Class Four: Those Who Survive (34 page)

Chapter Forty-Eight

“Where are the others?” Zena asked. Anton ran a finger across his throat and shook the blood from the end of the axe. She nodded and looked back to Francis, who was lying down on a pile of hay bales. His face was white. Around his body, lengths of bloodsoaked rags were wrapped, ripped from the bodies of those who no longer needed them.

His eyes flickered and opened slowly. He looked as if he thought he was somewhere else. “Where’s Diane? And George? I thought they were right…right here, with me…” he mumbled. Zena held his hand and stroked his hair.

“Francis?” Nathan asked.

“Hey kid…how did…no matter. I ain’t got long, can feel it, gonna be a time real soon where I won’t be there to look after you. I done my best to get you this far…I…” Francis’ voice rose and fell as waves of pain wracked his failing body.

Nathan squeezed Francis’ hand so tightly that the skin turned white and yellow where they met. A tear bulged in the corner of his eye and trickled down his face. “Please don’t go, Francis. I don’t want to be on my own,” he begged softly.

Francis closed his eyes to ride out the latest pulse of agony. When they opened again, he seemed relaxed, calm. “You won’t be, kid. I ain’t much for believing in God, but I know that as long as…as long as you remember someone, they’re always alive.” He tapped Nathan’s chest. “In here. Your journey goes on, kid. I gotta stop here and get off, but these folks here will look after you now, won’t you?”

Zena nodded gently and continued to stroke his hair reverently. Anton stood over him. “You bet we will. You guys saved me, I’ll look after him. You have my word on that.”

“Hmm, good. You better, pilgrim, or Zena here will end you.” He let out a chuckle. “Keep going to Rhayader. There’s a man there called Jim. Tell him that…that we saw his brother in the factory. You should be safe there. You should all be safe there. Another thing, when I go, one of you will have to make sure I don’t come back. It won’t be easy or pleasant, but I don’t want to come back as one of
them
, promise?”

Zena nodded. “Of course Francis.”

“Good.” Francis looked into Nathan’s eyes. “I’ve seen things people wouldn’t believe, entire cities on fire, burned to the ground, turned to ash and dust. I’ve witnessed my family die and come back, and had to…kill them. I’m glad I found you, kid. You saved me from myself that day, and I will always be grateful for that. You gave me peace. Don’t mourn me when I’m gone. Get to safety, stay safe, get through this, cos it will end, but most of all…”

Nathan leant in closer. “What was that, Francis?”

Francis coughed, his eyes rolled back. “…live.”

Crudely-formed gravestones, fashioned from broken cupboard doors, were hammered into the fertile land at the head of two mounds of freshly piled earth. The spring air felt crisp, but not cold. The morning rain had made the task of excavating the earth less back-breaking, but Zena had longed for the toil.

Anton stood behind the pair. He stood as a solemn guard, feeling almost like an intruder into their grief. “I’m gonna leave you guys to have a moment,” he said, laying a comforting hand on their shoulders before turning and heading towards the yawning gate.

Zena bowed her head. “I’ll look after you, Nathan. Both of us will, at least until we get to this place, then we’ll see what the future brings, eh?”

Nathan pulled Russ’ cap down to shield his eyes from the low sun. Having had to already pull the band as tight as it would go to make it fit, he nodded glumly. Zena saw a glint of silver flash in his hand. “What you got there?”

The child held up a watch. The time stuck at 7:27. “Francis told me that when his Grandad died, the watch he was wearing stopped at the exact time he passed away. That at the time he stopped living in one way, he became something else, energy again. I always thought it was one of those stories that grown-ups tell kids to make things seem easier. This was his watch, and it did the same.”

Zena knelt down and pulled Nathan into a bear hug. “It’ll be okay, Nathan.”

The kid hugged the woman and then pulled away. “I know, Francis will always be with me. In here.” He tapped his chest.

“With mummy.”

The pair took one last memory photograph before turning from the graves.

Chapter Forty-nine

Most of the inhabitants in the RV were asleep. The past few hours had rolled by like a slug on sandpaper. Devin looked through the morning fog, focused on getting back to the mill as quickly as possible.

The Apostle rubbed dirty fingers around the inside of his mouth. He pulled out a chunk of broken tooth and flicked it out of the window. “Next time, Malky, can you go a bit easier on me? I lost two teeth last time. You may have noticed the lack of adequate dental care these days. I would appreciate keeping them for as long as possible.”

Malky huffed and looked down at the man. “If I recall, I was reluctant to strike you. You made some unnecessary comments about my mother, and the origin of my true father.”

“You can be such a sensitive soul, can’t you? Regardless, at this rate I’ll be needing to start checking corpses for dentures in a few months.” The Apostle wiped his dribble-covered fingers on his trousers and put his feet up onto the dashboard. “Where to now, Your Grace?”

Devin stared ahead. “We rest for a week, replenish the men we lost and resupply. Then we head towards the next haven of falsehood.”

“We need some penitents, too. They are becoming a scarce commodity,” Malky growled.

“The other chapters have been on the lookout for more. Don’t worry, my friend. Your cage will soon be full again with pathetic whelps,” Devin sighed as the fog became denser.

“In the land of the dead, the one eyed man is king.”

Chapter Fifty

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with…S,” Otto said, sounding as bored as a child during Mass.

Huw looked around. The raised platform bolted to the cabin roof offered decent views of the valley, though the blooming forest canopy now hid the ground from prying eyes. Beneath them was the general hubbub of people going about another day of surviving.

Campfires hissed as water bubbled over from boiling pots; children grumbled at another breakfast of porridge made from water or day-old bread, toasted to within a speck of its existence.

“Sky?” Huw offered.

In truth, they had been playing the game every time they were on sentry duty, so they had long since exhausted every viable thing, from branch through smoke, and onto water.

“Amateur,” Otto quipped. He whittled away the end of another arrow, adding it to the pile of pointed sticks, ready for fletching by someone infinitely more able than him.

Huw pointed out to the track which had been trampled through the countryside, from the water’s edge to the camp. “Survivors, look, coming out of the trees.”

Otto cupped his hands over his eyes and smiled. “Been a while since we seen some of those.” He looked down into the milling people, before shouting, “JIM, MAIN GATE!”

Jim kissed Sophie on the head and ran to the gate, gesturing to the two guards to get ready to open up. “Keep your eyes open, lads. Been some weird reports coming in recently.” The guards nodded in agreement and drew their weapons; one was a near unmanageable claymore while the other patted a solid steel mace in gloved hands.

The gate was fabricated from row upon row of felled tree trunks, lashed together, though they could open up like double doors. These days, most incoming and outgoing trips necessitated only the one mighty door to be in use.

Jim stood in the gap, flanked on either side by the lightly armoured guards. Down the trail they could make out four people, moving swiftly up the dirt track. “Get ready, they might have some stragglers after them, the speed they’re moving at,” Jim warned.

A child was the vanguard of the group, his legs pounding against the ground as fast as they could. Each step sent up puffs of dust. He reached the open gate and pulled off his cap, running his sleeve across his sweat beaded brow. “M…mmmm…mister,” he stammered through burning lungs. “Please help.”

“What’s going on?” Jim asked sternly. The kid stood there panting, out of breath, his hands resting on his aching thighs.

“We need help. This man, he’s…he’s hurt,” the child blurted out.

Jim looked back at the camp, to where a crowd of people were forming. “Fine, you two follow me,” he said, and ran off to the three people stumbling up the makeshift path, the gate guards in tow. The kid followed suit, though at a far reduced pace.

As they approached the trio, the man in the middle collapsed to the ground. The others sank to their feet and were checking his vital signs. Jim reached them and looked at the group. One was a woman. Her blonde hair was tied back and she wore a pair of DMs that were on their last legs.

The man attending to their stricken companion had a carpet of hair on his head, made into no style, just stuck to his head with sweat. As he looked up at Jim, he noticed a ring of small scars around his left eye socket.

“Please, mister, we’ve come a long way to get here. Me and Francis met someone called Philip at a factory and he—”

Jim held up a hand. “You
saw
him? When?”

The boy gave a French shrug and continued. “He said to come here, that we would be safe, to ask for Jim.”

Jim knelt down by the boy. “Well, kid. That would be me. You mentioned Francis? Where is he? I never really got a chance to thank him properly.”

The kid looked to the ground and shook his head. “Francis is dead. He died saving us from these bad men in a farm who wanted to eat us.”

The guards moved Zena and Anton aside and checked over the wounded man. “Are you all together?” Jim asked forcefully.

“Us three are. Him….we found him on the water’s edge. Someone obviously took a disliking to him, he’s been beaten half to death,” Zena said, pulling strands of loose hair from her face. Anton stood by them and offered Jim a hand, which was shaken.

“And what about you son? what’s your name?” Jim asked the boy.

The kid looked up and said softly, “Nathan, pleased to meet you.”

Jim shook his hand and pointed to the open gate. “Why don’t you lot get inside. If you’re quick you might be able to get some breakfast, a cup of tea at least.” The trio nodded wearily and trudged towards the fenced community. A number of good intentioned men and women streamed from within to help them inside.

“How is he?” Jim asked the guards, moving down the path to look at the man. As the guards parted he saw that someone had indeed given the poor fucker a helluva pasting. His left eye was swollen, and crusted blood clung to his nostrils and lips, which were cracked from dehydration. The one good eye burned with bare embers, staring at the three men standing over him.

“What’s your name?” Jim asked.

The man coughed up a wad of coagulated blood and stringy phlegm. “…Thaddaeus…my name is Thaddaeus,” he whispered, before lapsing into unconsciousness.

Jim sighed. “Get him inside. Let’s hope Doc can work his magic again. This guy is gonna need all the luck to get through, by the looks of it.” The guards nodded and picked the unconscious man up under his armpits. They dragged him back up the rise and into the compound.

Feeling the morning sun tingle on the back of his neck, Jim looked from the ground where the man had been lying to the growing community living behind the tall wooden fence. “Thaddaeus? What kind of name is that?”

To be continued…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Duncan lives in Chippenham, within the county of Wiltshire in Southern England, with his wife Debbie and their two cats, Rafa and Pepe. The furry faced ones would like to say hello, but their words come out in a rap, the meaning of which he cannot discern.

When he’s not writing, Duncan can often be found traversing the town on a tandem bicycle on his lonesome, looking for Mr Dead to join him and help ascend Monkfish Hill. The biscuit shop is at the top, and he does long for the day when he is able to reach the summit, and have a nice cup of tea and a custard cream.

Go gently now into this world, for if you should happen to stumble, you can bet that someone has videoed it and will upload it for public viewing.

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