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

by Kolin Wood

  Inside the car, it was spacious and relatively clean, dark on account of the grime of the windows. Ten years of containment had left it musty but dry. The seats were made of worn, beige leather and the dashboard, the part not coated in dust, was some kind of shiny, wood effect.

  Murphy huffed and lay his head on John’s thigh.

  “Can I take this thing off of him now?” he asked, pointing down at the muzzle.

  “If you think he can be quiet,” Becca replied.

  John had never much needed for Murphy to be quiet before. In truth, he did not know whether the dog was capable of such restraint or not, but what he did know was that his friend was miserable.

  “He’ll be quiet,” he said, unfastening the strap and slipping the muzzle over his head.

  Murphy’s ears pricked up immediately and his tail began to wag as he opened his mouth to pant.

  John stroked him. “There ya go, boy. Much better.”

  In the dim light, John saw the white flash of teeth from a smile and heard Becca rummaging in one of the bags. Something banged against his leg and he looked down to see the dull glint of a ribbed aluminium can with no label.

  “Guess the surprise!” she said, tossing the tin opener on his lap.

  John shook his gloves off with relief; he was not used to wearing them in such warm weather and had already decided that he would not be putting them back on again going forward. With wet fingers, he took the tin and reached for the opener. No wonder the pack had felt heavy on his back. He needed to look through his newly acquired things at first light tomorrow; see what other ‘surprises’ were hidden back there.

  “We’ll eat and get our heads down; it’s dark enough in here to block some of the light. Sun rises early so we can make a good start then.”

  John nodded. He would go along with her for now, but still something inside of him held on to the doubt he felt at what he was being told.

  10

  John awoke, immediately confused by the darkness of his surroundings. His mouth was as dry as the desert and his brain felt pickled with dehydration. He blinked his eyes and lifted his head, grimacing as the hot material beneath him stuck to his face.

  From somewhere close by, Murphy whined.

  “Where are ya, boy?”

  Reaching out in the darkness, his hand struck the warm leather of the car seat in front and he suddenly remembered where they were. The air inside the confined space felt thick and close; obviously somebody had forgotten to open a window.

  Another whine.

  “It’s ok, Murph,” John whispered. “I’ll get us both some water, hang on.”

  Taking care not to knock into the fully reclined seat in front of him, John moved his body as quietly as he could manage until he was sat in the upright position. Once comfortable, he wriggled, thrusting his hand into his pocket to pull out a small, plastic lighter; one of the items from his original meagre stores back on the farm. Ryan had always stressed that they keep it for as long as possible, never using it and always resorting to more traditional (and effort-intensive) methods to light the hearth. You’ll never know when you might really need it, he had said. Well, John had seen the journey as an emergency and brought it with him, hopeful to procure another one as well as many other things to facilitate life on the farm upon their return.

  He flicked the striker and pressed down on the black lever as he had been shown. A small flame clicked into life, immediately illuminating the inside of the car. Murphy’s eyes shone like obsidian mirrors from the foot well. Becca was turned away from him to face the door. She moaned lightly and shuffled in her seat but did not wake. Next to him, on the driver’s’ seat, both backpacks had been wedged between the seat back and the steering column. From where he was sat, John could see the top of one of the dented plastic water bottles poking out from a side pocket.

  Bingo! If he did not get something to drink in the next minute, he felt like he might pass out.

  Not wanting to wake Becca and moving as slowly as he could against the creaking leather of the car seat, John reached for the bag and began to undo the small clasp holding the pocket closed.

  It was then that he heard it; a soft scratching noise from below, almost indistinguishable over the sound of the insects outside and the soft murmur of Becca’s breathing. He froze; his body rigid as the sound came again.

  What the hell is that?

  The scratching intensified. Soon it sounded as though somebody was rubbing something coarse and abrasive on the bottom of the car, all the way along its length.

  Now fully upright, John looked down at Murphy who growled, his ears pricked erect and his head cocked slightly to the side; he could hear it too.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” The shadow of Becca on the seat before him turned quickly. Her arm moved in a blur and the lighter was suddenly slapped out of his hand.

  “What the…? Hey!” John said, but the sound of his voice was drowned out as the focus of the abrasive noise shifted overhead.

  Now the scratching was all around them, on the roof and on the sides. Shadows flashed as sharp objects tapped against the glass, the density increasing until any limited light that had been afforded through the dull veneer of the glass was completely blocked out and the car was plunged into total darkness.

  An intense, sharp smell of urine and wet fur suddenly permeated into the car. Its vehemence, coupled with the heat and the closeness of the bodies next to him, made the space almost unbearably claustrophobic; it felt like the entire car had been pushed into a hole and was being buried.

  Murphy’s growl soon turned into a low whine.

  “Shut that dog up!” Becca hissed, barely audible now and John reached over to pull Murphy in close, smothering the canine’s muzzle with his jacket. He was so scared that he was acting on autopilot and fully responsive to the commands that he was being given.

  The noise became louder still, scratchiness now accompanied by a high pitched screech which hurt the inner parts of his ears. The smell ripened until John was forced to bury his face in dog fur and breathe in shallow breaths through his mouth. It was a feral, almost acidic, stench which caught in the back of his throat and darkened the taste buds on his tongue.

  John held on tight and stroked the dog’s face, whispering shh in its ear. Beneath the greasy fur, he could feel the animal shivering, but there was nothing that he could do to soothe its anxieties. There was nothing that any of them could do but wait.

  Finally, the noise began to subside until only a faint rubbing could be heard underneath the car. The reek had lessened somewhat, but still the undertone of it remained, like the pungent background scent of a horses stable. John dared to open an eye.

  Becca was watching him, her lower face buried under the upturned collar of her jacket, her eyes hard and unemotional. It looked as if the unexplained occurrence of a few minutes ago had not fazed her at all. When he opened his mouth to speak, she shook her head and set a dirt-caked finger to her cracked lips.

  Confused, John simply nodded his head in her direction and closed his eyes once more.

  When eventually he did open them again, the only sound that he could hear outside was crowing of the birds in the trees on either side of the car. Slim fingers of sunlight punched down through the murky skin of the windscreen, increasing the heat inside. Becca, unmoved in her position, was still watching him, the same hard look in her eyes.

  As the memory of the scratching returned, John panicked and scrabbled backward, sucking in a breath, suddenly desperate for air he could not find.

  “John!” Becca called out aggressively.

  But her harsh words were lost in the scramble of his brain. He just needed to be out of the stifling confines of the car, regardless of what was out there. His sweaty, slippery fingers found the door handle and he pulled hard, yelling, but it held fast. Murphy started to bark loudly.

  “Let me out!” he bellowed, yanking again and again on the handle until it felt as though it might snap in his hand.


  “JOHN!” This time, her voice was louder and more commanding, enough to draw his attention and snap him from his frenzy. He stopped and turned to look at her, hair in his eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Becca said, softly. “They’re gone.” She reached down and pulled open her own door with a thunk. “Just… take it easy… they’re child locks.”

  A cold, fresh blast of air rushed in as she pushed open her own car door and stepped out, crossbow pulled up into her shoulder.

  John rubbed at the car window with the sleeve of his jacket, but the result was minimal because nearly all of the dirt was on the outside. Murphy jumped up on the seat next to him and thrust his wet nose against John’s cheek, licking him affectionately.

  A few seconds passed as John tried to control his heart rate in an attempt to loosen the tightness in his chest. The door closest to him opened and bright light shone into the car, forcing his eyes to a squint. His kneecaps popped as he stretched them into the space beyond the vehicle and tried to stand, almost collapsing as the blood-starved limbs tingled and struggled to support his weight. To stop himself from falling, John turned and grabbed for the car roof, grimacing as his hands slipped in the dark slippery goo now covering it.

  “What in the hell is that!” he groaned.

  Becca’s face fell as she saw what he was doing. She rushed forward and took the crook of his arm in her hand. “Don’t touch anything else,” she said, firmly. “Keep your hands raised high in the air and step with me, away from the car.”

  The vile, viscous fluid was sticky and rancid. Dark hairs stuck to it and now coated the skin of his hands. The smell was a lesser version of the deathly stench from a few hours previous. John did as instructed, lifting his hands high in the air and stepping after her, his legs on fire and unbearable.

  The pair of them crossed to the other side of the road, Becca continually scanning the dark undergrowth as she moved. At the kerb, the encroaching grasses had formed a small enclave, and she stopped, turning back to face him. “Keep your arms raised, and for God’s sake, don’t put your hands anywhere near your face.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and ran back toward the car, ducking down inside to pull out first one bag and then the other. From his position, John was able to survey a full panoramic of the scene and the sight that met him caused his mouth to drop open. The car, once a dirty green with hints of the original blue poking through, was now covered in a dark, grey and black film that continued down onto the tarmac surrounding it. It looked out of place against the lush green of its surroundings, almost as if somebody had stood around and thrown buckets of animal waste at it. The smell came at him again and John held back a sudden, strong urge to vomit.

  Becca pulled something from one of the bags and strode back over to him, lifting her hands to show that the retrieved object was, in fact, a clear plastic bottle containing a slightly milky-looking liquid.

  “Hands!” she commanded as she twisted off the lid, using the same firm tone that her brother had done only days before.

  John lowered his hands, frowning at the sight of them once more. Becca tipped the bottle, liberally coating his hands in the liquid.

  “Scrub!”

  John obeyed and a few seconds of rubbing later, his skin was clean of the filth. She tossed him a dirty rag and then poured a little of the fluid on her own hands before setting the bottle down and rubbing them together. The smell of the liquid was strong and pungent but in a different way; it smelt clean and reminded him of a gentler time, a time from before. Once clean, Becca regathered the bottle and screwed on the top.

  He looked at her, confused.

  “The rats,” she said, gesturing at the car with a flick of her head. “That shit, on your hands? Ingest that and you’ll be dead before you get to the Refuge.”

  John looked down at his hands and then back at the car as realisation set in. His mouth dropped open and his brain scrambled for reason, but no words came.

  Sensing the moment, Becca continued, “That’s right. They swarmed the car. The light, the dog… hell, probably even our smell… drew them to us. Had we not been locked up tight inside that car, there would be nothing left.”

  Still wordless, he continued to stare at the car, the hair, the filth, remembering the smell.

  How many of them were there to have covered an entire car?

  The thought made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Suddenly, everything that he had been wondering about—the fear, the overwrought precautions about being inside before sundown—fell into place. He glanced around, very aware of their openness.

  “We are safer out here than in the town,” she said, again pre-empting the questions to follow. “They won’t move about in the light. When we stopped to camp, I had hoped that we would have put enough distance between us and the nest, but it seems I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “The nest?” This time John found the words, although his voice was strained and wavering.

  “Yeah, plenty of buildings and damp, dark spaces for them to thrive in back there. Out here… not so much.”

  To his left, the road stretched on, becoming increasingly darkened as it invaded the thick, encroaching tree line on either side. Suddenly, the apathy of the previous days walking seemed childish and foolhardy.

  “Where’s Murphy?” he said, suddenly aware of the lack of companion at his side.

  On command, the dog came around from the other side of the car, its nose to the ground and its muzzle black with slime.

  “Here,” she said, passing him the three-quarters full bottle. “You need to get that off of Stupid. I’ve never seen what the disease does to a dog, but best not to take the risk, huh?”

  She turned and walked back to where she had set down the bags a safe distance from the car and began to rummage around in the top of one, returning a moment later with a thick set of elbow-length, rubber gloves. She tossed them at him and he caught them.

  A howl sounded in the woods behind them, and John felt adrenaline spike his veins once more.

  “Best hurry,” she said, looking around. “It’s not only the rats we gotta worry about out here.”

  11

  It was midday by the time the three of them made it onto the motorway. Miles had passed underfoot and John’s eyes ached. A dull throbbing ebbed from deep inside his head. Every movement, every sound, brought him swinging to attention, crossbow poised, ready to strike whatever evil was running at them from the dark forest, and the resulting exercise left a tight knot between his shoulder blades. Murphy, now clean of the rat filth, bounded ahead, enjoying the openness of the space, the trauma of the previous evening lost in the gentle calmness of the warm sun.

  The concrete serpent of road—mottled with the wreckages of rusted cars and glittering with shattered glass—stretched on for as far as the eye could see, penetrating deep into a huge green swathe of countryside, dappled auburn under the gentle sway of sun-dried grass. At its end, painting a dark line and hovering like a ghost on the horizon, lay the jagged carcass of a city in ruin.

  “That’s it; the Refuge,” Becca said, wiping a sleeve across her sweat-dappled brow. “Somewhere closer and to the east of that monster is Redwood Farm.”

  She pointed to the left, toward a low lying range of hills a few miles off, but John did not follow the gesture. Just the sight of the city, its sheer size and blackness, brought a rash of gooseflesh to his arms. No smog hung over its broken and decaying bones, just as no smoke could be seen billowing from the thick twin stacks of the power plant at its edge. Some of the taller buildings had partially fallen, leaving sharp spikes like monsters teeth, standing harsh against the subtle, blue backdrop of the sky.

  Memories boiled to the surface; the months living in the squalor of his previous home. Surely, this is where Ryan would be?

  John popped the lid of his bottle and took a hearty swig, but it did little to combat his raging thirst. His stomach growled, and only now that he had stopped did he realise how hungry he actually w
as.

  “I went there once,” he said. “A long time ago, when I was just a little boy.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Becca turn to face him.

  “What’s it like?” Her voice sounded surprised, curious, tainted with jealousy even.

  “Crazy.”

  John remembered once again his nights above the market square, but did not embellish his answer.

  For a few moments there was silence as the pair caught their breath and closed their eyes, faces to the sun.

  “You think you’ll find him there? Your friend?”

  John thought on it for a second then nodded, but said nothing.

  “And what if you don’t?”

  This time he turned to face her. “He’ll be there,” he said, more sternly than intended.

  Becca dropped her gaze. After a few more minutes of silent staring, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper then unfolded it delicately. “Redwood Farm,” she said. “Saul has written me directions from the motorway junction.”

  John glanced down at the paper in her hands then up at her face. Ryan had taught him many things, reading not being one of them. There had been very few books at the farm. He could read, but only very basically, and only drawing on scantly remembered lessons from when he was a child.

  “And you’re sure that he’s gonna let us in?” John asked, dubious since the revelation that the pair had not even met.

  Becca shrugged. “We’ll never know if we don’t try. Besides, if he doesn’t, maybe I’ll come with you to the Refuge.”

  She cracked a smile which lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle. John felt his own skin flush again and looked away.

  After a brief lunch of something unidentifiable and rank from a random tin with no label, they were back on the march. The hot tarmac of the wide motorway felt hard underfoot as they weaved their way through the mire of rusting cars whose carcasses lay infected with the ghosts of the dead. The pair of them walked mainly in silence, the conversation having spluttered and died a few miles back, but the silence felt easy and not at all awkward; not for John anyway.