She felt Magda break free of the enclosing undergrowth. She stepped out behind her, looking forward to putting the suitcase down, when she sensed something was wrong.
“What is it?” she asked, stepping round Magda to see what the problem was.
“Oh my God!” Magda murmured, “Oh my God,” Like it was the only thing she could think of saying.
The body of a man lay stretched out on the riverbank. His arms were positioned at his sides, his polo shirt neatly buttoned up, the collar folded down. A dark stain emanated from the left side of his chest, a rough hole torn in the fabric. The face was pale, as if shocked. It was Davy.
All this was in stark contrast to the lower half of his body. He was naked from the waist down, ravaged genitals exposed; a bloody, battered mess between his legs, which were spread obscenely wide. On his left foot he still wore his once-white sports socks and an expensive but worn training shoe.
“What the fuck?” Carson peered over Lavender’s shoulder at the spectacle, apparently his old self once more. Lavender cursed inwardly that he should chose such a moment for clarity.
“That’s just like the kids I found. Some sick bastard is leaving these bodies on purpose! He wants us to find them!”
“Naked from the waist down,” Lavender said, unable to take her eyes from Davy’s torn manhood, barely more than a mass of flesh now. A rush of pity ran through her, making her shudder.
“Here,” Carson said, stepping forward, “let’s give the poor sod some dignity,”
He dropped the armful of coats he was carrying except one, which he draped gently over Davy’s body, covering him. Lavender was glad the sight of him was hidden.
“What does this mean?” Magda asked warily.
Lavender recalled the feeling she had that they were being watched. She thought back to the figure moving about in the shadows on the street only that morning. She remembered Carson’s words, when he had first told them about the displayed and apparently violated bodies of the children he had found; ‘Whoever is guilty of this is human.’
‘Inhuman is more like it,’ she thought, keeping it to herself. Aloud, she said, “I think it means we are being followed. Someone, for some twisted reason, wants our attention.”
“Jesus!” Magda swore in a soft voice, looking around uneasily as if expecting to find some murderous stalker in the bushes.
“Whoever it is, he’s not likely to be hanging around Magda,” Lavender said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Carson said grimly, “He’s obviously kept reasonably close to us the whole time, without us knowing. I think he wants to see our reactions, gauge how we respond to him. I would lay good money on him not being too far away,”
Lavender stared at him, horrified. They had enough to deal with, without some twisted madman on their tails too.
Lavender took a step closer to him subconsciously. Magda moved in closer too, keeping her hand on the hilt of the kitchen knife. They both looked outward, scanning the immediate area closely.
They all jumped when the uneasy silence was broken by Mayhew’s screams. They spun to look across to the bridge, where he was trying to flee the grip of a zombie. It had snagged the collar of his shirt and was pulling him backwards. Mayhew, thinking quickly, tore his shirt open, sending buttons flying. He pulled his arms free and began to run.
“He needs help,” Magda said, striding out, knife held before her.
Lavender looked at Carson. He seemed okay, as if he was well and truly in the here and now, but he made no move to go and help. Lavender was torn; should she leave him here, where he might be being watched by a crazy, or should she go and help on the bridge? He had been clear enough only a minute ago.
Carson made the decision for her. He crossed to Davy’s body and sat down heavily next to it. He had picked up one of the coats in passing and was trying to put it on; except he seemed to be having difficulty doing it. He looked up at her, the clouds once more in his eyes. He squinted, as if trying to make out who she was.
“I can do it mother, if you just wait a minute,” he said, an impatient, childlike tone to his voice Lavender had never heard before.
She choked back a sob. There was no mistaking it anymore, it wasn’t her imagination; he was losing his mind.
She was losing him.
She would leave him here and go help Mayhew. Carson was unlikely to be much use in a fight just now and after all, he was as safe on the river bank as anywhere. Besides, she didn’t trust herself not to sit next to him and simply break down if she stayed, and that would be no good to anyone, least of all Carson.
She followed in Magda’s footsteps, her mind not on the inevitable fight to come but on Carson behind her. Maybe it had all finally proved too much for him, his mind just couldn’t handle the horror anymore. If she could get him away from all of this, rest up properly for a few days, find a way to do nothing but eat and sleep for a while, he might come out the other end okay again.
She knew she was kidding herself. That it was something that couldn’t be cured with rest, good food or love; something she was afraid to name.
A surge of anger threatened to engulf her. She seized it heart and soul, gaining strength from her rage. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair, and damned if that zombie on the bridge wasn’t going to pay for it.
Fire
Lavender drew level with Magda at the head of the bridge, both of them panting with exertion. Magda never even glanced at Lavender as she adjusted her grip on the knife, prepared. Mayhew had somehow freed himself. Now bare-chested, he was half-running, half-falling along the bridge in their direction, the zombie hard on his heels and heading their way.
It was a Thinker, Lavender could tell that much even from this distance. Tall and formidably muscular, it had a shock of red hair that looked starkly out of place against its subtly greening skin. This skin was missing altogether in places, exposing muscle, fat and tendons along most of its right forearm and its left leg.
Lavender couldn’t help but admire Magda’s courage as she stepped forward in readiness to grab Mayhew and shove him out of harm’s way. She could see the woman’s intention was to thrust the knife into the Thinker, just as she could see it was never going to work. The thing was so big it would mean Magda having to raise the knife over her head if she was going to strike anywhere that mattered, and that would leave her wide open and totally exposed to both its blows and its bite.
She cast about despairingly, looking for something she could use. Mayhew shrieked and she looked up in time to see the Thinker sink its bony fingers into his side and rake backwards, peeling back layers of skin, blood issuing to run spidery rivulets down his stomach, quickly soaking the waistband of his trousers. Lavender felt sure he must be finished, but miraculously the Thinker’s hand slipped, losing its grasp, allowing a shocked looking Mayhew to continue his flight.
Magda stepped forward, the knife raised. Lavender sensed impending disaster. She had to do something.
Despairing of finding anything useful near to hand, she began patting down her own pockets frantically. Her fingers struck something hard in her left pocket; the lighter.
Uncertain of how she would use it, Lavender fumbled to free it, wrapping her fingers around its hard plastic body, positioning the striker under her thumb. Now what?
Mayhew was almost upon Magda. He swerved at the last minute, shoving her violently as he did. The zombie barrelled through them, missing his target. Magda yelped as it pushed through, clutching her stomach and doubling up, crawling hurriedly away.
Lavender ducked out of sight behind an abandoned white van, aware the Thinker was now on her trajectory. Realising she stood no chance should it happen upon her, she dropped, flattening herself to the ground enough to scurry under the van, praying that out of sight was out of mind.
The smell of petrol was overwhelming, the fumes irritating her throat, making her want to cough. She didn’t dare, for fear of giving herself away. Covering her mouth with her hands, she choked it back,
hoping that the stench of fumes would help conceal her existence.
The greatest disadvantage, she now realised, was that it was hard to see what was happening. She tensed at the approach of the Thinker. Its distorted feet, visible beneath the sides of the van, had outgrown the shoes it had been wearing as a human being. The black leather had sunk so deeply into the flesh that it looked like it was part of it, distorting the foot into an ungainly, painful looking feature. The ankles were horribly swollen, bulging out over the top of the shoes that were biting viciously into the skin. Hard-nailed toes the colour of old tea stains protruded from the caps. She held her breath, afraid the Thinker had found her and was about to topple the van, or reach in a long, searching arm and pull her out like a cockle from a shell.
It turned, groaned throatily and began retracing its steps back toward Magda and Mayhew.
She tried to think. She had the lighter in hand, though she had not yet tested it to see if it worked. She was lying beneath a van where the smell of petrol was strong…
Half an idea formed in her mind. She turned onto her back, squeezing herself around in the cramped space. The fuel tank was directly above her, and now she could clearly see the source of the petrol leak.
There was a small screw embedded in the tank. Once a tight fit, the collision that had brought the van to a standstill had either dislodged it or warped it out of shape. One side of it was protruding more than the other, a tiny gap allowing petrol to drip out onto the concrete below. Right now, it was dripping onto Lavender.
She grimaced, shifting position so she could better see the small screw. Deciding it was neither the time nor the place to see if the lighter worked, she shoved it back into her pocket. Reaching up with both hands, she began trying to work the screw free.
There was the tiniest movement before she came up against some resistance. Seeing that the best option was to corrupt the metal tank closest to the screw rather than remove the screw itself, she flipped back over onto her stomach and looked about for something she could use as a tool.
She could hear Magda and Mayhew screaming frantically at one another, as well as the monotone roars of the Thinker. There was no time to waste seeing what was happening. If she was going to be of any help to either of them, she had to get on with her idea.
There was all manner of small debris scattered across the bridge, now that she was at ground level to see it. Numerous stones and small glinting items were within easy reach. She crawled forwards, looking out beneath the van’s engine. The car in front had come off worse in the crash it seemed. It had spun a complete circle, to face the way it had come. The bumper had been completely ripped off, leaving chunks of metal strewn.
She inched her way out of the front of the van, guiltily grateful that the Thinker was occupied. She snatched up one of the smaller pieces of metal and ducked back underneath the van, repositioning herself beneath the tank. She knew she risked a face full of petrol, not a prospect she relished, but it was the only thing she could think of to do. She wedged a corner of the metal into the slim gap next to the screw.
And stopped. As it was, the petrol, if there was any left to speak of, would simply puddle on the ground. She needed something to catch it in.
She took off her filthy shirt, making herself calm down enough to undo the buttons rather than risk wasting time trying to rip it off. Tiny bits of gravel dug into the soft flesh of her back as she lay down again, this time exposed except for her ancient, greying bra. She bundled the shirt under the spot where she hoped the petrol would flow, picked up the metal and began again.
She managed to wedge a piece in tight. She felt the tank give the tiniest fraction. Encouraged, she grasped the metal with two hands and pushed with all her might, bending it backwards, towards the screw, pushing it into a loose diagonal.
The flow of petrol all at once increased, hurried drops replacing the slow drip of before. Relieved, Lavender withdrew the metal piece.
The flow became heavier still, soaking into her shirt and spattering her face unpleasantly. A bitter taste in her mouth, Lavender turned and retched, spitting it out. When she turned back, she grabbed the screw itself, now wet with petrol. She righted it in its place as best she could, then simply yanked it free.
It fell to the ground with a bright metallic sound, petrol draining freely now. Lavender moved over a little to allow the shirt to soak more fully without covering herself in the stuff. For what she had in mind, that really wouldn’t be a good idea.
She turned the shirt in on itself once or twice, determined to make the most of the petrol. Satisfied it was heavy with fuel, unwilling to wait any longer, she grabbed the shirt in one hand, the metal shard in the other and rolled free of the van.
She was greeted by a hellish scene.
Magda was dead, there was no question about that. Her dismembered corpse lay in bloody heaps across the bridge. She had been pulled asunder as if nothing, her body parts cast in all directions. Her once sensuous, dark skin, now slick with blood and body fluids, was all that gave her away. That and the wild afro hair that was now smoothed flat with her own blood, only a strand or two escaping in tight ringlets. Magda’s head was on the bonnet of a car. It didn’t look like it had landed there at random, but as if someone had placed it there quite deliberately. It was looking at Lavender.
She felt her head spin, a bout of dizziness hitting her, followed by the sudden need to burst out laughing. It all seemed so ridiculous. She shut her eyes, for a moment not caring whether she lived or died. She sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. A waft of petrol assaulted her nostrils, waking her up.
Her laughter died, her smile evaporating, “You evil son of a bitch, you are going to wish you were dead for real by the time I am finished with you!” She was aware she was shouting, aware that she no longer cared. She felt a wonderful recklessness assail her, a sudden certainty that nothing mattered anymore. She had never felt more ready to take on a Thinker.
Which was just as well, because the thing appeared to have lost interest in Mayhew. It was heading for her.
*
Amazed that her hands were not trembling, that her thoughts were clear and steady, Lavender wrapped the petrol soaked shirt around the end of the metal piece. It was only when she withdrew the lighter from her pocket that she felt the first pangs of doubt. The petrol tank had some fuel in it, but what if the lighter was empty?
She held the objects up before her, watching the progress of the Thinker. She didn’t want to set fire to it too soon, assuming the lighter still worked, for fear of repelling the zombie. If it didn’t work well, what the hell? It had been quite a ride. As long as it simply killed her. The thought of existing in that form filled her with a leaden dread.
It was approaching fast now, looming large. She felt a tremble of fear as reality began to sink in again. She had forgotten how intimidating these things were up close; how brutally disproportionate they were to any real man.
Wait.
Wait.
Another step; another. Its strides were lengthening the closer it got. Lavender thought she could see a spiral of drool escaping its mouth, it was so hungry for her.
Now.
She struck the little metal hammer on the lighter. Nothing happened. Letting out a breathy gasp, she tried again, looking up to check the Thinker’s progress. Alarmed, she took a retreating step. Still nothing.
Near to tears now she gave the lighter a frenzied shake, held it up to the soaked shirt, and tried again.
A tiny flame leapt cautiously free. At first tentative, it grew bold and strong as it caught on the petrol. Satisfied it was a healthy flame, Lavender swung her arm back as wide as she could. She threw it hard letting the metal bar go with it.
The shirt, now burning fiercely, landed directly atop the zombie’s flaming red hair. She sagged with relief, then saw that it had done nothing to stop the Thinker. It was still coming for her.
She turned and ran, all out of ideas. The only thought that crept into her
head was that she must not lead it to Carson, no matter what.
She came to the head of the bridge, where it met the road and the trackway back to the river bank. She cast a glance over her shoulder, expecting to find the Thinker hard on her heels.
It has stopped at last, flailing its grotesquely misshapen arms uselessly, serving only to spread the fire more effectively about its body. What was left of the shirt was now sitting on the Thinker’s shoulder. The fire had taken a firm hold, green-tinged skin rapidly blackening, shrivelling at its licking tongue. Lavender stopped, watching in breathless silence.
The Thinker dropped to its knees, patting at itself pathetically. There was little recognisable about it now; it was just a ball of fire, losing its shape and solidity by the second. Deciding she had seen enough, Lavender turned, eager to get back to Carson and make sure he was okay.
The adrenalin began to leech from her as she made her way back onto the trackway, making her limbs feel impossibly heavy, flooding her with exhaustion. She rubbed her eyes, instantly regretting it when she remembered she still had petrol on her hands.
Eyes watering, she turned in amazement when a voice from the bridge said imploringly, “Lavender! Wait for me,”
Mayhew was barely upright, bleeding from his side, his face and hands a mass of cuts and bruises. He was in total shock, she could see that even from this distance. His eyes were white and dilated, his skin pale and clammy. He looked like he was about to vomit.
She knew she should be glad he had survived, that the Thinker hadn’t claimed him too. Yet all she felt was a murmur of resentment. As if caring for Carson didn’t give her enough to do, now she had an invalid on her hands, too.
Sleep, Think, Die (Book 2): The Undertaking Page 11
