Blight: A Human Zoo Novel (The Human Zoo Book 3)

by Kolin Wood

  “BECCA!”

  The brother’s voice was loud, reverberating harshly back from the stark concrete walls. Sheepishly, Becca lowered her head.

  “The sickness came again?” John tried hard to process what he was hearing. Although they had lost a few people to illness on the island, the causes had been deemed as unfortunate but normal.

  “Jesus Christ, John! Where have you been?” The question is genuinely one of shock. “Yeah, it came again! It’s happening now. But this time it’s different. Some think it’s the dirtiness of the water, others blame the rats, but it has spread quickly. The town is finished.”

  “So, why are you still here then?” John asked, struggling to process all that he was hearing.

  This time Becca sighed and glanced over to the door on the far side of the room. where he had seen the old woman. “Mother’s ill.”

  John followed the look but this time the doorway was empty.

  “And yet still you go outside? Hunt?”

  “The sun hurts their eyes, we think. Daytime is better. Morning is best,” she said in a hushed whisper.

  Becca threw another look over to her brother and then dipped her head again as he stood and walked into the hearth room.

  “Eat your food,” she said. “It tastes better hot.” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and the simple touch sent a shudder up his spine. “Tomorrow we can decide what to do. There’s some blankets and pillows in that pile over there. Help yourself; get comfy.” And with a quick squeeze, she stood up and walked away, snuffing out all but one of the candles closest to him on the way.

  John watched her go. It was only early evening and he did not feel in the least bit tired. He could only guess that perpetual underground living weighed in heavy upon the candles and fuel for the lamps. He scooped the food into his mouth using the dull spoon provided for him, groaning quietly at the rich and pleasant taste of the broth. The lumps were vegetable and it contained no meat, but it was sure tasty all the same. Once he had finished, he drank the remaining drops from the bowl and looked around, tempted to ask for more, but could no longer see anybody else in the room with him. The door to the room with the hearth was ajar, but the fire had died down low; the light from it now barely visible.

  He set the bowl down on the floor and reached in his bag for the last remaining tin of cat food, popping the ring pull and up-ending half of the tin into the receptacle. Murphy wagged his tail as he wolfed the contents down in three or four mouthfuls then continued to wag and stare intently at the bowl with one ear up and the other bent forward.

  John ruffled his head. “Sorry, fella, that’s all you get tonight.”

  The pile of clothes against the wall threw up a decent, if slightly musty-smelling, sleeping bag and pillow and two thick blankets; one for him to lie on and the other for Murphy. He collected up his bag and club then trod with aching legs over to the far corner of the room, away from the two doors housing Becca and her family. He had no reason not to trust them—after all, they had just saved him from being eaten by a crazed horde of blood-thirsty cannibals—but the brother had not shown him much favour and had hardly been too keen to welcome in another visitor. Plus, he was currently locked in, the doors to their own rooms closed and probably locked now also; clearly the distrust ran both ways.

  John lay down the blankets and used his bag to prop himself up against the wall. His stick—for all the good it would do against their crossbows—he set down next to the sleeping bag in quick and easy reach of his hand. Murphy, guard dog extraordinaire, -collapsed beside him with a humph.

  The dark was dense, the quiet even denser. John lay back and breathed out a long, slow breath. Whatever it was that he had expected, this was not it. Cannibalistic, crazed killers… The country in the wake of a second plague… Things were no better than before, in fact, they were far worse. Everything that he had seen thus far only made him question Ryan’s decisions all the more. Why would he choose to continue after such devastation? Unless, of course, he was no longer continuing. Maybe he had fallen foul to the water disease, or maybe the crazies got to him. The thoughts unnerved him. But then again, if families such as this one had managed to survive living in the heart of it… and Ryan was certainly no fool. He was tough, mentally and physically. He’d taught John how to hunt with a bow and snares, to fish, lay traps, and prepare animals to eat. His friend was proficient in combat, and had trained him how to physically overthrow a man far larger than himself. The lessons had been sporadic and John had not been drilled in anything but very basic proficiency, yet the knowledge was there should he ever need it. Not that he had ever needed it.

  No, something told him that Ryan was all right. He would keep looking.

  With a sigh, John closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing brain. Eventually he dozed off, but the night was fitful and unsettled. More than once, Murphy shot bolt upright and growled in the direction of the door, and more than once, John heard a strange sound: a constant, almost water-like sound permeating faintly from underneath the sandbags.

  8

  The sound of a match being struck awakened John from his slumber. He yawned and stretched his body, not wanting to shake off the furry edges. It had taken him hours to sleep and when he had finally managed to drift off, the sleep had been feverish and unfulfilling.

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Across the room, he could just make out the large shape of the brother, bent over with a lit match to the wick of a candle. Beyond him through the door, the fire in the hearth had been fanned back to life.

  “Morning,” John offered with a smile.

  No reply.

  He shook his head. Sleep had clearly not put the man in a better mood. “Charming,” John said under his breath.

  Just then, another shadow filled the doorway.

  “Morning!”

  This time, the voice was croaky with sleep but enthusiastic, and he recognised it immediately as Becca’s. At least she still seemed happy to see him, and he wasn’t dead—so a good start to the day, all-in-all. He stood, wincing as the muscles in his legs ached, and walked back to the bank of chairs in the middle of the room, sitting heavily on one.

  “Anything I can do?” he said, watching as Becca immediately fell into role and began to fill a pot with water from a large bottle in the corner.

  A box of matches landed with a shake in his lap. “Okay, then!” he said, somewhat sarcastically and proceeded to light some of the candles.

  Breakfast consisted of the same broth from the previous evening, not that John minded in the least. He wolfed the portion down with the same gusto as before, smacking with his lips to show his appreciation. The group ate mainly in silence, John with Murphy at his feet, Becca by his side while the brother remained over on the far side of the room.

  Once the food had been eaten and the containers cleared, John packed up his bed and waited patiently for the others to finish their chores. After hours of lying in the dark, he was keen to get moving. From what Becca had told him yesterday, the crazies did not like the sunlight, and so therefore, as far as he was concerned, time was of the essence.

  After perhaps ten minutes of standing near the door being ignored, the brother approached him. Up close and without the hindrance of exertion tears in his eyes, John was able to appraise him properly for the first time. He was naturally big set. A thick neck sat on top of broad shoulders. However, it was clear that perhaps he had been over-zealous in his initial approximation of age. He was older than John, though not by much; a few years at most. The eyes that audited him now were dark and hard, while the full black beard added to the lad’s overt masculinity.

  Feeling suddenly vulnerable, John struggled for words. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name yesterday.”

  The brother continued to appraise him. Something heavy was thrust into his chest and John glanced down to see that it was a crossbow like the one that Becca used. The body of the weapon was black metal finished with a wooden stock. He also noticed that it was u
nloaded.

  “Saul,” the brother said, frankly. “Ever used one of these?”

  “Yes,” John replied.

  His initial meeting with Becca had probably given the family the wrong impression of him. He’d been caught out, unaware of the danger that he had been in and, as a result, he had probably come across as juvenile and clumsy. In reality, he had proven himself to be a proficient hunter and a cracking shot, if not as agile on his feet or as fit over long distances as Becca.

  “Good,” Saul said without a hint of a smile. “Then come with me.”

  For a few seconds, John faltered. His eyes scanned behind him for Becca, but she had already disappeared into the hearth room.

  “Don’t worry, lover boy,” Saul said with a chiding tone to his voice. “Your girlfriend will still be here when you get back.”

  John looked at him. “But I—”

  A painful-sounding wracking cough rang out from one of the rooms behind them. Saul turned to face the sound, a crease of concern suddenly evident on his brow. When he turned back, the hard eyes had returned. “Trust me, my friend,” he said. “Before you go, you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  And with that, Saul walked out into the blackness beyond the door.

  “And you can leave the dog!” he called out as his footsteps dissipated down the dark hall.

  John hovered for a moment more. He wanted to call out for Becca but knew that Saul would hear him if he did. He decided against it and instead followed him out in the direction of the garage exit. Besides, what was the worst that could happen?

  ***

  A few minutes later and the pair were stood just inside the impressive iron gates of an overgrown cemetery. The day felt warm, yet cooler than the previous one because of the heavy cloud cover overhead. The immense space spanned the entire length of the park, situated right on top the parking garage like some elaborate Gothic roof garden. High walls adorned with ornate decorative mouldings ran in both directions for as far as his eyes could see.

  “This is some place,” John said, swinging his club to and fro. The calmness of morning had returned and with it his confidence.

  Saul nodded and stepped away from the overgrown gravel path to follow alongside the closest wall, leading away from their shelter. With true swings of his large knife, he cut away any stray brambles, skirting around a patch of wild heathland before re-joining the path against the wall. John followed close behind, gazing on in a sense of wonderment as he picked his way amongst the mossy tops of the gravestones, each one a differing shape, size, colour, and type of stone. Headless angels holding roses peeked from bramble patches while eroded mausoleums adorned with the frozen playtime of stone children loomed largely behind. Space for so many headstones, so many bodies, so many dead.

  As he walked, he felt strangely taken by the serenity of the place. It felt safe here within these high walls, totally secure and quiet—almost paradoxical in its intent. He wondered how many people had been laid to rest in this sacred ground over the years; hundreds? Thousands maybe? Entire families sleeping side by side in the ground… parents and their children, and yet the real graveyard lay out there, outside in the world where the dead numbered millions.

  Where he was from—in the early days at least, back when people still inhabited the village—death was afforded no pomp or ceremony; one day somebody would be there, and the next time you went to visit they just wouldn’t, and that was that. The best that most people could hope for was the presence of an extended family member to witness their burial, perhaps two sticks tied together in the shape of a cross and a loose prayer should one be so inclined. Ryan had always insisted that in the wake of such pestilence, the religious fanatics would rise up to lay claim to the event, but amongst the ordinary folks that he had met, religion had little part to play. People were simply too busy getting on with a life that was tough and dangerous to worry about religion; God—whoever he was or whatever service he was meant to perform—helped nobody.

  The final part of the walk cut a narrow path through a wild tangle of rhododendron bushes, forcing John into an arduous stoop. He huffed and panted, cursing the fact that he had no idea where he was being led until eventually. Saul broke through to the other side, came to a stop, and dropped his bag from his shoulders. John, in an attempt to hide his growing fatigue, forced himself upright and strolled into the space behind him.

  At some point, the area had been diligently cleared although it was obvious that, given the clumps of waist high nettles, a recent lack of maintenance had occurred. On one side, the smooth, pale brick of the towering wall continued. It came to an abrupt stop about twenty metres away before turning on at a right angle, blocking the clearing on two sides. In its centre, a large glass and steel constructed building stood. The lowest panes were constricted with green algae and moss, but it looked as though the ones from about waist high up had been cleaned at some point, and now offered a limited view inside. Rows of trestle tables stood in neat lines, and on top of each one, an array of different plants in various sized pots grew. From his snatched glance, John was able to recognise a few types; tomatoes and cabbages, even an assortment of small fruit trees. The generous building size allowed for many rows—easily enough to feed the family and then some.

  Saul lifted a loop of twine holding a key from his neck, kicked aside some damp sandbags blocking the bottom of the door, and stepped inside. He shook off his gloves, reached for a large bottle of liquid from a shelf, and sloshed some on his hands, rubbing aggressively before drying them on a filthy-looking towel. With his eyebrows raised, he glanced back at John and then started up the middle of one row without saying anything.

  John followed him inside. As he stepped through the door, immediately the climate changed. Air that was hot and humid drew sweat from his forehead. Looking around, he saw the white, unlabelled bottle on the shelf by the door and copied Saul, splashing some on his hands and rubbing them together. The liquid smelled chemical and pungent like before and this time it caused the skin on the back of his hands to burn ever so slightly. He still did not understand their apparent obsession with cleanliness, but he copied regardless, not wanting to risk upsetting his surly host. Once his hands were dry, he walked along the next row until he was stood directly across from Saul and stood there, looking at him expectantly.

  “The plague is spreading south,” Saul said, without looking up as he tilled in the plain earth for what John assumed to be potatoes. “I haven’t told Bec or Mum yet. They still think that we are getting out of here after Mum gets better, but I know that ain’t gonna happen. Not as sick as she is getting now.”

  John thought back to the woman in the doorway. She had certainly looked frail, and the wet sound of her chest had reminded him of other sick people that he had known back in the village, people who had never recovered.

  “But how do you know its spreading,” he asked, “if you never leave this place?”

  Saul leaned back and wiped his hands on his already filthy jeans. A dark mop of thick black hair hung like a thatching over his eyes. “Look around you, John. Do you think that all of this is just for us?”

  John glanced around. As he had originally thought, the full plot looked way more than the small family would ever need, and he knew from painful, personal experience, just how hard maintaining such a garden could be.

  “I guess not,” he answered.

  Saul shook his head. “No. There are… were… others living in the town, around it, surviving like we have. Only pockets of us mind, just scattered groups living in holes really, but we still managed to help each other. We constructed a simple network of trade and it worked; an exchange that occasionally carried all the way down to the farms in the south near the Refuge.”

  At mention of the name, John’s ears pricked up.

  “Just recently though, there’s been nothing. Nothing from any of our contacts near the town, no word from farther afield. We already know that the north is dead, well, at least we thought it was
until you showed up.”

  John tried to process what he was hearing. He still remembered his own journey north. He had been young then, but the pictures flashed in his mind like they had happened only yesterday. The sights, the sounds, the smells of people trying to live together without any basic provisions or sanitation. Things had been rough then. They had stayed in the Refuge for only a matter of weeks. Ryan had used some trade, rented them a squalid room in a shared house next to the centre of the raucous market square. It had been like something from one of the cowboy films that he had seen on the television: screams at night, gunshots from the streets below; a real Wild West experience.

  “So, what are you telling me?” John asked carefully. “That there’s nobody left?”

  For the first time since they met, Saul offered him a small, sad smile. His look softened. “I’m telling you, John, that whatever it is that you think you are going to find… you aren’t. The sickness is spreading… moving south, I’m sure of it. It could have made it to the Refuge already for all I know. Your friend, if he’s got half a brain and is still alive, will have worked that out by now. This is no time to be a kid.”

  John tensed his jawline. There was not much of a gap in age between the two of them; a few years at the most. Being called ‘kid’ didn’t sit well with him. Sure, he’d travelled down from an existence more peaceful than this one, but that did not make him any less of a survivor.

  Sensing the tension, Saul sighed. “Look, mate, I don’t mean no offense; you seem like a nice fella. But how old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen tops?”