’re safe for now, encircled with flame. The beast is on the fire, its enormous weight dragged and heaved – you can still smell the foulness from its mouth, even in death. There are appliances in the shed, useless things – I’ve never known electricity.
Grime-covered papers, buried under thick dust and dirt, litter the concrete floor. I turn them over, noticing the handwriting. It’s familiar but smudged. Although illegible I’m sure the words were written by the engineer, Michael Thompson. He was here. There first? Or here first? He came here from there, surely, without his coat - in a hurry. When it happened? Or after? I put it in my pocket. I don’t know him though I feel a connection - another human, like us. And Holly. I bite my lip, feeling so tired my eyes sting. Storm’s already asleep.
Outside, the fire blazes with a comforting intensity. I hear a sound, not far away. The flames should put them off if there are more around - there’s no way of knowing though. There was a window, now boarded with steel sheeting. Probably from before the mess to keep vandals out. Vandals. Mum told me about them. How people worried, before. Mum’s dead. We have much worse now.
A scraping sound diverts my attention. Looking at the door, I stare at the small metal table we wedged against it. Some protection but it’s not much. There are tiny holes in the window sheet. Screwing my right eye tight against the thin steel, I see bright orange, feeling the heat. I don’t see anything else. There. Again. Definite scratching. Subs or Hounds will just smash their way in – they’re not diplomats. Storm sleeps on, curled on the rough wooden bench, her sack under her head.
My hand reaches for the sword. The door is on the left. It will open this way. Sword held high, I slowly move the table a couple of inches back. I try to control my breathing but it’s hard. I’m scared and tired. Movement. Something is trying to enter. The sword goes back - there’s room to arc as I start to open the door.
A damp black nose appears. Shooing Rags in quickly, I shut the door, blocking it. I…breathe. I’m so relieved and happy, I could cry. I hug his neck. He licks my face once before lying down to rest. Curling up on the other end of the long bench, I finally close my eyes.
I must have slept for a few hours. Sitting now, I see that three of us shared the bench. Rags rests his head, on Storm’s feet. She wakes too, looking down at the source of warmth. Sighs. Grins.
“He came back. I’m surprised,” she says.
A slight shift in attitude. Good. I grab a jerk stick, breaking a piece for Rags. He sniffs it once but he isn’t bothered. He’s eaten. I pour a little water in my hand. He licks a bit but he’s not that interested - he’s had water too. Self-sufficient. I’m impressed and relieved.
Slivers of light start to penetrate through the steel - the end of the witching hours. I start to look more closely at the shed contents. A rusted fuel container sits on its side in a corner. I shake it, sniffing inside. It’s fuel. Useful. There’s a tough, empty plastic Coca-Cola bottle in a corner, caked in dirt. It’ll do. I fill it. It really is petrol. Johnny said diesel’s harder to burn. There’s still some left. I lift an overturned, grey tin rubbish bin, finding more paper inside. Typed maintenance schedules. Tossing it aside, I see another bottle. Sprite. I’ve seen these before, several years back.
An hour to wait. Darkness is not safe - neither is light but it’s better. There’s a locked, grey steel cabinet, upright against a wall. I pull hard but nothing’s shifting. Storm signals for me to move, firing a bolt at the lock. I turn away but these don’t bounce. It pierces the lock and sticks. No wonder the Subs fell. The top drawer opens, releasing the rest. More schedules. Old dates, up until…just before the mess.
In the bottom drawer is a pair of thick rubber gloves, unused in a packet. I take them out to keep. Underneath…no way…a torch. I saw one before. This is different. The shape. Torches need batteries - they’re useless without them. It’s olive green, a military colour. There’s a lever on the side.
Holding my breath, I turn the handle. Nothing. I keep turning. Like magic, the shed is bathed in light. One wall anyway. I want to shout, scream, sing! Storm just looks…open mouthed. I kick at the dirt in the corners of the shed, making sure there’s nothing else of value. Value? This is amazing. I heard of them but never saw one. Places we searched over the years, we sometimes found battery torches. They lasted a while, but this – wow!
Chapter Seven
By my calculations, we should be in the area I’m seeking by tomorrow evening. Or the day after, barring catastrophe. It’s coastal - we’re heading for a port. Even if it’s bad, wrecked and diseased, it needs to be searched. Alex must be alive - I feel it, the same as I feel when water starts to heal, just without the sickness. Mum said he’d know what to do. The plan. Is it just her plan or others’ too? Was there ever a plan? Mum’s dead. I have a responsibility. For me. For her. For everyone. We set off, three again. I set the course. Compass, sun, compass. We’re well over half way there. I feel a heaviness in the pit of my stomach – fear of the unknown.
Before the last communications went down it wa
s known this mess was not confined to our island. Chain reactions, immense pressure deep into the earth, setting off small earthquakes - four or so on the Richter, then deadlier. The tectonic plates shifted though, causing further shifts and larger quakes. Poison gases were blown, swept along with the air and the waves. People were sick, deadly sick. Some survived, with altered minds - uncontrolled rages. Messengers of hate, that’s what they are. Not us. I hope there’ll be more like us. I pray there are. Prayers work – I already proved it.
We focus. This area looked better but the massive Hound freaked us out. The size of it, like the width of three average-sized men, much different from others we’ve seen before. More like controlled rage, this one – building it up as we approached, waiting to unleash its full fury on us. I hope they’re not evolving this quickly. Our eyes search all around. Rags looks unconcerned. I take this as a positive sign. The sky looks huge again - a little cloud but mostly a clear, powdery blue. We need water, soon - to heal and replenish our aching bodies. We’ve enough for a day, maybe more if we’re careful.
The ground is slightly softer here – it’s still hard but there’s a slight give as pressure’s applied. A colour shift too - browner, instead of blacker. There are still cracks but much of the earth is packed. Not as it should be, but close. A couple of wells, much less than usual. Every one I’ve seen has been damaged, blown apart.
In the valley, there weren’t many. It was easier to heal - less damage to start with. People were still infected though, at least in the beginning and for several months afterwards, until they learned not to touch the water without it being cleansed. For many though, it was too late. They watched each other, not trusting anyone. There were vigilantes - normal people, in fear for their continued existence. Subs were hunted, Subs hunted us. So much death and destruction. We survived, thanks to Johnny and a few others. Focus, Mercy. Our stride is good.
