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

by Kolin Wood

  John lowered his fists but took a step to the side to maintain some distance.

  Len smiled. “You going somewhere?” He motioned to the full pack on John’s back.

  John nodded. “As we discussed yesterday, I need to go to the Refuge to find my friend. Where’s Becca?”

  Len rubbed his chin. “Ah yes, yesterday. I’m afraid to say you caught me off-guard and a little worse-for-wear. We don’t often get many visitors, you see. I might have come on a little strong. Fancy something to eat?”

  Without the stink of booze and the devious twinkle in his eye, Len certainly posited a different character from the one on show the previous night. But he still had not answered the question. John remained on his guard.

  “Where’s Becca?” he pressed, as he continued to scan the room.

  “She’s taking her breakfast elsewhere,” Len replied.

  John spun. “What? Where? Why would she take it elsewhere?”

  Again Len smiled. His disposition was calm and controlled; a paradox of before. “Oh come on, John. Do you really think it would be wise to sit a girl as young and hot as Rebecca, in with that lot?” He gestured to the room as he spoke. “I keep control of this place by segregating the men from their temptations; they work better that way, always have.”

  John listened. At a table nearby, he caught sight of Frank watching them intently.

  “Then take me to where she is,” John said, warily.

  “In time. First, you must eat, get your strength up, then we’ll discuss what to do next.”

  Len extended his arm toward the hatch where John noticed that the line had now fallen to only a few people. Frank nodded at him. Aware that there was not much he could do in the circumstances and not wanting to antagonise Len from his apparent good mood, John sighed and un-shouldered the pack. Besides, he was hungry and Len was right; he needed to get his strength up. He had a feeling that he was going to need it.

  ***

  The sun was already shining with full force as John followed Len out through the roller door into a concrete courtyard surrounded by a sturdy-looking fence. People milled about, applying themselves to various tasks; some working and others exercising with weights at a make-shift gym in the corner. Frank followed at a distance behind them, picking at his teeth with one hand, his rifle hanging lazily in the other.

  “Exercise is compulsory, as are shifts on the Mezz; the rest… well, we try and match the various roles with the individual talents of our population. As you can see, some jobs require more skill than others.” Len walked with the swagger of a man in charge, John’s staff swinging at his side. “Anything you think you’re good at, John?”

  John looked around. To his right, an older fellow with a shiny bald head was sat on the floor, busy stitching from a pile of clothing. Another, his face hidden behind a hood, was sharpening chef’s knives on a wet stone.

  “I can shoot,” John said, unsure as to the relevance of the question. As he had already said earlier, he was leaving today and had no intention of returning.

  At this, Len turned, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh? And what have you ever shot at, lad?”

  John frowned. Being called lad didn’t sit well with him. “Rabbits, mainly,” he said. “But some bigger game too, as and when we needed it.”

  “We?” Len said. “You and your friend at the Refuge? That it? There’s no more of you then?”

  Reference to Ryan made John’s stomach do flips. He felt his throat constrict as he shook his head.

  Len nodded; he seemed pleased. “You’d be surprised how many people lack the skill to shoot, John. And I’m not talking about no rabbits either. I mean really shoot, when it counts. Most men don’t possess the salts. They freeze up. Have you ever shot a man?”

  For a few moments, John said nothing. He was sure that, given the situation, he would have no problem pulling the trigger, but his theory remained untested as yet. However, aware that Frank was listening, he did not want them to think that he was not capable of defending himself—or Becca for that matter. He nodded, casting his eyes to the floor.

  A cough of Bullshit sounded from behind, and John turned to see Frank looking over at him sarcastically. His top was now gone and his heavily muscular and tanned form looked impressive in the bright sun. “You sure missed me when you had the chance, huh, Johnny boy?”

  Frank kissed the air and John turned away, embarrassed.

  The three of them continued in silence. They marched out through a gate and into a field where a dozen lines of plants were busy being tended to by a gathered male workforce. A simple irrigation system of connected hose pipes trickled water to the crops through small holes in the sides and John could hear the steady thump of a water pump from somewhere close by.

  Len nodded to people as he walked, conversing with very few. A gentle breeze ruffled John’s hair and the sky was a pure blue. The farther they ventured, the harder and more uneven the ground became until it hurt John’s blistered feet to walk, but he said nothing. He glanced back once to try and glean an idea of the layout of the place, only to be met by a smiling Frank, who encouraged him to turn back around with, “Eyes straight, princess.”

  The look may only have been fleeting, but he did catch sight of one thing; something which had raised his spirits and given him cause to hope: the location of the main farmhouse. He’d spotted what he assumed to be its red slate roof nestled in the trees off to one side of the complex. John wondered if that was where the women were being kept.

  Beyond the field and through a gap in the hedge, the land opened up farther still, giving way to a huge expanse of space surrounded by more high fencing.

  “This is the beating heart of Redwood,” Len said, arms outstretched like a proud parent. “The life blood, if you will.”

  John stared. Before him, at least ten rows of shiny, glass shields stood, their black faces pointed at the sun. A gentle humming sound emanated from all around them, and John could feel a strange tingling sensation at his neck and on his arms. The imposing sight of the black panels and the hum of energy brought with it an unsettling feeling in a way that he could not understand. It was almost like what he was seeing was perverse and at odds with the natural balance of things. Even the harsh white lights of the barn had seemed… forced.

  “We keep it nice and safe but it kinda protects itself; I mean, why would somebody want to destroy such a powerful resource?”

  Len waved his arm again and turned left, following a worn track of dirt along the side of one fence. John looked up as he walked. Each fence panel was smooth metal, maybe fifteen feet tall and perforated along its full length with tiny holes. For all intents and purposes, it was insurmountable but made even more so by the four strings of outward-leaning barbed wire running another few feet along the top. At regular intervals, towers of scaffolding with ‘out-rigger’ support legs allowed a guard or two the height to see over the fence and out into the forest beyond.

  More than once, Len glanced back at him as they walked, a smarmy grin on his face.

  At the other end of the space, the fence turned back inward on itself and about halfway down it, John could see a small, wooden building with a pitched roof, overlooked by yet another tower, only this one stood empty. As they approached, a door opened and a man walked out, hastily fumbling with the button of his trousers.

  “Caught you at a bad time, Jimmy?” Len said, his voice serious.

  The man, Jimmy, looked down at his feet, pulled up his zipper and stood straight, his face flushed. “No, sir. Everything is hunky dory.”

  A small, almost inaudible moan escaped from the shed-like building. John glanced toward the door, but the darkness within forbid his eyes from entry. Jimmy flashed a scared look up at the empty tower then at Len and finally over to Frank who now stood behind him. Lastly he looked at John, confused. “W… what can I do for you?”

  There was a pause as Len purposefully maintained the intensity of the situation. John felt a coarse, hot hand come down on
his shoulder. “This one…”

  Just then, another man, looking shifty in a khaki shirt and matching cap, stooped under the doorway, wiping his hands on his trousers. Sobbing sounded in the darkness behind him and he pulled the door shut.

  The fingers on the back of John’s neck tightened for a moment and then relaxed themselves again.

  “Open the gate.”

  The anger in Len’s voice was clear and John could tell that, whatever the scene was that he had just witnessed, the leader of Redwood was not best pleased.

  Fumbling for some keys on a chain at his side, Jimmy hurried over to a doorway in the fence that, up until that moment, John had neglected to see. He thrust one in the lock and then banged three times on the fence. When three bangs responded, he twisted the key and pulled open the door with a screech of hinges. There, another man stood, a similar looking rifle in his hand. Beyond him stretched the forest.

  John felt pressure on his neck once more as Len coaxed him towards the gate, realising too late what was happening.

  “Wait!” he called out, thrusting his painful feet into the ground as he made a grab for the frame in a feeble attempt to anchor himself.

  A sharp shove in his back and John toppled over, sprawling on his face in the hard dirt outside of the compound. Sharp stones grazed the skin of his hands and knees, opening up old wounds. Infuriated, he tried to spin but the large pack on his back hindered his movements, causing him to roll sideways until he was belly up on the ground looking up at the men stood over him.

  The men laughed. Beyond the fence, the silhouette showed the guard from the shed as he climbed back into place at the top of his tower and pointed a gun down in John’s direction. Frank finished smoking a cigarette and flicked the butt on the floor by one of John’s hands where it exploded in a flash of red embers.

  “Bye, John,” Len said, bored as he turned to leave. Any kindness that had resided in him was now gone, replaced by a mean, harsh pair of eyes.

  Panic rose in John’s chest like vomit. He scrambled forwards in the dirt, ignoring the pain in his knees and the throbbing of his face, and stood to face the pair, his bloody hands outstretched. The guard from outside the gate stepped forward, his gun raised, but Len put a hand out to halt his advance.

  “Yes, John?” he said, as if the two of them were simply having a routine conversation.

  “Becca?” John asked, searching for words but unable to string more together.

  Len frowned and mockingly put his hands on his hips. “Doesn’t want anything to do with you, big fella. She’s home now.” The voice was deriding and childish sounding.

  “But…”

  “But nothing. I told you before, everybody here has their place… everybody a purpose. Becca’s place is here, with her family. And you? Well, you have no purpose here, John. Now, the Refuge is that way; about a day’s walk.” Len pointed at the trees behind him. “Be sure to find your friend!”

  More laughter from Frank and this time both guards joined in.

  John glanced back. A heavily overgrown dirt road cut a path through the dense forest behind.

  “My weapons? My… my dog?” he said, aware that there would be no bargaining here and suddenly afraid of the prospect of being caught unarmed in the woodland.

  Len turned over the staff and brought the heavily polished pommel down into the palm of one hand. “Let’s just call them payment for your breakfast and board, shall we? Besides, if the dog don’t work out, I’m sure chef will know what to do with him!”

  John stepped forward angrily and the guard stepped to meet him, swinging the rifle into his midriff. The blow forced the breath from his lungs and sent him over once again into the dirt.

  Len winced as he shook his head.

  “I don’t wanna see you around here again, John. Not ever. I’ll be sure to say goodbye to them both for you.”

  The guard pulled on the gate and John could only watch as the men walked back inside.

  “Oh, and John? Watch out for the crazies in those woods!”

  16

  Len turned and walked back in through the gate, followed closely behind by a still laughing Frank and finally by Jimmy, the internal guard. The one with the rifle remained, his gun now aimed at John’s head.

  “Best you do as he says, boy,” the guard said. “Go on, git!” The door behind him slammed shut with a bang.

  From inside the compound John heard angry yelling followed by a loud crack and then dull squelching sounds. The guard swallowed deeply and raised his cap up to allow his forehead the room to breathe. He looked scared.

  “Go on!” he shouted more urgently, thrusting the barrel of the gun towards John’s face. “Or I’ll shoot ya dead! I swear it!”

  Unarmed and alone, there was nothing more that John could do. He glanced frantically along the fence line, first one way and then the other, scanning for signs that might help him, finding nothing but trees in both directions. The harsh sun shone down directly overhead, reminding him that he had not been offered the chance to fill up on his water bottle or procure any more food.

  Dejectedly, John took one last look at the gun and turned away. The forest loomed dark and dangerous. He felt helpless. He wanted to turn back and do something, but without a weapon, what could he do? He’d be dead in seconds. As he walked, the boughs of the trees closed in around him, bringing a coolness to his face. Flies and insects buzzed in the air and birds squawked warnings from high above in the canopy. His feet ached worse than before; every slow step caused him pain. But he pushed on, almost on auto pilot, not once looking back. On either side, the forest lay deep, dark, and oppressing; scarce of assistance and yet rich in so many ways. A thick carpet of bracken filled the space between the trees. Before long, the only rays of sun were dappled tokens of light on the ground. His throat had begun to ache terribly and his tongue felt cloyed and swollen. Desperate, he unscrewed the top from his flask and tipped the last few warm and stale drops of water into his parched mouth, but they acted as nothing more than a teasing glimpse of gratification.

  Soon, the shadows of the wood began to play games with his eyes. Gilded spectres slid through the fading ethereal light accompanied by animal noises morphed into sounding like shrieks from beyond the grave.

  John continued to walk, eventually refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead. The track wound on with no sign of an end. Sometimes the path was so overgrown that he had to stoop below the branches of a tree or clamber through an unwarranted bush or thicket of brambles.

  Several miles passed where, for the most part, he had walked confidently in the middle of the track and allowed his mind to run. He now found himself having to concentrate, looking up with ever more urgent frequency toward the scar of sky that cut through the canopy of the forest above. It was only when he could no longer see the sky that the first pangs of awareness began to draw in. The darkness had crept up and now stood holding its hands in front of his face.

  Suddenly panicked, John spun around; once, twice, until he could no longer tell the direction that he had just been facing or see far enough to decipher track from woodland. He was now truly lost, and almost delirious with dehydration; oppressed on all sides by a hidden, faceless enemy.

  A rustle in the undergrowth nearby brought a stab of iced blood to his heart. John turned in the direction of the noise, wishing that he had taken the time to find a branch or something suitable that he could use as a weapon; the lack of which right now seemed like the most stupid of errors. He considered trying to find the small knife in his bag, but realised that his attempts would be futile in the dark. Besides, the blade was so small that it would barely cut cloth let alone inflict any damage.

  The crashing in the brush continued. It faded in and out, first loud then quiet, moving slowly until John was sure that there was something out there. Closer and closer it drew, circling him, baiting him. John brought his hands up in front of his face, mimicking a guard that Ryan had shown him for self-protection.

  It was the
n that he heard the laugh. He froze.

  “W…Who’s there?” he croaked. Beneath him his legs had begun to shake.

  Silence. From somewhere far off, an owl hooted.

  John did not dare to move. Blobs like plankton danced in his vision and he blinked a few times to clear them, but only succeeded in making it worse.

  “I’ve got a gun!” he shouted, though not nearly as strongly as he’d wanted.

  More crashing from the undergrowth.

  When it stopped again, the silence buzzed in his ears. His stomach felt sick and his limbs were shaking so hard that he could no longer control them. He realised his body was effectively giving up and paralysing itself. Fear, like a drug, filtered into his blood stream, tricking his eyes and filling his ears with ghosts. He could not process fact from fiction, and the more he fought it the worse he panicked.

  His head began to swoon, and the last thing he heard was the crunch of his teeth as his chin hit the dirt.

  John awoke cold. His brain was in a fugue. It did not take him long to realise that he was lying face down on the floor. He shivered and rolled lethargically over, slapping the side of his face as something with quick legs made a dash across the skin below his eye. He felt wet. A thin sheet of night moisture had soaked into his clothes which turned cooler the more he thought about it. He guessed that he must have fainted.

  Desperate not to allow the darkness to come at him again, he took a deep breath in through his nose and blew it out slowly through his mouth, counting to five in his head. The night sky lay bright with stars, completing a backdrop for the full moon which sat like a celestial guardian watching over him, almost entirely visible through the gap in the trees. Insects played overtures with their wings while the owl continued to signal with a deep hoot from afar. Otherwise, the woodland appeared still and silent.