“Hmm?” he said, looking at her in bewilderment.
Noble snorted. He faked a yawn and stretched pointedly, growing in stature, as if uncoiling. With dismay, she saw for the first time just how muscular and lithe the man was. She had thought him bad news since he first showed up. Now she saw he could be a real threat if he chose to be. He turned dismissively from Carson and spoke directly to her,
“Like I said, you cook, I eat. I’ll check the house out. You just keep an eye on your man here,” he picked up the pan and tossed it to the end of the island, in Lavender’s direction. It skittered and spun, coming to a rest with the handle pointing at her accusingly, “Better go see what’s for dinner,” he said.
Lavender’s heart sank. Shakily, she crossed to Carson, balancing the things she had found in her hands, “Come on,” she said urgently, “come with me,”
She left Carson sitting on the lower steps of the stairs with Mayhew, who had dozed off and was snoring softly. The position he was lying in looked an uncomfortable one that would add to his pain later, but Lavender didn’t have the heart to wake him. She rooted through the contents of the shopping trolley hurriedly, pulling out the first tin she touched.
“You like chicken curry?” Noble was coming down the hallway behind her. She didn’t care what his tastes might be, she didn’t want to antagonise him any more than she had to.
Noble grinned; a strange sight in the grey light from the windows, “Oh, I’ll eat anything,” he said.
*
Of all the repulsive things Lavender had to do since the zombie apocalypse had struck, cooking in that kitchen ranked among the worst. It was the stuff of nightmares, the rich aroma of the curry mingling with the metallic odour of blood; the numerous flies that landed on the edge of the pot and in it making her want to vomit. The windows, intact but free of any sort of covering, meant she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that there were eyes upon her, making the back of her neck prickle. That and the numerous flies that buzzed, trying to get in from outside, throwing their tiny, vibrating bodies at the glass like tremulous fingers tapping, was enough to make her want to throw down the spoon she was stirring the ghastly pot with and just leave.
She couldn’t. Noble had come back, telling her the house was clear. She had no choice but to believe him. He had eaten his food straight out of the pan, scooping up a fly or two Lavender had missed and flicking them aside, unperturbed. Lavender had left him to it and shepherded both Carson and Mayhew upstairs hurriedly in search of a room. She had longed to be alone with Carson; now, she didn’t dare leave the wounded Mayhew on his own. Her suspicions about Noble were deepening by the minute. At first light, they would be up and gone even if it meant leaving most of their stuff behind. ‘He can go to hell in a hand cart,’ she thought, grimacing at her own weak little joke.
The upper floor of the house was eerily similar to the kitchen. There were patches of blood staining the carpets and walls, lamps and tables were knocked over, pictures askew. A long trail of blood led across the landing. In contrast, the beds were all tidily made, with the exception of one.
In the master bedroom, the huge king-sized bed told more of the story the blood on the stairs had begun. The covers had been flung aside, the once crisp white bedding soaked crimson. Darker clots dotted it, leaving a trail down one side, a deeper pool on the carpet there, then renewing the trail across to the door and the landing. The other side of the bed showed a deep puddle that had soaked into the mattress, the pillow drenched. The headboard was splashed with it, an arc of bright red over the bed leaving a gory rainbow on the ceiling. Lavender decided they would not sleep in that room.
There was a bedroom with twin beds in, the carpet a shade of dusky pink, the walls covered in paper depicting cartoon jungle animals amongst trees and vines, interspersed with ABC and 123 stencilling in a cheerful yellow. The beds were neatly made, no sign of any wrong doing other than one pillow out of place on the floor. It occurred to Lavender that this room was more chilling than the master bedroom because of its apparent serenity, when it was plain something terrible had gone on in this house. The thought of sleeping in the bloodied room after being in that kitchen was utterly repulsive though, so she selected this one for their night’s rest.
There were brightly coloured lamps on the bedside tables, covered in a fine layer of dust. Lavender almost sent one crashing as she helped Mayhew carefully down onto one of the beds, then guided Carson to sit on the other. She went back down the stairs to retrieve what she needed from the cart, electing only to take a few smaller items since she planned on leaving as soon as possible anyway.
Mayhew didn’t eat, collapsing into slumber almost the moment his head touched the pillow. Her appetite all but gone, Lavender forced down a few cold spoonsful of beans, making sure Carson ate the rest of the can along with one of the biscuits. There was no lock in the door, all Lavender could do was wedge a dressing table chair under the handle, like they did in all the old movies when they needed to keep the bad guys out. She retrieved the pillow from the floor, pushed Carson gently down and curled up alongside him, her arm around his chest, her face buried in his back. The covers felt soft and warm. It wasn’t long before they slept.
Mayhew
Something woke her. Her sleep troubled and unsatisfying, Lavender sat bolt upright in the bed, Carson oblivious next to her.
Mayhew was doubled up on his mattress, clutching his stomach and writhing in pain.
“What is it Mayhew? What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“Sick, I need to be sick, “Mayhew said. He untangled himself from the covers and stumbled to the door,
“Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom,”
“The bathroom? Why? There’s no running water Mayhew, remember?”
“I’m not just going to throw up in here,” Mayhew said, his face glistening with sweat, “Not when we have to sleep here. At least in there I can close the toilet lid on it. Lavender, are you going to help me or not?” He sagged against the door, too weak to move the chair.
She got up and went to him, pulling the chair aside. Mayhew took one hand away from his stomach to open the door, and Lavender gagged. The bandages she had earlier applied were soaked through with a mixture of blood and pus, the smell repulsive. Mayhew stumbled through the door into the bathroom they had passed earlier. Lavender listened; nothing more than the sound of Mayhew voiding the contents of his stomach. She clicked the door shut, unsure of what to do.
She couldn’t be in two places at once; tending to Mayhew and watching over Carson. Forced to make a choice, she would choose Carson every time.
Leaving the door unguarded, she crawled back under the covers. Mayhew could let himself back in when he was recovered, she would replace the chair then. She would scour upstairs before they left tomorrow, see if she couldn’t find something to try and treat that wound with. She could boil some water from the river and try cleaning it with that. Maybe there was some salt in the kitchen. Going back in there was not a thought she relished, but she had to try something to beat back the infection.
*
When she next woke it was fully light, the birds singing effortlessly in their untroubled skies. It always seemed miraculous to Lavender that life in the world of birds and animals went on more or less undisturbed, the blight of the apocalypse never reaching them. She envied them.
Carson murmured at her touch, grasping her hand and squeezing it gently where it hung upon his chest. She squeezed back, feeling the first pleasurable waves of desire rise in her.
She stopped cold, freeing herself of his grasp and sitting up, dizzy with the suddenness of it. The door remained shut, the chair alongside it. A glance at the next bed over told her Mayhew had not come back.
“Shit!” She said, getting up and running to the door.
It was locked. She twisted the handle fervently, but it wouldn’t give.
“Mayhew!” she shouted through the locked door, “Noble! Noble!”
&nbs
p; “What is it?” Carson sat up, his face a picture of concern.
She didn’t answer him, considering. Unless there was someone else here in this house with them, Noble was most likely the one who had locked them in. There was no reason why Mayhew would do so. He was sick, in need of care and becoming more and more reliant on Lavender. There was no reason for him to make prisoners of them.
She hadn’t trusted Noble from the start. It had all been a little too convenient. Making her cook in that nightmare kitchen last night had been the first blatant sign of what she suspected his true personality might be; a sign she wished she had paid more attention to now.
“Lavender, what is it?” Carson repeated.
“It’s locked,” Lavender said heavily, “last night there was no way to lock it that I could see, yet now we’re locked in,”
“Mayhew?” Carson glanced over to the empty bed.
“Locked us in? No, I think Noble did that. It’s Mayhew I am worried about,”
A high-pitched, grating screech made them both wince. It was coming from outside; a regular, annoying shriek of overworked, unoiled metal.
“That’s Noble’s damned cart!” Lavender said, rushing to the window.
There were several farm vehicles in the farm yard, all standing idle amongst various outbuildings, which were for the most part constructed of wood with corrugated metal roofs. Some stood open to the elements, nothing more than tall shelters. One exception was a long, low concrete building. The cowshed, Lavender determined, judging from size and shape of the building, the cloud of flies that milled around it and the ubiquitous rats that made their unhurried way in and out.
Beyond the jumble of buildings and vehicles stood an empty paddock, its fences broken down, the grass growing long and wild with no animal hooves to wear it down or hungry beasts to keep it cropped. Lavender remembered the cow from the previous evening with a sudden unease. It seemed strange it had escaped the fate of the other cattle, according to Noble. Still, a loose cow would have plenty of vegetation to eat hereabouts, as long as zombies took no interest in it.
Lavender opened the window and leaned out, to hear better over the bird song. Several hedge sparrows took flight at the suddenness of her intrusion. Apart from that, aside from a slight breeze ruffling the leaves, all was quiet.
Carson joined her at the window, putting a finger to his lips to indicate they shouldn’t talk.
There it was again; the annoying squeak of the wheel of Noble’s cart. Lavender was starting to think he was wheeling it behind one of the many buildings and would remain hidden, when the man came into view around the corner of farmhouse.
Noble had an air of purpose about him, despite the slow speed at which he was pushing the cart. The sedate pace was explained by the fact that he was pushing the cart one-handed, the other holding a shotgun. The man looked nervous, eyes all about, turning to check over his shoulder, everything about him conveying an anxious state.
The cart was full and for a split-second Lavender felt a rush of anger that the man was stealing their belongings. It took both her mind and her eyes a few seconds to understand that it was not their supplies that were filling the cart, but Mayhew.
The man was slumped over in a half-kneeling position, as if he had just been thrown in the cart any old how and left to stay the way he had landed. He was face down, his hands bent awkwardly beneath him, one knee tucked under him, the other leg extended, his foot sticking out over the side rail of the cart. He was unmoving.
“What the hell?” Carson murmured.
“Has he killed Mayhew?” Lavender turned a puzzled face to Carson, “But why? I don’t get it. And what’s he doing now if he has?”
They watched in silence as Noble came to a stop in front of a tractor parked parallel to the house. He wiped a hand across his brow, turned a slow three-sixty on the spot, the shotgun ready, then turned his attentions to Mayhew.
He placed the shotgun across the corner of the cart so that it rested on both the handle and the side rail. With a strength that surprised Lavender, he leaned down and hoisted Mayhew bodily from the cart.
Mayhew groaned aloud.
“Jesus Christ, he’s not dead!” Lavender said softly. Next to her, Carson released a slow hiss of breath, not taking his eyes from the scene before them.
Noble had slammed Mayhew up against the huge tractor wheel. He appeared to be holding the man in place with chains that had been pre-affixed to the wheels. They passed over his body in an x-shape, which Noble then pulled tight by means of some device hidden at the side of the wheel.
Noble stopped in his work, snatched up his shotgun and whirled around, something near the paddock catching his attention. Time seemed to stand still as they watched. Lavender held her breath. Apparently satisfied nothing was there, Noble set the shotgun carefully down again and continued his ministrations.
He took a small, sharp looking knife from his pocket and began slicing through the waist of Mayhew’s jeans, splitting the leg of the fabric the way surgeons remove clothing from the injured on the operating table. He cut away his underwear with the same slice of the knife, then pulled the man’s shoes off roughly, removing only one sock.
“Oh my God no,” Carson said, resting his palms upon the window, misting the glass with his breath, “Please God no,”
Lavender glanced at him, uncomprehending. His face was grey with shock. She looked back.
Noble had replaced the shoe on the foot still wearing a sock; the left foot.
A chill ran through Lavender as realisation dawned, “The children,” she said, speaking in hushed tones, “Isn’t that how you found them? The children? Naked from the waist down, with one shoe on?”
Carson nodded, grimacing, “What it means I don’t know, but yeah, that’s how I found them,”
“But they weren’t fresh right, their bodies? They were long dead?”
“Yeah, but it looks like that doesn’t matter too much to this particular psycho. Remember Davy?” Carson squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat, as if to close out the sight. When he opened them again, Lavender saw how truly tired he looked, “Whatever all this is about, I don’t think it’s going to be pretty,”
Lavender turned her attention back to Noble. He stood back for a briefly, surveying his work. Apparently satisfied, he grasped the cart handle with one hand again, the shotgun with the other and began to walk away.
He stopped, looked down at the ground sightlessly as if considering something, then released the cart handle. He pulled the knife out of his pocket a second time and went back to Mayhew, helpless against the tractor wheel. He bent to retrieve the single discarded sock, which he shoved into the man’s mouth. Then, with a swift and sure move, he drew the knife in a spiteful line across the man’s stomach.
The bandages, already heavy with blood, sweat and pus, sagged, allowing a rush of putrid infection and bloodied liquid to spill forth. Even in his semi-conscious state, Mayhew let out a muted howl of pain. Unaffected, Noble wiped the knife carefully on his jeans, pocketed it and turned back to the cart.
“What the fuck?” Lavender was unable to think of any rational response to what she had just witnessed. She followed Noble with her eyes, shaking her head in disbelief. Before he broached the corner of the house, Noble dropped the handle of the cart and loosed a shot. He turned and ran back the way he had come, the cart all at once forgotten. Lavender’s heart leapt; that couldn’t mean anything good.
They heard another shot fired as Noble disappeared from view. The door to the house downstairs slammed shut, there was a rattling as of locks being hurriedly slid into place, then pounding footsteps on the stairs. Carson ran to the bedroom door and pressed his ear up against it. He stepped back hurriedly, turning to Lavender and for a second time pressing his fingers to his lips. He pointed to the door urgently, mouthing the words, ‘he’s outside the bedroom door.’
“What?” Lavender whispered, confused, “You mean, he’s listening to us?”
Carson nodded, crossi
ng the room and grabbing her by the shoulders. He leaned right into her, his mouth against her ear, his breath hot on her skin,
“And he’s got a shotgun, so stay clear of the door,”
Lavender looked up at him, seeing her own confusion and fear mirrored in his eyes. She clutched at him, holding his forearms where he still held her by the shoulders.
There was movement down in the farm yard.
Together, Lavender and Carson looked down in despair, helpless to intervene. The farmyard and all the wholesome innocence the very word evoked, was about to become horribly and irrevocably tainted.
Four Thinkers were entering the yard, their presence explaining why Noble had fired the shotgun. Paralysed with revulsion, Lavender found she could not look away, even though she knew she had no desire to see what happened next. She could not recall seeing Thinkers in groups before and the knowledge that this was how they could operate terrified her. They were not the shabby amblers zombies were, but when they picked up on the stronger odour of Mayhew’s abject terror, the scent of his blood and his diseased flesh, they moved notably faster.
They closed in on him, their slavering jaws sinking into his corrupt flesh, tearing him apart within minutes. Too long for it to be called a quick or a clean death; not long enough to prevent the man from screaming. Truly screaming; not the half-awake, muted cry of earlier, but a heartfelt, desperate roar that reached Lavender’s very core, making her flesh rise and her stomach turn. She knew she was sobbing as she looked on, her tears borne of dread as much as grief. There was very little left by the time they were done, only ripped mounds of flesh left to slip free of the chains that were now loose to fall in heaps in the mud.
The tyre was wet with blood and gore. From across the yard, Lavender recognised the more stumbling gait of a mindless zombie, keen to get in on the feast. The Thinkers shuffled off. To her alarm, they went the way Noble had gone. The way that led to the door and a way in to the house.
“I hope to God Noble locked that door well,” Carson said. His voice was shaky, his face pale, “Are you okay?”
Sleep, Think, Die (Book 2): The Undertaking Page 14
