The Rot (Book 1): They Rot Read online

  He was still in the woods. Where in particular, he wasn’t sure. It was dark, that was for certain. But the trees were nothing like the dream.

  He lifted himself up, scolding himself for being so stupid. Running to the point of exhaustion. He was better than that. Stronger. If he was to survive out in the wilderness, him and Wheat would need to—

  Wait… the dog?

  Colin pushed himself upwards and looked around. “Wheat?!” He called. “Wheat!”

  He heard a bark to his right, just out of sight. He stood, feeling the aches all over. The throbbing of his wrist where the blood had now clotted in black globules.

  He saw the golden body of Wheat through the trees only a few moments later and found himself smiling. Wheat was pacing back and forth in front of a large wooden box with a single door and a window. The brown of the timber camouflaged with the trees as if it were a shy little thing, hiding all the way out there in these woods. “What’ve you found, eh?” Colin asked.

  Wheat seemed to smile in response.

  It was likely some abandoned outpost for campers or some sort of nature trail. Somehow, despite its location, it seemed to have been carefully maintained. There were no weeds tearing the framework apart, no smashed windows or the door off its hinges. The outpost seemed in good shape. Maybe, Colin thought, this was a sign that they were nearing somebody’s land. Or perhaps it was just a resilient little shed built by some kids looking for somewhere to stash their booze when they went camping out in the woods.

  Wheat barked impatiently as Colin stretched, then limped up to the window, cupping his hands to stay his reflection as he peered inside, and saw the assortment of items, and what looked like a container of fresh water.

  “Well, who’s a good boy?”

  ~ 11 ~

  Colin skirted the shed, looking for any sign of a trap, the smell of old creosote and wood pinching his nostrils. The ground had been trampled and packed around the door. A fluttering of some distant bird had him looking at the trees. After getting this far, the last thing he wanted to do was let his guard down. No. He had to be alert to the trees, to the window of the shed, to the ground, keeping his mind on all things like some omnipotent god.

  He signalled for Wheat to ‘Stay’, and was surprised to find him already lying on his belly.

  The door offered little resistance and with the slightest push, it brushed open, creaking and revealing a room with a green petrol canister (from which he could already smell the fumes), an empty chair, the clear container of water, and a small lock box in the corner. It was one of those old cash tins you might keep your change in. The kind he used to see on Saturday local football games in the tuck shop – crisps and a can of ginger-beer, maybe a Snickers. He made for the water, lifted the heavy container to his lips and took a few greedy mouthfuls.

  “It’s okay,” he shouted to Wheat, a moment later. “It’s clear.”

  Colin checked the corners of the ceiling and saw cobwebs.

  Perhaps it’s not as well-kept as I thought.

  He brushed away a few dangling threads from his face and checked the weight of the petrol canister. It was about half full. The thick liquid sloshed around inside. He wondered if maybe that’s all this cache was for. Some sort of petrol drop-off point.

  He picked up the cash box and gave it a shake. Something rattled inside. What it was, he had no idea. It had the timbre of plastic. Maybe even food. There was also the sloshing of liquid in a bottle. A quick scan around the rest of the shed and he saw that there were no keys to the cash box. Taking it outside he walked up to the nearest tree and launched it as hard as he could against the side of an oak.

  Wheat jumped backwards and away from the sound but the cash box remained solid and shut. He picked it up again and slammed it against the tree. Another throw and he carved chunks of bark away in one, two, three, and then a final hurl before the box split open. The tin was still locked, but the side of it had bent out of shape, giving him a sideways open-mouthed smile. He shook it until a box of matches fell out, then a protein bar, quickly followed by another. He peered inside and saw the circular base of a bottle and the paper-white edges of a notebook. Lined and cheap from one of the old chain supermarkets. He dug his finger inside and grimaced. After a few seconds, he felt his fingers pinch the pages and managed to pull the notebook towards the hole. He ripped out the middle page in his eagerness, but luckily that one was blank. Another grab and the notebook came free.

  Colin turned to Wheat, “C’mon, boy, I’ve got you a bedtime story”, and signalled him inside, items in hand, closing the door behind them both. It was dark inside, but at least it was dry, the wooden panels catching some warmth. Colin sat on the floor with Wheat on his lap, and struck a match, holding the light above the pages so he could read.

  It didn’t make much sense.

  It read like a logbook of a type. He flicked through the pages to a random entry.

  Scouted the forests from here to the Tunbridge camp. Count of 310 days now. We’ve refilled the gas tank. Please fill yours up to the line next time. Susie K.

  It was written in neat cursive, with letters that flowed over and around the page. Colin studied the penmanship of Susie, then turned through the pages, seeing a pattern in the entries.

  There seemed to be two people communicating, negotiating rations and needs. Each page brought with it slightly more colour to the author of the notes. Dotted between each of Susie’s carefully written passages was the untidy scrawl of a man that that had far more humour laced in his words.

  All clear. No sign of interference with the outpost. Haven’t spotted anyone else in this area for months now, much less a rotter – thank God! Could be onto a winner.

  If you have any to spare, we need clothes (all our women are naked – oh no!), vegetables (was forced to put that), and writing equipment (these biros are shit). Perhaps you have some in the glorious lands of King’s Field?

  Until next time,

  Anton :) xoxo

  p.s. I hope you enjoy the protein bars. Apparently, they give you ‘massive gains’. Looking forward to our next meeting.

  Colin unwrapped one of the protein bars and offered it to Wheat who practically ate it whole.

  “Massive gains, Wheat. Just like you always wanted.”

  He extinguished the match that had burnt to its end, unwrapped the other bar, and lit another as he chewed. His jaw ached as he worked on the sweet grains and the chocolate chips, the explosion of flavour in his mouth almost too much to bear.

  He rifled through the pages some more, looking for any clues as to where these people were from.

  With each page came fresh information. It followed the pattern: dry, to-the-point entry from Susie, then quirky passage from Anton. Each page had a series of numbers in the corner which could have meant anything from dates, to visits, to coordinates for all Colin knew. He stopped keeping track of dates years ago now, finding that gradually, the more time that went on, the less he cared for weekends or months or weeks. Each day that came, the one goal would be to remain, to live. Simple as.

  The passages on the yellowing notebook told similar stories. Tales of rations, of survival. Though it seemed that Susie K had her own little colony somewhere in the Kent countryside, and dealt in trades with Anton’s own. Not only that, but in a few of Anton’s entries a word threw itself up from the page. A word that excited Colin, straightening his back – ‘Hope”.

  There were no maps, nor details further than the mentioning of these places, but on several occasions Colin brought the paper closer to his face just to make sure that what he was reading was correct.

  ‘The people of Hope thank you’, one passage read. At this point Colin pulled out his own letter, crumpled and to the point of tearing, reading over the words to find what he was looking for. ‘…that’s actually the nickname people are giving it now, can you believe it? ‘Hope’? Like some post-apocalyptic shanty town from the old films!’

  Colin took a second to take a deep breath
and steady his heart. Where could this ‘Hope’ be? This place that might mean safety and some kind of future? He thought that perhaps Kitty and Jerry may have had some idea at some point. Kitty had said ‘west’, but how far? How long? There was no asking them now. The time for curiosity was over, and though he felt the aches again in his chest as he remembered their smiling faces, he couldn’t help but frown at the resentment he felt for them holding such a secret back.

  He reached down and ran his hand through Wheat’s golden fur, careful not to disturb the wounds on his scruff. The dog shuffled his paws to make a pillow out of Colin’s lap. Outside it started to rain, the water streaking across the grimy glass of the windows.

  The night was long. Colin spent the majority of it running his hand over Wheat’s back and belly until his eyes grew heavy. The dog snored away as he studied the book, his feet beginning to ache to get back on the road. The rain doubled its fall and finally Colin let himself lay down.

  He snuggled to Wheat’s body warmth. “Tomorrow we hit the road, old boy. We’ll use your sniffer and hunt for Hope.”

  The wind picked up and the rain pounded in rhythmic beats. All that soon turned to background noise as the two wanderers slept.

  ~ 12 ~

  Colin awoke to the sounds of an engine.

  At first it was far off. A distant rumbling, so quiet it could’ve manifested in Colin’s dreams. It wasn’t until the sound was up close, a physical presence tickling his ears, that he woke, his mind struggling to make sense of where he was and what was happening.

  He sat up, feeling the weight of Wheat’s sleeping body on his legs. He brushed him aside and stood, listening to the voices outside, not loud, but not careful either. Adrenaline kicked in as he picked up the smashed cash box and stood behind the door. He rested his free hand on the chair leaning against it, steeling himself.

  The footsteps grew louder as they neared the shed. It was bright outside now. The morning sun beaming in through the single window. Colin would’ve guessed late morning, the rain likely dissipated at some point in the early hours, leaving only the fresh smell of dew behind. Memories of the night before banged around his head as he took a deep breath. The notepad still on the floor. He reached for it, tiptoeing – rather, hobbling – as the sole of his foot ached from its latest attempt to clot the blood. Out of nowhere he pictured the owners of the notepad’s passages in his head and felt his stomach stir with excitement at the idea of finding some new place. Friendly people. Community people.

  “Don’t yer be talking ter me about being careful. I can look after meself a thousand times better than you can.”

  Colin froze. The same half-Irish accent. Another Miller?

  “You think yous a tougher man than me?” Followed by another male voice, thick with a heavy European accent. “Come on, lets trys. One-on-one.” This was followed by a boom of laughter from both.

  The steps came closer until they were practically at the door. Colin looked over at Wheat who was on his haunches, hackles up, a low growl emitting from his bared teeth. He placed a hand over Wheat’s mouth, hoping the people outside wouldn’t hear.

  Then it all went quiet. Birds chirped somewhere in the trees, a musical melody. The wind whistled through the various cracks in the frail structure.

  Suddenly someone was at the window peering inside. Mostly silhouetted and disguised by the sun. All he could make out were the pair of heavy goggles strapped to the top of a crop of thick brown hair. The kind that reminded Colin of old fighter pilots from war films from the sixties. The face appearing so fast he half expected an ‘Ooga-Booga!’ to follow.

  Colin started as Wheat let out a loud bark. The shadowy face pulled away and disappeared. Colin readied the box in the air, prepared to strike whoever came through that door.

  Whispers.

  Plans being made.

  Colin peered through a small slit in the door, a thread where the wood had splintered over time. He could just make out the two figures outside. One was the man who’d appeared at the window. He wore a thick brown coat, with badges sewn across the lapel, and was scratching his head, listening to the hushed words of the man stood next to him – a heavily muscled giant with grizzly stubble and all the face markings of a scavvie.

  Shit.

  The short man cupped his mouth. “Intruder. We can do this one of two ways. Either yoush can come out with your hands in the air and come quietly with us…” He paused.

  “Or?” Colin called back.

  The man sighed.

  “Or we use our weapons, and we removes yous as a nuisance.”

  A minute of silence followed. Colin not fancying his chances in either direction. He leant his back against the wall and mouthed an apology to Wheat.

  The decision was made. “Okays, Stephen,” the man said. “It’s your show now.”

  The next thing he knew was the sound of heavy footsteps charging. Colin pressed his weight against the door but was forced backwards as the door broke its hinges with a splintering crack, the giant of a man filling most of the inner space of the shed. Colin fell to the floor.

  “But Dutchman, he’s so cute,” Stephen mocked, advancing on Colin. Colin tried to swing the cash box but the brute simply brushed it aside, knocking it out of Colin’s hand. Colin tried to scramble to his feet but Stephen was on him before he could get any purchase. It would have been fruitless anyway, as Stephen’s gloved gorilla hands picked Colin up, locking him in twin vices before throwing him over his shoulder.

  Colin thumped and slammed his elbow into the man’s tree-trunk neck, but his energy was too low. He felt like he was chopping a tree with sheets of A4 paper. Each punch took effort that Colin didn’t have in him. Stephen squeezed his middle until it felt like he was breathing through cloth.

  It was as Stephen exited the shed that Colin had a brainwave, reaching into his pocket and retracting the small switchblade. He flicked it open with his wrist before hearing the other man, Dutch, yell, “He’s got a blade!”

  Colin lifted the knife, but Stephen turned just in time to see. “Son of a bitch!” he cried before jumping backwards and slamming Colin against the wall of the shed. Colin felt his eyes almost pop from their sockets and the knife fell free. He heard Wheat going mad in the corner, and a moment later saw him lunge at the giant, Stephen, who swung his titanic fist into Wheat’s face, dropping the dog to the floor in a confused whine. The golden retriever took one, two, three clumsy steps before slumping over to his side.

  “Wheat!” Colin shouted, seeing red now and biting, scratching, clawing, with whatever gas was left in his tank. The bastard didn’t even seem to care. A god holding an insect deciding whether or not to pop the bug within its fingers. The monster simply lifted his fist and muttered, “Well, you asked fer it, yer dickhead”.

  The next thing Colin felt were several unrelenting blows to the face. Stephen pinned him against the wall, crashing punch after punch until Colin dizzied, tasting blood, and watching an early darkness fall.

  “Enough!”

  A fuzzy voice shouted. Through his muddled mind, Colin vaguely recognised it as Dutchman’s.

  “Stephen. Stop!”

  The world continued to spin as he was lifted up and thrown, landing face-first on a corrugated metal surface with a rusty smell that only added to the cocktail of scents from the blood spilling from his nose.

  There was a slam as a car door opened and Wheat’s body was placed next to his. They were covered in a fine plastic fabric. He heard Dutchman scolding Stephen, felt the shallow breathing of his canine companion next to him. The metal ground beneath him became unsteady, wobbling left to right and up and down.

  A moment later, and the engine roared to life.

  ~ 13 ~

  The wheels spun against the mud, kicking up a wake of wet dirt behind them. The steering wheel jerked left to right before Dutchman locked his arms and gained control. The off-roading was fun but it was also a little worrying. One broken axle or popped tyre and they’d have to walk back
to Ditton. A journey they wouldn’t survive.

  Thump.

  Dutchman pulled his foot off the accelerator and slowed as he caught sight of the canvas-covered lump through the rear-view mirror. The red and blue striped bundle bounced and crashed in the bed of the truck with each mound and bank he drove the Land Rover into.

  Thump.

  He shrugged at Stephen whose head was pressed up against the ceiling. Each bump of the truck forced his scalp into the roof. The giant looked at Stephen as if to say ‘what-the-hell-dude?’

  “Sorries. We’ll be back on the smooth roads soon, anyhows.”

  The road banked right, a packed dirt trail through the thinning crop of trees. The sun directly in their eyes making it difficult to pick up speed without fear of crashing.

  “How much farther?”

  “Ditton’s a way yet. Grab some shut eyes while you can.”

  “What about our cargo?”

  “Oh, they’ll be fines for now. I thinks the boss will be very happy to see what we caught.”

  Stephen shrugged, and looked out the window. Even through that thick black sweatshirt of his Dutchman could spot where the thick fatty-muscles of his chest ended and that giant tub of stomach started. His fingers were like bratwursts and his forehead a rock-face, with all the imperfections and jagged lines of a limestone cliff-edge. The arms, packed into that jumper looked set to explode. In another life, the man could’ve been a wrestler like off the TV. A regular Hulk Hogan or Ric Flair. Sure, he’d need some performance coaching. He was far too soft-spoken for the big-time. He needed to get him into the acting spirit and get him hyping up the fights a bit more, but he had the look down. He needed to learn to growl a little more. He was all bite and no bark.

  Dutchman dropped a gear and pressed his foot against the accelerator to grind their way up a steep mound that took them back towards the main gravel road. Once they reached the top of the climb the view opened up once more, displaying the land for miles around. Rolling hills that folded in amongst each other, square acres of land that had been left to grow and spread far and wide. Here and there were gatherings of trees and woods, with shimmering threads of streams and rivers that caught the light and shone like silver hairs. It really was a sight to behold.