The Quickening of Tom Turnpike

by W E. Mann

  Barrington sat quietly while I spoke, wearing a look of puzzled sadness. Doctor Boateng stood up and stalked around the Lab agitatedly, picking up chemical flasks and items of apparatus and pretending to study them as if he did not want to hear what I had to say. But the more I spoke and the more detail I added, the more attention he paid to me, until he eventually stood next to Barrington, leaning forward with his hands splayed on the desk in the posture of a Gestapo officer cross-examining a traitor.

  “...so you see, Sir, that was when we realised that you were actually trying to cure the boys, not harm anyone. You’re the only person who can stop him.”

  The Colonel sat puzzled, digesting what I had said. I had no idea why, if Barrington had known that Freddie, Reggie, Samson and I had been snooping around after lights-out, out-of-bounds, he hadn’t stopped us already. But the expression of complete surprise when I explained that Caratacus must be the Bokor told me that Barrington had not already deduced this and that he must have been using us to gather information which he could not.

  When he eventually cleared his throat, his voice crackled distantly, as if echoing from another era.

  “Caratacus,” he murmured weakly, emptily. And then he hissed the name, “Zachary Caratacus! Of all people, I would never have thought... And why? But... now I think back, he was the Master who was there when Julius Visigoth fell from the Spiral Staircase. But... did he ever know the old Bokor...? And when certain things must have happened before...” Barrington checked himself and now looked directly at me rather than through me, as he had been. With his more familiar, more military tone, he said, “Well done, you two. You have told me more than I expected to learn from you.”

  “But, Sir, didn’t you know most of this already?”

  “I had managed to deduce a certain amount of it, Turnpike. But there were a few crucial things which you boys were much better placed to discover for me. But now is not the time to go into this. We must act and we will be needing your help.” He then looked at Doctor Boateng. “I think you will agree, Edmund, that our argument has been settled. What you thought was just bogus research to keep you on the right side of the Party has clearly been used for real experimentation without your knowledge.”

  “I... yes,” said Doctor Boateng wearily. He nodded his head slowly.

  “You cannot be blamed, Edmund,” said Barrington in a conciliatory tone. “But we must now move from words to action.”

  Boateng was staring at the floor and let out a deep and shuddering sigh. He then looked up steadily at Samson, who simply stared back at him. Then he shook his head. “You may be right. But, Alec, I think that this is for the two of us to deal with now. Don’t you think it is far too dangerous for these two boys?”

  “Sir,” said Samson in earnest, “we want to help, don’t we, Tom?” He didn’t wait for me to protest. “But can’t we just go to the Crypt right now and give the antidote to all of the boys in there? Surely Mr. Caratacus can’t try to stop you.”

  “Ah, now, I’m afraid it is going to be a good deal more complicated than that. And I agree, Edmund, that this will be dangerous. Very dangerous. But these two have already displayed ample aptitude for facing down danger. In any case, we need all the help we can get from those that know what is going to happen. There will be more undead than you and I will be able to cure alone. And then we will need to deal with Caratacus and the danger of the old zombies, those quickened in previous lunar eclipses. So, will you do it?”

  Well, I had already withstood burial in a coffin, defied gravity’s attempt to snatch me from the roof of the school and narrowly avoided a beating from the two school thugs. And that was just the past two hours. So I was feeling that my survival instincts were currently bulletproof. And anyway, I would probably be in as much danger lying in my bed with zombies marauding around the school as I would in the basement, trying to stop them.

  “I’m in.”

  “Right then,” said Barrington. “Time?”

  Boateng fished a pocket-watch out from his waistcoat. “Twenty past nine.”

  “Well then. That gives us sixteen minutes until the Moon enters the darkest part of the Earth’s shadow. That is when the first zombies will begin to rise. Right. My research has revealed the following things which we will all need to keep in mind. They may prove critical.

  In the next few minutes Mr. Caratacus will be entering into a very deep trance which will end shortly after midnight. He will be in a very, shall we say, delicate state during this period and he is not under any circumstances to be disturbed. If his trance were to be broken, the outcome could be catastrophic. The Witchdoctor’s text, with which you two are well acquainted, states that it is during this period that the Loa will enter Mr. Caratacus and assist him in extracting the boys’ souls from their bodies and depositing them in their Fetishes. Of course, I know this sounds like mumbo-jumbo and I’m sure it is. So we must, for safety’s sake, presume that there is a germ of truth in this.” He rubbed his chin and flicked through pages of the text, musing, “I am coming to the conclusion that the subjects, perhaps during powerful hypnosis at the time of poisoning, are reliant upon the Bokor’s completion of this ritual so that they awake from the death-like state that results from the poisoning... Though I must say that the more I read, the more I am inclined towards abandoning scientific explanations in favour of the Witchdoctor’s superstition. After all...”

  He was beginning to ramble now and we were losing him in his thoughts. Samson looked at me and shrugged.

  Doctor Boateng interrupted, “Alec, come on. We don’t have time. You must press on.”

  “Yes, yes. What we need to do is administer nitrous oxide to each subject after it has awoken, but before the ritual has ended. So I’m afraid, Akwasi, that your suggestion will not work – there is no use in gassing the boys now, while they are not inhaling air. So we must wait until they have been awoken. If any boy is missed before the ritual ends, the zombification process will be complete and he will be incurable. Quickened. You will know it when a boy has been treated with enough antidote. He will look like he is snapping out of a daydream and then after a few seconds, he will fall into a deep, restorative sleep, which, according to the text, and I struggle to believe this, will remove all of the outward appearances of death and cure all wounds. But,” he added grimly, “unless it is totally essential, we should avoid doing any of the boys any serious damage, broken limbs and so on. I may be proven wrong, but I can’t see how sleep could cure broken bones.

  The next point is that you must not underestimate the physical attributes of the zombies. They will have arisen from a deep paralysis, so they will move very stiffly and slowly, and they will not be strong. But you must not let this fool you. According to my research, they will be controlled by Caratacus, or more precisely, his Loa, and so we can presume that they will have no sense of self-preservation. In fact, I suppose that they will have no sense of self at all. They will obey their commands robotically. So you can assume that they will try to kill you. In fact, even a surface wound from one of their fingernails could result in gangrene.

  Finally, and this you must bear in mind, one of the side-effects of the poison is that the photoreceptor cones in their retinas will be severely impaired. Unfortunately, this is not a good thing. What it means is that their rod cells will be more light-sensitive.” He looked at us for a reaction and realised that we had no idea what he was talking about. “They will be able to see in the dark. Okay?”

  My mind was whirling. I had already had enough trouble believing that any of this was happening. But now, my Science teacher, Colonel Barrington, was proposing that I go into battle with him against a horde of see-in-the-dark Nazi-zombies, some of which had previously been very good friends of mine, who were probably going to try and kill me. This all felt like a nightmare. But I knew I couldn’t be asleep, because I had never had a dream as deranged before.

  “Sir,” I said, “you said that the boys will not be curable once they are quickened, but t
hat that won’t happen until after midnight. So presumably there may be some zombies which Mr. Caratacus has quickened before, you know like the Wandering Monk and the Fallen Boy and I suppose... Head Matron. Well, surely the cure will not work on them will it? After all, those ones must have been up and about for years, mustn’t they?”

  “You are, of course, quite right, Turnpike. But the Quickened are for Doctor Boateng and me to deal with. Mr. Caratacus will no doubt call upon the old zombies for aid when he discovers that we will be trying to disrupt his plan. So we will be relying upon you two to administer the cure to the boys, while we try to neutralise the threat from the old zombies. Since the old zombies have been active for a much longer time, they will be stronger, much stronger, and will be able to move with more agility than the new ones. Frankly, I do not know how many of them there will be, I do not know where they will be coming from because presumably not all of them live down in the Crypt and so we will be unlikely to be able to overpower all of them. Our main strategic focus for tonight is to cure all of the new subjects before the ritual is over. Okay? Time please.”

  “Nine twenty-nine. Seven minutes.”

  The window panes were a deep, terracotta red, blackening into blood-tinged onyx. Night had begun, one minute until the General Curfew and so even the Seniors would be on the way to their dorms soon.

  “Right. We need to get to the Crypt just after the ritual begins. Put these on.” He reached under his desk and pulled out what appeared to be four gas-masks that I presumed had last been used during the War. I stretched one uncomfortably around my head. It was pinchingly tight and bit into the sides of my nose. “And take two of those.” He pointed towards a row of what looked like black fire extinguishers next to the door, but with “N2O“ written on them, rather than “CO2“. “One of those should contain more than enough for what we have to do. But you boys should take two each. Here, strap on these harnesses.”

  He helped to pull straps over my shoulders and around my waist and hitched two of these canisters to my back. He passed two pipes, one leading from each can, under my arms. “Hold these,” he said, holding out the conical nozzles at the ends of the pipes. They had been moulded so that they had handles and triggers.

  Once Samson was similarly equipped, he said, “So it is simple. You pull the trigger and a jet of nitrous oxide will shoot out of here.”

  He and Doctor Boateng took one canister each and attached their pipes to their forearms with masking tape.

  “Edmund,” said Barrington, unlocking the cupboard at the back of the Lab. “You and I may well be needing these.” He reached in and drew out two gleaming shotguns, one of which he handed to Boateng, and a box of red cartridges, from which he filled his pockets. “The only way to kill off the old zombies is to blow their brains out, I’m afraid.”

  Doctor Boateng looked down at the twelve-bore which sat awkwardly in his hands. “Alec, but what about Angela? You cannot know for certain that there is no cure for those that are quickened. Surely you don’t think...”

  “Look here,” said Barrington stiffly. “It’s quite simple. If one of the old zombies is posing a threat, you will have to kill it regardless of who it is or, should I say, of who it once was. You must remember that they are not people, even though some of them have been very effectively preserved. Come on. We don’t have time. Take some ammunition. Let’s go. You boys must try to stick together. And try not to lose sight of me and Doctor Boateng.”

  thirty

  It was reassuring to me that each breath I drew echoed loudly inside my gas-mask. It gave me a distraction from the shroud of black fear and ominous expectation which had fallen over the air in the Basement as we trooped down the passageway towards the Dungeon door. It also reminded me that I was still alive, for now.

  The atmosphere down here already felt different and the terrain somehow unfamiliar. It was getting very dark, that atomic darkness of thousands of particles buzzing away from my eyes, creating spectres that shied from direct sight.

  We waited by the Dungeon door so that our eyes could adjust to the marmite gloom. Barrington indicated to Doctor Boateng to inspect the time. Then, with a look and a nod towards each of us, he heaved his shotgun up in his right hand and pushed the door open calmly. He paused, holding up his hand. But, hearing nothing, we followed him through into inky blackness and Samson eased the door shut behind us.

  As we neared the Crypt, the Dungeon became faintly brighter. A lurid orange glow was dancing from the door, which was slightly ajar, and the clods of soil in front of it cast demented shadow-puppets onto the stone wall opposite, where the coffin-boxes had once been stacked. The ritual had begun.

  We followed Barrington towards the door. Doctor Boateng was brandishing his trembling twelve-bore uncomfortably. Though it looked out of place in his hands, like a crow-bar stuck up a tree, I knew that he had served in the Army and that a gun was far from unfamiliar to him. Samson was trooping forwards with an air of self-assurance, but his eyes, wide, white and darting, betrayed his fear. I was no better. My throat was dry and I could not swallow. I scarcely dared to blink and my fingers twitched on the triggers I held in my hands.

  Colonel Barrington then leant into the door with his shoulder and pushed steadily. It scraped open slowly. Keeping one controlling hand on the door’s edge, he pushed it wide open and then stepped back, almost knocked back by the blast of tepid, stinking air which billowed out.

  At the far end of the Crypt, I could make out the figure of Caratacus. By the epileptic orange light which guttered from a circle of candles laid out on the floor around his feet, I could see that he was draped in a rough robe emblazoned with African symbols in black, yellow, green and blood red patterns, making it look like the skin of a snake, exotic and deadly. His arms were outstretched by his sides, and his whole body was jerking like he was being electrocuted.

  But it was his face that unnerved me more than anything. His eyes were wide and unblinking like he was gripped by an unremitting terror. He looked drawn and haggard in the deranged candle-light, which inscribed his face with dramatic furrows. His mouth was opening and closing frantically, spitting and baring his teeth. And I realised, when I was able to hear above my breath, which sounded short and sharp in my gas-mask, that he was chanting something in a strange tongue. It sounded like guttural French, but with far too many consonants. His voice did not seem like he owned it. It sounded like it was coming from another place.

  Between him and us, in areas the light avoided, the thick, damp air seemed to be shifting and fomenting into demonic shapes.

  But then I realised. These were not tricks of the candle-light or spectral illusions. These were boys. There were five or six of them staggering and ungainly, barging carelessly into one another, their faces ragged and wild-eyed, drooling and gnashing. And they were heading directly towards us.

  Barrington must have noticed them just as I did.

  “Let’s get to work,” he said, as one of them lurched towards him. It was Pendragon, from my year. His face was sickly green and his blood-red eyes recessed deeply into their sockets.

  Barrington held out his right arm and grasped the nozzle from his nitrous oxide canister. Just as the boy lunged towards him with a flailing arm, Barrington unleashed a jet of cloudy gas which blasted powerfully into Pendragon’s face and knocked him stiffly back a few paces.

  Samson and I were too stunned to move. We watched as Barrington released the trigger and the cloud of gas dissipated into the gloom. Pendragon was motionless and his face was blank, just staring emptily. But then one of his eyebrows twitched. He blinked and looked from Barrington to me and Samson. A look of confusion flashed across his face. He then looked down towards his hands, which he turned over as if they were unfamiliar to him. And then a very strange thing happened. He started to snigger. Then he giggled and guffawed. And then he was just beginning to laugh out loud, when his body crumpled underneath him and he fell asleep.

  I stared at him, dumbfounded.

 
; “Come on,” said Samson, pushing past me to get into the Crypt. “We’d better get started.”

  I could see the silhouettes of other boys shambling towards us. I took a moment to swallow my terror and then I plunged into the Crypt after Samson, towards these abominations, letting loose a jet of nitrous oxide from my right hand into the face of one which took a wild, unco-ordinated swipe towards me. It was Bunting, a quiet, bookish boy from the Fourth Form whose eyes and mouth looked as if they had already begun rotting at the edges, and as the billow of gas settled, I saw him blinking at me, chuckling lightly until he slumped onto the floor, fast asleep.

  I stepped over him and released two streams of gas, one from each hand at a pair of zombies lumbering in my direction. The first was Rainwater, a very tall Fifth-Former, who hit the floor straight away. The other, reaching forward, tripped over the sleeping form of Rainwater and then started dragging itself towards me on its hands, lashing out at my ankles with flailing arms. It looked up at me and I recognised with a shock that it was Freddie. He looked ghastly, like he hadn’t slept for a week. There was absolutely no recognition in his eyes. He wanted to kill me. I drowned his face in a jet of gas and, as it cleared, I saw him clutching his ribs and laughing uncontrollably.

  I stepped past Freddie and past Samson, who was spraying a First-Former whose name I didn’t know. There was some frantic activity in my peripheral vision. I looked up and saw that it was Caratacus. He was still in the centre of the circle of candles and Fetish-dolls, but now he was jerking around rabidly like an insane string-puppet. His eyes were rolling deliriously and foam was frothing from his muttering mouth.

  Suddenly a force smashed into my right hand side, tripping me over a sleeping boy and bundling me onto the muddy, gritty floor. I struggled to my feet to see my assailant bearing down upon me. His back was to the candle-light, so I could not make out who he was. All I could see was the black outline of a boy who was a good deal taller and broader than me. He lashed out and again knocked me off my feet. As I went down, I pulled the triggers in both hands. But I couldn’t see where he was.