The Rot (Book 1): They Rot Page 5

  Colin met Thomas’s eyes.

  “Take your men, get out, and don’t come back,” he growled.

  Thomas didn’t reply. To Colin’s surprise, the man next to him took a step forward, brimming a menacing confidence that made Colin uneasy. Where Thomas was young, this man must have been at least double his age. His face a rough mass of ink and scars. Eyes narrow and yellow in the half-light. As he moved the other two scavvies on either side smiled. The older man raised his hands. Colin held the gun steady.

  “Listen ter me very carefully,” the old scavvie said. “Me name is Patrick Miller, or Paddy fer short. We are not here ter do yer harm. Let me just repeat that. We are not here ter do yer harm.”

  He was convincing, Colin thought. Perhaps in another situation he could believe this man. But not here. Not now. Not while the closest people he had to calling family were under the knife’s blade.

  Paddy continued, words like syrup. “We’re low on our rations. We’re just desperate. It’s been nigh on two weeks since we’ve had a proper meal. I’m sure yer can understand our urgency.” He looked back to Thomas. “Colin? Is it?” Thomas nodded. “Colin Bolton?”

  Colin held Patrick’s gaze, looking into those bloodshot eyes.

  Paddy took another step forward, smooth and confident, arms open by his side.

  Colin raised the rifle.

  “Look, I’m sure there’s a way we can all win here. If yer put the weapon down, and cooperate with us, yer have me word that no harm will come ter you or yer family.”

  A slight movement caught Colin’s eye. The man on Thomas’s left – a tall, gangly creature with a hooked nose, and gold rings all along the rims of his ear – slid his hand into his pocket. Colin whipped the gun around to point directly his way. “Hey! Hands where I can see them.” Paddy glared at the thin scavvie and hissed.

  “What good is a hungry scavvie’s word?” Colin said, moving the gun back to Patrick.

  “Scavenger?” Patrick said, letting out a wild cackle. “You think we’re scavvies? Oh, come now. What must you think of us? We’re just like you, Colin. We’re all in this together. We’re all that remain. Survivors. The world out there is dark enough without this need for pointless anger…”

  Patrick’s eyes darted for a half second to the door.

  Beneath the gag Kitty screamed, Jerry jerked. Colin heard the door creak behind him and turned just in time to see the bloodied mess of the scavvie he’d left in the barn. A determination on his blood-splattered face. He was no match at all for Colin, but that was not the point. The scavvie’s appearance was enough of a distraction to make the room explode into action.

  The thin scavvie threw himself at Colin, who managed to move just in time, hearing the weight of the man smack into the door, taking the bloodied scavvie with him. As he regained his balance Colin pumped the gun and let off an ear-deafening shot that found its way directly through the bloodied scavvie’s scarred neck, leaving a gaping hole in the side – a bullet hole in a beer barrel, free drinks for all. The scavvie’s face filled with shock as he grasped at the wound with both hands in vain, air and blood leaking as he dropped to his knees.

  He pumped the gun again, turned to aim at whoever was closest, but felt a pair of hands smack into his waist as a head and shoulders bull-charged him across the room, stopping only when they met the wall. Colin felt the breath rush from his lungs again but pinned the scavvie under his arm. The gun clattered to the floor. As he struggled to keep him held he saw the tattoos on the back of his glistening head, a mass of skulls and Celtic crisscrossing across his dome. Colin looked up to see Patrick smacking Thomas in the arm and pulling his knife away from his pocket. There was something on Thomas’s face that wasn’t on the other scavvies. Besides from the lack of tattoos, that presumably was deliberate to make him the perfect bait for infiltration, there was also an emotion. And if Colin didn’t know any better he’d say that was guilt.

  Patrick squared his shoulders and walked boldly behind Jerry and Kitty. Colin felt the struggling mass around his waist and held on for dear life as the scavvie wiggled beneath him.

  “Enough!” Patrick shouted, hurling a mug at the flailing body. It hit his shoulder then smashed on the floor. The scavvie stopped wriggling and withdrew, pushing himself roughly away from Colin. Their eyes locked and all Colin could see was animalistic hate.

  “But Uncle Paddy, I had him. We could’ve—”

  “Oh, hush yer mouth, Jackie Boy. Yer din’t have shit.”

  Jackie slunk back into the corner.

  “I’m going ter make you a deal, Mr Bolton,” Patrick crooned, flicking the blade of the knife open and waving it rhythmically around the outlines of the LeShards’ heads. “See, I think we’ve entertained yer long enough. And, if I’m honest, I don’t take kindly ter people attacking me or me kin.” He looked down at the bleeding corpse of the scrawny scavvie. “So before I offer yer me terms, let’s even the playing board.”

  It happened in a flash. One moment Patrick was holding the knife across Jerry’s shoulder, the next it was in his other hand as a deep perfect line of red appeared across his throat. Jerry’s eyes grew wide, but no sound came as the shining blood tumbled from the wound. All but Kitty stood quietly as Jerry gasped for air, squirming in the seat until slumping in the chair. Kitty screamed beneath the gag, her eyes running with tears as she tried to blink them away, straining against her bonds to get to her husband as the life drained from him. All else was quiet as Colin’s breath was taken away, the only other sound than Kitty’s screams were the droplets of blood falling to the stone floor.

  Colin looked at the gun on the floor, then made as if to grab it.

  Patrick grabbed Kitty by the hair and yanked her head back, the bloody knife now at her throat. “I wouldn’t be thinking of doing nothing silly now.”

  Colin eased back, feeling the anger bubbling in his stomach, the burning tears threatening to expose themselves behind his eyes.

  “There’s a good lad. Now, as I was saying, let’s make a deal. Show me where yer keeps yer food stocks and that special little motor I’ve heard so much about, and we’ll let yer little lady friend go unharmed.”

  Colin spat at Patrick, who, to his surprise, laughed.

  “Yer’ve got some spunk in yer. I like that. There aren’t many out there with yer type. So here’s another thread ter me offer. I’d like yer ter offer yerself up. Come with us. Use some of that bite fer the Millers. We’re down a man anyhow.” Patrick nodded to the bloody mess in the doorway.

  Colin saw the fear in Kitty’s eyes. It was barely noticeable, but she was shaking her head. He felt the guilt build as he looked at the growing pool of blood staining the wooden table that Jerry’s face was flat against. Hadn’t he done enough to damage the LeShards’ lives?

  “And in return?” Colin growled, baring teeth through his thick beard.

  “Oh, where ter begin?” Patrick said, spreading his arms wide as if it were the most inviting offer in the world. “Yer’ll join us, prove yer worth and you’ll get a free meal every night, the company of brave men, and a never-ending journey across the rolling plains of England. Have yer seen it, Colin? The world since the rot died? It’s a beautiful place, and we can go wherever we want in it.” he said, patting Thomas on the back. “Much better than being stuffed up in a shit-hole like this.”

  Thomas shuffled awkwardly.

  Colin thought on this for a moment. Beside the fact that Kitty was being used as a bargaining chip by these soulless men with violent tattoos and shaved skulls, the idea of seeing England and travelling where he may was certainly an appealing one. How many years had it been since he’d come to the farm? The last Colin had seen the world was a dark place indeed, but the rot was fading. Colonies popping up in safe havens. The only real horrors to fear were found in the faces of greedy men who desired nothing more than power and took whatever they wanted. Men who invaded homes and slaughtered innocents as though they were pieces in a chess game. Men who lied, cheated, and m
ade idle promises to get their own way. Hearts blacker than the ink they scratched on each other in tribal ritual.

  Men like Patrick, Thomas, and the rest of these… Millers.

  Colin took a step forward and saw something move in the dark corner of the room. A pair of eyes catching the flickering candle. He smiled, extended a hand to Patrick as Kitty began to violently shake her head, mumbling incomprehensible words beneath the tape. Patrick smiled, switched the knife to his left and took Colin’s hand in his right.

  He smiled. “Yer’ve made the right choice me friend—”

  A golden-brown snarling of teeth leapt out from nowhere and latched onto the man’s leg. At the same time, Colin pulled Patrick towards him and head-butted him on the bridge of his nose. A satisfying crunch of bone followed. Patrick screamed and fell backwards, swinging the knife as he fell, catching some of Wheat’s fur.

  Colin ran around the table to Kitty, ripping away the tape and slicing the cable ties with the knife in his pocket. Behind him, he heard Jackie kicking into action. Thomas dropped to the floor to check on his leader. “Uncle Paddy?”

  “Get them yer fuckin’ nonces.”

  Colin threw Kitty across his shoulder and pushed his way through a side door as a shot fired behind him. The sound of china smashing and wood splintering. A stray shard found its way into Colin’s bare foot and made him buckle, nearly throwing the poor woman. He gritted his teeth and continued through the pain. Kitty screamed. Wheat barked furiously.

  He wasn’t sure where he was going. He wasn’t at all sure what the plan was. He ran through the laundry room, barged his way through the door at the end, and found himself back in the living room – Thomas’s bedroom. With each heavy step, Kitty complained in his ear, sobs for her dead husband. He eased her down as gently as possible into an armchair, and dragged a wooden unit in front of the door, hearing the angry calls and thumps from the other side from the Millers.

  Colin kneeled before Kitty. Her breaths shallow and her face aged beyond measure. “Kitty, don’t lose it. I need you to stay strong for me until we’re out of this.” Another crash on the door. “We just need to get away, and fast.”

  It hit him, then. The reason he had gone to the barn in the first place that night, before this nightmare had begun. Before Jerry…

  He whirled, found the keys to the car on the hook by the door and grabbed them.

  “But Colin, that car… you know it doesn’t…” Kitty couldn’t continue. She brought her hands to her face.

  The thumping ceased. The din of angry chatter still howling on the other side of the door.

  “I’ve done it, Kitty. I think I’ve finally done it. All we need to do is make our way to the barn, jump in, and we’re good to go.” He tried to lift Kitty up again and was confused as she tugged back.

  She smiled at him. That warm, soft smile that had been part of the reason he’d decided to stay with this couple in the first place. Something that made him feel warm inside after a world that had turned him to stone. “It’s over for me, Colin. I can’t do this without Jerry. This is my home. I’m not built for much else.”

  “Kitty, please…”

  “Go without me. I can try to slow them down, you can escape. Go see the world. Remember, there’s always Hope.” She nodded down to where the yellowing piece of paper stuck out from his trouser pocket.

  “Where? Where do I go?”

  “Head west, towards the setting sun…”

  The sound had all but died now, and they both knew there was only a matter of time until they found another way into the room.

  “Colin, go,” Kitty begged.

  Suddenly Wheat ran to the other side of the room as the door burst open to the frightening outline of Jackie and Patrick behind him. Where Thomas was, he did not know. Kitty shoved Colin aside and ran straight for the men as Colin shouted after her. The next thing he knew, his ears rang from the gunshot and Kitty thumped to the floor. Colin might’ve shouted at that point, but the world turned numb in a heartbeat. All noise filtered into a tinnitus-whine. He called for Wheat, the world moving in slow motion as he threw the old unit on its face and slipped through the door. The keys jingling in his hand.

  There was a small trail of blood at the barn door from the scavvie, now dead in his kitchen. An apoplectic barking too as a pit bull tied to the side of the farmhouse gnashed at them, yanking away at its leash, teasing himself closer to freedom, to their throats.

  Colin and Wheat ran on to the barn and hopped in the car. Voices called after him in the night. He heard the clicking of the gun from afar and thanked his lucky stars that the clumsy scavvie had used all the ammo.

  With what little hope Colin had left in the universe he forced the key into the ignition with shaking hands. He turned it. The car choked a few times then died.

  “No!” He shouted, smacking the wheel with his palm. Wheat cowered beneath the glovebox, whining.

  He could see them in the distance. They made no effort to run now. There was no point. Colin was trapped.

  He yanked the key down again, muttering his prayers as the engine roared, spluttered, and died once more.

  He looked up and saw the Millers waiting patiently.

  But where was Thomas?

  His question was answered as Thomas stepped into frame in the door. His shotgun at his side. Their eyes met as he raised the gun directly at Colin. He heard Patrick’s command. Two words that sent a chill down his spine. “Do it.”

  Colin closed his eyes and waited for death to come. He heard the barking again and thought for a moment it was Wheat. Any second now the shot would come and it would all be over. He’d be back with Jerry, Kitty, maybe even Rachel and Fletch. Happily reunited in a Heaven he’d given up believing in.

  But nothing happened.

  Patrick shouted again, “What yer waiting fer?”

  Not even looking up to see what was happening, Colin took his final shot. With hands thick with sweat he turned the key once more, foot floored on the accelerator. The car rumbled, grumbled, Colin uttered every swear word he could think of, and the car roared into life.

  At first, he couldn’t believe it. The dials on the dash leapt to the other side of their arcs, the roaring of the engine an explosion of sound as a look of fear danced across the Millers’ faces. He switched the headlights on, bathing the scavvies in light and let out a surprised laugh. Wheat whined from the passenger side floor. “We’ve done it! We’ve fucking done it!”

  Ahead of them, Thomas’s face turned to one of awe. Behind him, Patrick yelled something at the one he called Jackie Boy, waving his arms wildly, but Colin couldn’t hear over the sweet music of the living relic from the old world. He lifted his foot off the accelerator, pumped the gas a few times to hear that satisfying growl, then put the vehicle into gear and headed for the door.

  Thomas quickly dived out the way, dropping his gun in surprise as the car burst into the open air. Jackie, however, ran straight for them, an unholy expression on his face that spoke of nothing more than bloodlust. He rolled off the bonnet and onto the floor as the wheels found the gravel and Colin floored it. There was a moment where he thought of wheeling the car around and slamming the metal body into Patrick, into the man that had snatched the closest thing he had to calling a life, a family. But he didn’t.

  Instead, he drove straight. In the rearview mirror, he could just make out the shape of the pit bull streaming after the car as the house began to shrink. The silhouettes of the Millers standing in the half-light, watching him drive away.

  Colin spared one more look at the old farm, thinking of Kitty and Jerry and the years they’d spent together. Then furrowed his brow and aimed for the old roads that skirted the farm and led to who-knows-where.

  ~ I ~

  Colin groaned and creaked as he slumped down onto the faux-leather sofa. His back ached like he’d spent twelve hours the previous day in a crawlspace pulling cables through tiny holes in a century-old dusty-to-hell building.

  Because he ha
d.

  The sofa smelled old. It was second-hand. The thing had cracks in the finish that emphasised the ‘faux’ in the faux-leather. But it did the job.

  There was an unusual note of quiet in the Bolton apartment. No crying of the child or the hoovering and cleaning or singing of the wife. It was peaceful. Enough so that Colin found himself relaxing back into the sofa and kicking his leg up and resting it on the ottoman to the side. That wasn’t from the same suite as the sofa. It was black vinyl that looked out of place. Most things did in the Bolton apartment. Number 154 of the spectacularly gentrified Sphere building in Canning Town.

  Colin was sure there was a time when he loved the city. Maybe when he was younger, fresher. Back when the smell of the smoggy air itself stirred inspiration in his gut. Back when he thought things would be different. He couldn’t pinpoint anything that was wrong with his life but he just thought it would be better, somehow. More money. More fancy clothes. More travelling.

  He yawned into his hand as he tried to remind himself that that’s exactly what this dinner was all about. Networking, they called it. A family meal with the bosses. He didn’t want to go, but Rachel had convinced him.

  “Think of Fletch and the baby,” she’d said.

  “I always do,” he’d replied.

  The ottoman, like the rest of the items in the apartment, didn’t match, but at least it was his. No, at least it was theirs. The TV was given to them by Rachel’s parents. The bookshelf left by the previous tenants. The coffee table they’d found at a London flea-market. Colin sanded the thing down, put a fresh coat of paint on it, and made it his own. Like he did with everything. He was handy like that.

  The apartment, though, was temporary. That much he promised himself. One way or another, he was going to get out of there and put them in a nice place with high-rise windows. Maybe over in West London where the actors and the pop stars live. Maybe further out. To the countryside? There was something strangely attractive about rolling hills and open spaces. And, who knows? Stranger things have happened. Now that Fletch was nearly three and Rachel was pregnant again it was about time for the Boltons to level up and move out of the poor man’s London that had worn him down. The high cost of living and tiny spaces didn’t sit well with a young family living off a tradesmen’s salary.