It’s thought by some scholars that the Roanoke colonists were political separatists, hence the reason they left England. They would indeed make their big decisions in a democratic way, at a time when England was still a functioning monarchy. It had indeed been voted that John White should return to England for supplies. However, whichever version of events you read with regards to Roanoke and the colonists, you will find many disagreements as to what happened. As a writer, I simply had to pick the most suitable version for a zombie story.
White’s return to America was postponed because of the war with Spain. He had hired a ship for the voyage and then at the last minute, it was confiscated for use in the war effort. It was not for another three years that White finally managed to return, only to find the colony deserted. The only clue as to the whereabouts of his family was the words “Croatoan” calved into a palisade. Unfortunately, when White set sail for the mainland and for Croatoan, his ship was caught up in a hurricane and severely damaged. Consequently he was forced back to England to make the necessary repairs. He could never again raise the funds for a return trip to America and he never saw the colonists again. John White spent his last days living on one of Sir Walter Raleigh’s estates, doubtless in luxury, albeit with a broken heart.
There are many theories as to the fate of the Roanoke colonists ranging from massacre by the Indians, assimilation by the Indians and being drowned at sea. Since this is still an open book case, one would be foolish to totally rule out a zombie attack as one of the possibilities.
The Roanoke colony predated the more famous Jamestown colony by 22 years, which as we know was plagued by hardships. White’s colonists arrived too late in the season in order to plant crops. They were let down by Fernandes. They arrived during the worst drought for around 500 years (evidenced by tree rings). Add to all that the hostile tribes and one can imagine what life would have been like.
Today you can visit Fort Raleigh in modern day Dare County, North Carolina. It has been largely untouched and remains as it was in the days of 1587. Those sharp eyed readers will realise that the county was named after Virginia Dare, the first English child born in the Americas (whose fate is unknown). In fact much of the area is named after the characters in the story, Chief Manteo, Wanchese etc.
Thank you for reading.
Bedlam, London - 1888.
Bartlett stamped his feet and breathed warm air into his hands, rubbing them together for what small heat could be produced. His eyes had long ago adjusted to the gloom so that he felt able to extinguish the lamp and thus quieten the lunatics that would set off from the slightest disturbance. The corridor was long and the smallest noise echoed and reverberated about the ancient stones that possessed a coating of gooey green moss.
Bartlett checked his timepiece, snapped the lid shut and mouthed a silent curse. How much longer? It was cold and dark in the asylum’s depths and he hated being made to wait where the rats dared approach too close to his ankles.
From somewhere in the distance a dog barked and the clip-clap of hooves grew ever louder so that Bob ‘Black Hands’ Basset, the coal pincher, whistled from behind the bars of his cell.
“Expecting a visitor are we? Cloak an’ dagger job, is it?” He thrust a toothless snout between two bars and Bartlett was quick to cuff it so that the man staggered backwards clutching his face.
“Mind your own bloody business … foul vagrant.” The night porter continued to stare the wretch down, long enough so that the message was clear. It was the real reason Bartlett hated it down in the old delivery hatch and tried never to go there; not the cold, not the dark, not even the rats, but the company. It was the underground section of the asylum, stuffed out of the way, where the troublemakers were often sent for breaking and a week or two of starvation often made them think twice about throwing faeces at the doctors who were only trying to help them.
Now, the hooves clattered on the cobbles outside the entrance and Bartlett turned back to the door. “About bloody time.”
Boots thumped against hard stone followed by another, much heavier pair, which was odd, because Stapleton usually came alone but it was a small, trifling matter of no consequence and so Bartlett wrapped a hand around the wrought iron handle and attempted to tug the door open, only to find that the summer humidity, mixed with this night’s rare cold had played the devil with how the oak set in its frame and the ancient door creaked and groaned as Bartlett continued to heave, wreaking all kinds of bloody hell with his nerves because it only offered encouragement, if any were ever needed, for the lunatics down the passage to commence screeching in earnest.
“Quiet! Else I’ll give ya a scoldin’.” The threat did little to dissuade them and so Bartlett clenched his jaw and continued to grimace as he exerted. “You there? Couldn’t give us a shove from your end, could you?”
A muffled return just barely penetrated the aged oak and then Bartlett was forced back as the door grated inwards.
“Careful, you almost got my bloody foot…” the night porter was about to further reprimand the newcomer, who he’d assumed must be Stapleton himself, but the man now taking up the entirety of the old delivery entrance threshold was not Stapleton, no sir, but someone, or something quite different. No, the sudden appearance of this thing of the night persuaded Bartlett to reconsider further chastisement for such trivial transgressions.
For he was blotting out the moon in its entirety, which made the edges of the caped man, if indeed he were a man, glow with an eerie, unearthly blue, prompting Bartlett to unconsciously stagger back, the breath catching in his throat, as the newcomer stooped so that his chest would not snag on the doorframe as he entered.
“What the…?” Bartlett’s hand trembled a wary path towards the truncheon attached to his person, an implement that seemed pitifully inept now as he wrapped a clammy mitt around the grip. This looming animal was not one of his charges, most of whom were cowed at the sight of Bartlett brandishing the heavy wooden club, but whoever might be this creature would surely possess immunity to his blows.
“Don’t mind Hobbs,” came the voice from lower down, much lower down, “cuts a fearsome figure but he keeps the beggars away. Oi, Guvnor, I’m down ‘ere.”
Bartlett altered his neck’s trajectory and found there was another, slightly less threatening creature present. He breathed but kept a firm clutch of the truncheon. It was a dwarf, of all things, hardly a threat, or was it?
“Where’s Stapleton?” Bartlett demanded, still bracing for potential trouble.
“Sent us instead.”
“He sent you? Why?”
The job was supposed to be done on the quiet, for obvious reasons, in and out, no fuss, without anyone ever knowing, yet here, instead of Stapleton, were Little and Large, the most conspicuous looking pair one could ever hope to find stealing into a lunatic asylum by the back door in the middle of the night.
“Has a sense of humour, so he does … our boss.”
Bartlett squinted uncomfortably, not because of the actual words but how they were spoken, because in the accent he’d detected a heavy dose of Irish Tinker, which caused him to subconsciously check his purse was still on his person. Thankfully it was. But he couldn’t say the same for the slate stacked against the wall outside in anticipation of the latrine roof being fixed on Wednesday.
“What did you say your name was?” Bartlett asked, glancing nervously again over the giant.
“You must scuse ma manners, Malone’s the name.” Which confirmed it, for Bartlett had happened across a Malone or two in his time, mostly patients in the asylum, and rascals to the man. This one, however, sounded London by birth, or at least that’s what he’d have people believe, and so inbred it was likely his handkerchief doubled as a shirt sleeve. One to watch and Bartlett had been so thrown by the curious outward appearance of the two men that he’d failed to notice the smaller had been stretching up with a gloved paw.
Bartlett hesitated before shaking it, which was sticky with something, and after ret
rieving his hand he shuddered, backed away, and subconsciously patted his trousers for the lump that was his timepiece, a most valuable instrument gifted him by his late father.
If Malone noticed then no offence was taken and he now strutted farther inside in that ridiculous overconfident way of the Cockney, thumbs tucked beneath lapels, elbows flared out, chin titled up impossibly high, though he was a dwarf so that, at least, could probably be excused. “Cor, taters out there, innit, Guv?”
Bartlett took out a kerchief and began cleansing his hand. “What was that?” He still stared warily at the outline of the big guy, who for the most part was hunching dumb and docile.
“Potatoes in the mould,” Malone tutted, “it’s bleeding cold. Oh, don’t mind Hobbie, he might be big, but he’s quiet as a mouse.”
“You on the other hand…” Bartlett left the rest unsaid, retrieved his lantern and ignited the flame before brandishing the light athwart his unsightly guests, being extra mindful to quickly scrutinise Hobbs without making it appear too obvious.
Hobbs was having to stand noticeably hunched at the hips, even as his cap pressed against the slime-covered roof bricks of the three hundred-year-old understructure. Bartlett was no small man but there was space enough above him so that he never had to hunch in this portion of the building or anywhere else, though the way his head reached only the big man’s cape covered ribs was unsettling. The ogre’s nose and ears appeared extra long in the flickering lamplight, which only further gave the appearance of some odious creature from folklore.
“Let’s please do this quickly and would you shut the door?” The night porter directed this last to Hobbs, who was slow to react. Indeed, the giant, who Bartlett was beginning to suspect was simple of mind, made no reaction at all, which was further unnerving. The wind howled fiendish this night and the noise, along with the stench of the horses from without was liable to set off the nutcases, it never did take much.
Having anticipated the night porter’s concern, it was the smaller man, much smaller, far far smaller, who spoke. “Got a bit of a creaky hinge, ah do believe, Guv. A dollop of oil’ll set ya right.” He gestured inwards with his mitt. “Mind if we…?”
Bartlett was still glaring at Hobbs.
“Guv?”
“Fine, we’ll leave it,” Bartlett snapped, “but we must be quick and quiet,” he said with emphasis.
“Right ya are, Guv.” The flickering glow revealed Malone possessed the kind of face one would expect of a dwarf, squashed and vile with a bulbous forehead, though the eyes held an unexpected intellect, or was it cunning? He wore britches held up with cord tied about the loops and a brown jerkin beneath tiny overcoat that stunk of oil and manure. A gold chain hung around his neck which, along with his cap, was perhaps the only thing not custom made just for him, for his head was large even for a normal sized man. Most strangely of all, the pygmy carried what appeared to be two sticks that poked out from a sling over his shoulder.
Wisely, Bartlett insisted his guests walk in front so he could keep an eye on them and the echoes of three pairs of boots clipping on the stone slabs were uncomfortable to his ears but mercifully, the sight of Hobbs, the brute, proved persuasive enough to quieten the cuckoos as they passed.
It was only when they came out in the grand hall that Hobbs was able to straighten to full length, prompting Bartlett to question whether this had been a good idea, for he’d surely be overwhelmed should the pair decide to cause mischief. This fear was only compounded as Malone began glancing keenly around at the artwork and tasteful furnishings. The asylum had many splendid antiques and art pieces of which it was proud; one of the finest grandfather clocks in Europe, with carvings so detailed one could see the fingernails on the angels that adorned it, a marble bust of Erasmus Darwin, grandfather of the late Charles, and former doctor at the asylum. Most valuable of all was an original portrait by the incurably impotent Ruskin, which had been donated by Her Majesty. It was of a young girl named Rose la Touche, with daisies in her ginger hair who’d succumbed to religious mania shortly after. It hung beside the bust in an ornately crafted silver frame studded with rubies and emeralds.
“Ahead, under the arch,” Bartlett said, curtly as intended, as though doing so might concentrate the tinker’s mind away from his natural inclinations.
An inmate, sorry, a patient, howled from somewhere deep within the asylum’s bowels, which preceded a series of moans and shouts that reverberated throughout the building. It was something Bartlett had never become accustomed to and sometimes when he patrolled the empty corridors, he could see the faces of the asylum’s wretched souls in the darkness. People like Richard Dadd, who’d been a famed artist in his day, before he butchered his own father who he’d thought to be the devil. Or Moll Cutpurse, the legendary pickpocket who’d finally come afoul after trying to snag the money bag from an off-duty police constable. But it was the faces of the adulteresses that haunted him the most, women like Tilly Baines, who arrived apparently healthy and only slowly slid into a state of mania as the months elapsed.
Many such cheating bitches were admitted to the asylum and now, Malone had slowed his already painful pace due to the interest he was taking in one of them. This was only possible because he’d used the sticks from his sling, which were in fact stilts, to enable him to peer through the bars in the door, irritating Bartlett because he wanted the foul business over with and the pair of them gone quick smart.
“Cor, would you take a gander at that one.” The tinker jerked a ginger stubbled chin towards Mary Sanderson, who’d been admitted to the asylum for poisoning her entire family so that she might be free to marry her lover. “What I wouldn’t give for fifteen minutes alone with her.” He waved one of the stilts excitedly, expertly balancing on the other. “Say, Guv, we got time? I’ll toss an extra shilling in it for ya?”
For a fleeting moment, Bartlett was actually tempted. He needed the money, after all, which was why he was putting himself through this unfortunate ordeal in the first place, and surely the old hag could hardly get enceinte from relations with a midget, however that might turn out. Bartlett imagined the eyebrows that might be raised from such an occurrence, but surely it just wasn’t possible, and therefore likely worth the risk because a shilling was a shilling. But no, Bartlett was already wary of the time and besides, he had no wish to be left alone with Hobbs, who was also stooping with interest, peering through the iron bars at the woman who, despite the hour, was lounging back in the candlelight, knitting a fine sweater from a ball of wool strewn out across the stone flags.
“Come on, Guv. How bout we make that two shillings?”
Both men were momentarily distracted by Hobbs, who’d reached inside his long cape to commence tugging in earnest, and who now made ghastly guttural grunts as his goggly eyes rolled back in their sockets.
“Yes, Hobbie, you can have your turn after me,” the vile dwarf patted his companion on the hip before turning his attention back to Bartlett, “there’s no way I’m going in after him, if you know what I mean,” he said with a wink.
Bartlett rubbed his chin to consider this new offer, even as he turned bodily away from Hobbs. “Two shillings, you say?” He contemplated how, in over five years as night porter, he’d not once taken advantage of his position, at least not with regard to the female patients. It wasn’t that he’d been shy of offers, mind, because Ellie Birch, the baby farmer, was forever offering herself to him. Bartlett was, after all, a strapping man of five feet and six inches, with a steady stipend and a uniform to boot. It might seem strange to some that a man willing to abuse his position in one way would be unwilling to do it in another but the reason for that was very simple. He was married. Which was why he so badly needed the money in the first place.
And it was that recollection that hurried his mind to the task. “No, let’s go,” he snarled mostly at Hobbs, “we need to see to this bloody business.” He batted a hand at Malone, who’d also been in the process of unbuckling his britches in anticipation. “If
you wanted to bother the patients then you shouldn’t have been so bleeding late. Stapleton was never late and I was forever waiting for you in the cold. No, it won’t do, because Smith’ll be on the premises in under an hour to open up shop and if he catches us we’ll all be in ‘ere ourselves, so let’s get a bloody move on.”
Hobbs grunted, breaking off from the job to return his giant clams to his front while Malone surlily threaded the cord back into the loops of his britches, “you’re the boss, Guv,” before continuing to clip the stones with the stilts as he led the way.
They passed beneath an arch and entered the section of the asylum dedicated to some of the more experimental treatments, which could be viewed through the glass in the doors; chairs that rotated like a centrifuge to separate cream from milk, or to drive out the patients’ madness and the ice baths that were thought to shock and chill a woman from her cheating ways. There were places where the plaster had been scratched away and even the odd spot of red on the paint. They arrived at a heavy, double bolted door and Bartlett stepped in front, giving them a look as if to suggest they were about to enter some place secretive and that caution should be taken. The bolts were slid free and the door pulled open to reveal another stone tiled passage with no windows, the only light coming from sporadic lanterns hung from the walls. The most ominous aspect, however, was the fact the passage contained only the one door, at its limit, and only after some distance.
Bartlett gestured inwards and Hobbs, hesitating, needed to be jabbed with the end of a stilt.
“In, you daft sod!” Malone prompted as a gold tooth reflected Bartlett’s flame, “it’s his claustrophobia, Guv … was held in a hole in the earth fighting the negroes … poor blighter’s not known sense since.” The dwarf struck his companion several times on the head, neck, shoulders. “In, you dumb bastard!”
Zombie Revolution Page 25
