by Jack Lewis
“So, what now?” said Heather.
“It’s been three long fucking years, but I know what it is now.”
“Sorry?”
“Their plan.”
“Is it the farms?”
Max stood. His knife swung from his belt as he paced around the cart. Wes rolled to his side and got off the floor. His nose was swollen, and a purple bruise bulge under his eyes.
“The farms are only cogs in it,” Max said. “It’s much bigger than that. You won’t believe me, Heather. You won’t believe how bad it is, and if you did, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“We need to get back to Kiele. We need to tell them what the Capita is planning.”
“But my daughter,” she said.
“If we don’t go now, Heather, it’s gonna be too late.”
“I can’t leave her.”
“You have to try.”
Heather got to her feet. Her cheeks burned. “Try and leave my daughter? Have you lost your fucking mind? There was a time when I needed to meet you, Max. Not you, but the Resistance. But now, I just need Kim.”
Max’s face was ashen. Right now, he looked closer to being in his fifties. Time had ground him down. “Things run deeper than you and the children. I know it sounds cold, but sometimes the right thing to do is also the coldest.”
In that second, she wanted to push him off the cart. “I won’t leave them,” she said. “What about this train or whatever the hell it is? You have to help me.”
Max crossed his arms and fixed a firm expression on his face. Behind him was the grassy wilderness of the mainland, a vast stretch of endless nothing. The dome was beyond it, but where were the farms?
“I can’t, Heather,” said Max. “It’s just me. No-one else knows. If I don’t make it back to the others, we’re fucked. Think about how many DC’s will die.”
“I’m more worried about Kim.”
“Your daughter’s life isn’t worth hundreds of others. I’m sorry.”
The finality of his words told her what kind of man he was; once he took a step forward, he didn’t look back until the journey was over.
What were her options? Charles had taken Kim and Eric to the farm, and Heather didn’t know where it was. Even if she did, she would have to travel there alone. If the wastelands didn’t kill her, the guards on the farm would. Even then, having overcome every obstacle she could think of, she might get there too late.
Max must have sensed the problems spinning in her mind. “Do you understand how impossible this is?” he said.
“I don’t care.”
“The farm is the Capita’s plan for the future. They don’t leave that to chance. They’ll blow your head apart while you’re still a speck in a soldier’s scope.”
“That won’t stop me.”
He rubbed his forehead in frustration, and for a second his line of worry became two. She understood now how he could look so old. His double life must have taken a toll. Heather knew the weight of living a lie. Not anymore.
This was what it meant to fight for something. It wasn’t standing in front of the classroom and thinking bad thoughts against the Capita. It wasn’t making fake promises to help. It wasn’t taking in a DC boy and hiding him from the Bull.
You had to give something of yourself up. She admired that about Max, but she loathed it at the same time. She was angry on behalf of his family back in Kiele, the wife who hadn’t seen her husband for three years, and the little girl Max had never held.
She was ready to fight. She wouldn’t let them take Kim and Eric. She had to get them back, and then start her battle against the Capita.
“I’m going. That’s all there is to it.”
“You’ll die,” he said.
“You better choose whether to help me or to let it happen.”
Max rubbed the bridge of his nose and hung his head. When he lifted it again, his face was changed. He’s going to help me.
“It’s your choice,” he said. “This means more than just your story. More than mine, too. We’re playing with the future of a generation, and the stakes aren’t ours to bet with.”
She didn’t expect this. She thought she had talked him round, but his stubbornness ran deep in him. Max looked at the trader.
“What about you?”
Wes looked like a sixty-year-old version of himself. “Get me the hell out of there,” he said. “I don’t care where. But I’m not helping that crazy bitch.”
Heather gritted her teeth. “You slimy, treacherous son-of-a-bitch.”
Max reached to the driver’s seat. One of the horses lifted a leg and stomped the ground, while the other stared into the distance. When Max turned around, he held a pistol.
“Hold on,” said Wes, lifting his hands. “You don’t need to do that. I said I’ll go with you.”
Max handed the pistol to Heather. “Follow the path back to the fork. Take the second route. When you get to an elm tree with an X carved into the trunk, get off the path and walk in the long grass. Hit the ground when you see movement.”
The forked road lay behind them. The second path twisted away and ran in a curve. It widened a half mile away, and then it disappeared into the horizon. Chest-high grass danced in the breeze on both sides of it.
“The kids won’t be on the farm yet,” said Max. “They’ll be in the sorting pen. When you hear the groans, you’ll know you’re close.”
“You’re really leaving me?”
“You’ve got your story, I’ve got mine. Let’s hope we meet again.”
She stepped onto the ground, gripping the gun in her hand. A horse neighed behind her, and the cart carried the soldier and the trader away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ed
He gulped sea water every time he spluttered for breath. Bethelyn fought to keep her head above water, lifting her chin to keep the sea away from her mouth. Every time the tide threatened to whip one of them away, Ed or Bethelyn threw out a hand to save each other.
They skirted their way along the edge of the island by clinging to the jagged shoreline and dragging themselves forward. When Ed decided it was safe for them to climb onto land, he and Bethelyn collapsed on a sand bank.
“I’m never doing that again,” said Ed, panting.
“Must have been washed further than we thought,” said Bethelyn. “We’re at Picnic Point.”
Picnic Point was a knoll near the beach, where families used to picnic in the summer. In the winter, teenagers would gather to drink and smoke roll-ups until the tide washed in.
Ed lay on his back and sucked in air, but no matter how big a breath he took, he needed more. His soggy clothes clung to his skin.
“We better get moving,” he said, forcing energy into his words.
He got to his feet. He stuck out a hand and offered it to Bethelyn. Her red curls stuck to the side of her head, and her skin was blotchy. They hiked away from the knoll and up a gentle incline.
“My head is throbbing,” said Bethelyn.
They came to the edge of the village. The town hall was fifty paces in front of them, and beyond it were Bethelyn’s house, and then Ed’s.
“Destroying the ships,” said Ed. “A pretty bold way of saying they don’t want us to leave. But they wouldn’t destroy their own, right?”
“So?”
“We’re taking their boat.”
Bethelyn put her hand on her hip and became a school mistress scolding a child. “How big was their ship?”
“I only saw it in the distance.”
“But it must have carried the group of them here. We’re not talking a rowing boat, are we?”
“Guess not.”
She shook her head. “Your sailing skills are getting better by the second. A few hours ago, you vaguely remembered a lesson your brother gave you. Now you’re Captain No-beard who can sail a galleon.”
She was right, but what was the alternative? If it came to it, there was no way they could fight the strangers. I
f they somehow managed to kill all of them, it wouldn’t give them salvation. It would leave them stuck on an island full of the infected.
“I’m trying,” he said. “This isn’t easy.”
Bethelyn put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you are. I wish you didn’t have to.”
“Let’s get provisions. We need food, water, and clothes. We’ll take their ship before they realise it.”
They walked back to the road that led to their houses.
“Let’s go back to my cottage,” said Bethelyn.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“There’s nowhere else, Ed.”
“If you’re sure you can…”
“It’s our only choice. We need supplies if we’re leaving the island. We could screw around in your house looking for something edible,” she said, “But I don’t fancy living on rotten cheese.”
“Maybe we should take a cow on the ship.”
They found Bethelyn’s front door half-open. She stepped onto the landing first, and Ed followed. A draught blew through the hallway, and Ed’s breath left him as steam. Bethelyn had painted the walls of the landing mint green, but glimpses of older decoration poked through in the spots she hadn’t coated properly.
“Grab some jars from the pantry,” said Bethelyn, “And I’ll go upstairs and get clothes.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Remember your little speech about not splitting up? Let’s get the stuff upstairs together.”
“Fine.”
At the top of the stairs, their footsteps squelched on the carpet. Water dripped in from the hole in the roof and made a sodden mess of the fabric. It made the house smell like a wet dog.
The floorboards creaked in the bedroom beyond them. Ed stopped mid-step.
“Hear that?” he whispered.
Bethelyn paused at the top of the stairs and leaned into toward the door. A figure burst through it. It took seconds for him to realise it was an infected.
It was Terry Slattery, a lumber merchant who lived with two Cocker-spaniels which followed him everywhere. He used to be captain of the darts team and a skilled angler, but now his desires didn’t move much beyond a yearning for flesh.
Reaching with outstretched arms, Terry gave a desperate cry. Bethelyn fell back into Ed’s chest, and if he hadn’t kept a firm grip on the bannister they would have tumbled down the stairs. Terry swiped at Bethelyn’s head, but she ducked away.
Ed backed down the staircase, expecting Bethelyn to follow him. Instead, she seized Terry’s leg and pulled him to the floor.
She reached for her knife, but Terry launched at her, his mouth open and teeth bared.
Bethelyn screamed as Terry bit into her shoulder. Adrenaline dumped into Ed’s veins, but Bethelyn blocked the staircase.
“You bastard,” she shouted.
She pushed the infected to the floor, grabbed his hair and smashed his head on the carpet. Ed had never seen a rage like it. Bethelyn punched Terry’s face until his features deformed and blood spewed out.
When he was certain Terry was dead, Ed walked into the bathroom. He took a towel from a rack and threw it to Bethelyn. It flopped beside her and stayed untouched.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m immune, right? At least I won’t turn into one of them.”
“Better clean the wound though.”
“There’s something I need to do first.”
Bethelyn walked across the landing and stood outside a bedroom. This was April’s room. She hovered in the doorframe. “I need a minute,” she said.
Ed nodded. Bethelyn walked into the room and shut the door behind her. It felt strange to wait on the landing while she was in her daughter’s room, so he walked into the main bedroom and looked out of the window.
He couldn’t see any infected or any strangers. It was the same old island; one where he’d stayed too long. Infection or not, he should have left Golgoth once he knew James wasn’t coming back. While he stayed on the island, his only company was his grief. He’d let himself wither inside, wasting the chance of life his dad and brother didn’t have.
It had taken an army of the dead and a bunch of cannibal strangers to make him realise it, but at least he knew now. There was no future for him on Golgoth. Maybe there was nothing on the mainland either, but at least he could find out for himself.
The bedroom door opened across the hall, and Bethelyn stepped out. Her eyes were red, her cheeks crimson.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“You okay?”
“No,” she said. “I never will be. But let’s go.”
Outside, the crashing of the sea met the groans of the infected. He couldn’t see the water yet, but the infected were difficult to miss. The men and women he’d once known stumbled across the cobbles with blank eyes. One of them bent over, opened its mouth and let a torrent of blood flow onto the pavement.
They walked by Ed’s house and toward the cliffs. As they stood on the edge with the sea below, it didn’t feel strange to be back again. The cliffs drew him here, even before infection had hit Golgoth.
He looked down. Forty feet below, a ship idled in the water. Rather than the luxury yachts that usually sailed around Golgoth, this was more like a pirate ship.
Could he really sail that? Should he even try? Probably not, but there was no other choice. Better to try, than die on the island.
“That’s the one,” said Ed. “We have a way out. Just need to get down the cliffs.”
“You can sail that thing?”
“We’ll have to find that out.”
It was a forty-foot straight drop, and meant suicide even for a strong swimmer. Ed knew a better way, one he and James used in afternoon trips that went against every reprimand their mother gave them.
“This way,” he said.
As he walked to his left, a sudden pain tore through his leg. Have I been shot? It felt like his calf was on fire. He couldn’t stop the cry that left his mouth.
“Ed!”
As the pain seared through his leg, he fell forward, stopping short of the cliff edge. Agony tore through him body.
What the hell was that? It burns.
He looked at his leg and saw a spear sticking from his calf.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Heather
Where were the guards? If she couldn’t see them, how could she plan against them? She’d walked hours over the wasteland without noticing anyone, and now the farm was empty, too.
She scanned the complex as she approached the fence, but there was no sign of any Capita uniforms. She faced a gate double her height. A sign with a red cross on it swung on the front. A padlock and chain locked it in place.
Was this how they defended the farm? With a padlock? She gripped the pistol and thought about blasting the padlock off. That’ll bring too much attention. Can’t see anyone, but I need to be careful.
She smashed the pistol handle on the metal. The rusted steel split and fell to the floor, and Heather entered the complex.
Grey buildings lined a tarmac yard. Two sets of fences formed the perimeter, and the chain-link rattled in the wind. A familiar groaning sound drifted toward her. Ahead of her, in the middle of the courtyard, was a porta cabin.
The groaning sound grew louder in the courtyard. Metal rattled. When she looked to her left, she gasped. There were more than a dozen infected inside a pen. Two of them saw her, and they shook the metal and gnashed their teeth at her. She hoped the fence was strong enough to hold.
There were men, women and children infected, with lifeless eyes and starving faces. Some were naked, and she watched in disgust as an infected man shambled toward the fence with his genitals swinging. He poked his fingers through the gaps in the chain-link.
An opening at the back of their pen led to a narrow passage circling the complex. Stray infected wandered aimless patrols around it. There were gaps in the fence, and the infected were free to walk through it.
Now it made sense. There were no s
oldiers guarding the complex because they didn’t need them. Why employ men and women to keep guard when you can have a moat filled with the infected? People could get tired and lose concentration; the infected never would.
Growls met her from her right. An infected man, woman and a child walked towards her as an infected family. Fifty yards ahead, an obese infected squeezed through a gap in the fence, and stray wire scratched across his uncovered belly.
