The Dying & The Dead 2 (19 page)

Hanks rested forward on his horse and
stroked its head. The sickle swung from his side.

“Then you’ll know that not long from
now you’ll start to get sweaty and feel sick, and after that you’ll fall into a
nice long sleep. When you wake up, you’ll be like this lot,” he said, and
pointed at the infected. “I don’t want to have to defang you, so I’d suggest
you make a choice right now. Is it going to be flesh, or is blood more your
thing?”

The officer at the side held the bag
of flesh in the air. It squelched against the sides of the plastic.

Ronnie’s face turned green. He
pressed his hand against his arm and winced.

“Come on now,” said Hanks.

Baz knew that more Darwin’s Children
died if flesh was used as a cure. A person could be drained of their blood pint
by pint and if you were careful, they wouldn’t die. Flesh was different. You
could hardly cut a chunk of flesh away from someone and expect them to still be
walking.

The same thought hadn’t occurred to
Ronnie, though, because he pointed at the bag.

“A wise choice,” said Hanks. “Eat it
once a month and you’ll be fine. I should know.”

He rolled up the sleeves of his coat
to show his left arm. A blue tattoo spread across his skin, but a chunk of his
arm was missing, rendering the tattoo half-finished. Baz wondered why the
lieutenant still wore his mask if he was already infected. Maybe it was to set
an example to his men.

The officer walked across to Ronnie.
He unzipped the bag and pulled out a clump of soft meat. Even though he wasn’t
holding it, Baz thought he could almost feel how cold and slimy it was.

The officer handed it to Ronnie.

“Got your canteen?” said Hanks.

Ronnie nodded.

“Good. My advice is pinch your nose
and wash it down with water.”

The rest of the Runts and officers
watched as Ronnie held the meat between his fingers. He brought it up to his
mouth and opened wide. He wavered with the meat just inches away from his lips.

“I’ve had enough,” said Hanks,
slapping his hands down on his horse. “If you’re going to be like this, you’re
a liability.” He nodded at the officer across from him. “Sort him out. Don’t
bother to bury him.”

“Wait,” said Ronnie.

He took a deep breath and put the
meat in his mouth. His face screwed up as his lips closed around the flesh. He
tried to swallow, but the chunk was too big. He grimaced as he chewed. His
hands started to shake. Finally his Adam’s apple rippled as he swallowed it
down.

Seconds later, his cheeks bulged. He
bent over and vomited onto the ground. Somewhere in the background a few
officers laughed, but the Runts stared at Ronnie with faces whiter than snow.

Baz never realised what it was like.
He knew about infection, he knew about the camps. He had full knowledge of the
protection from infection that the DCs provided. Until he’d seen Ronnie eat
human flesh, he’d never stopped to think about the consequences. A person had
died so that Ronnie could live, he realised. Who were the Capita to decide
which life was more important?

Hanks sighed. His horse stamped a
hoof into the ground, as if mirroring the irritation of its owner.

“Give him some more,” he said to the
officer. Then he looked at Ronnie. “Next time you do that, you can eat the
vomit. We don’t have enough to waste on some green-faced Runt.”

~

Later in the day, after marching so
much that his feet felt like they were on fire, they saw Kiele in the distance.
Baz saw a black gate that looked sturdy enough to withstand a battering ram.
The circumference of the town was marked by stakes wedged into the dirt, and
severed heads had been wedged on top.
The Mainland is a beautiful place,
he
thought.

Hanks brought them to a halt.

“Get some rest,” he said. “Have some
food, take a shit, and get ready. Because after that we attack.”

For the first time, Baz realised that
he was going to have to fight. He would have to take his blade and use it on
another human being. There was no getting out of it, and there was no one else
to blame. It wasn’t his fault he was arrested, not really. But it was
completely his fault that they were attacking Kiele. He just hoped he could
survive the battle.

Chapter
Twenty

Eric

When he next saw Marta Vitch in the
yard, one of her eyes was bruised and the index and middle fingers of her left
hand were bandaged together. Eric wondered if she’d had a fall, but he could
tell from her downcast look that it wasn’t the case.

Later on, when the yard had cleared
and the other DCs were in bed, Eric got dressed. He made sure Kim was sleeping
and then sneaked out of the cabin. The breeze cooled his arms as he crossed the
yard, and twice he had to lie stiff on the ground as the search beam looped
over him.

At Marta’s cabin, he looked over his
shoulder and then gave two sharp knocks on the door. There was movement from
inside, and then the door opened a touch. When she saw that it was Eric, Marta
opened the door wide.

“You’re a brave boy sneaking over
here to see me,” she said. She led him inside.

Something bubbled in a pot in the
kitchen. The smell was sour and sharp. Marta walked over and settled into her
chair, giving a huff as she sat. On a table next to her was a book, but the
title was written in a foreign language.

“And I see you brought me a present?”
she said.

Eric had saved some of his daily
rations. He didn’t know how well Marta did for food, but her skinny body didn’t
inspire much confidence in either her rations or her appetite.

“I don’t have much,” said Eric. “I
thought you might want it.”

“Take a seat.”

He dragged the chair over so that he
sat in front of her. The search light shone over the window for a second and
left them in near darkness, with the only illumination coming from a fire that
was dying on the hearth.

“What happened to you?” he said.

She put her finger to the corner of
her eye and traced it over the bruise. Her skin looked like leather that had
shrivelled in the sun. He looked into her eyes and thought that he could see deep
into them. There was something sad about Marta. She’d been around a long time
and picked up scars over the years. She wasn’t like most adults.

“You didn’t just come to give me a
present, did you?” she said, ignoring the question.

“I did.”

“The truth, boy.”

He realised that she had the same
habit as her brother, where she said ‘boy’ a lot. When Goral said it, it
sounded sinister, but Marta made the word seem friendly.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I was hoping you
could help me with something. You see, the other night…”

“Not still thinking of escape, are
you?”

Even though she was Goral’s sister,
deep down he felt that he could trust her. There was something honest about
Marta, as though she refused to lie and instead would always wear the truth on
the surface. He found that most adults, when they were lying, showed it on
their face even when they tried to hide it.

“I think there’s a way,” he said. He
thought about Goral’s keys. He’d ripped a hole in the underside of his mattress
and stuffed them inside it, and he hoped that would be enough to fool the
guards.

“There’s always a way,” said Marta.
“But the path might not lead where you want it to. Take this, for instance.” She
held up her bandaged fingers. “Some people think helping others is a good
thing. Others see you doing it, and they reward you like this.”

“What happened?”

“Goral found out that I had given an
apple to a boy.”

“And what’s so bad about that?”

“To Goral, everything. ‘
Don’t
encourage them,’
he always tells me. He doesn’t understand. The men in the
Vitch family have always had black hearts, you see, Eric. Mine was black too,
for a while, but I found a way to clean it.”

He couldn’t imagine that Marta had
ever done anything wrong. In lots of ways, she was just as much a prisoner here
as Eric and Kim. Maybe she was treated a little bit better, but he doubted she
could ever leave. If Goral could do this to his sister because she gave someone
an apple, there was no telling what he’d do if she ever told him that she
wanted to go.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she
said. “That I’m a sweet old woman. Perhaps in your head you’re comparing me to
your grandmother.”

Eric had never met either of his
grandmas. He heard his mum and dad arguing about dad’s mother once. Mum said that
she was a ‘mean old bitch,’ and dad had gotten cross.

He shook his head.

“No matter,” said Marta. “Whatever
the image is in your head, get it out. I’ve done things, Eric.” She lifted her arms.
“These hands have caused more suffering than you could imagine.”

The searchlight swept by again. There
was a hiss over in the kitchen as the liquid boiled in the pan.

Marta got out of her seat. Her knees
cracked as she rose, and she winced with each step. As she walked past Eric,
she brushed his hair with her fingers. She went into the kitchen and turned off
the pan.

“Nettle tea?” she asked. “Don’t
worry, the water boils away the sting.”

It sounded disgusting. “No thanks.”

As Marta walked back, she peered out
of the window. The darkness outside cast a shadow on her face and for an
instant, Eric thought he saw a mean look in her eyes. She hobbled over to her
seat and sat down again. An aroma of talcum powder followed her everywhere she
went.

She leaned forward.

“I used to drive the trains to camp,
Eric. Ten times a year we’d bring carriages full of people like you to Dam
Marsh. At first I used to hear the screams and the shouting, but eventually I
found some earplugs and blocked them out. But they don’t give earplugs that
work in your dreams. I can’t tell you the night terrors I had. People passing
out in trains because of the heat. Lost souls leering at me from the afterlife,
scowling over the bad things I’d done.”

“I wanted to stop, but Goral wouldn’t
let me. I used to cry. There was never any warning; my body would shake and I’d
feel the tears well up, and before I knew it I had broken down. It happened in
front of the guards once. I’ll never forget their stares. There was no pity in
them.”

“So why did you do it?”

She hung he head.

“The same reason anyone else does
anything for Goral. Fear.”

“I thought Scarsgill was in charge?”

Marta shook her head.

“His name might be on the door, but
Goral pulls his strings.”

The search beam lit the window. It
lingered for just a second too long, and the hairs rose on Eric’s arms. He
ducked out of instinct, but then the light passed by.

“So you know how to drive the train?”
he said.

“For my sins.”

“And if someone had the keys, could
you still drive it?”

She snapped her head toward him. She
stared at him for a few seconds, and then looked away.

“I’ll never set foot on that train
again. The shame I feel will never be washed off while I’m alive. Everything I
do now, I do for my afterlife.”

Parts of the escape plan were
starting to slot together. Eric had the keys to the train, and now he knew
someone who could drive it. He just needed to figure out a way to get to it
without them being spotted. He was also going to have to persuade Marta to
help. Maybe Kim would know what to say.

“Do you feel alone, Eric?” Marta
asked him.

Without the pot bubbling, there was
complete silence in the cabin. The camp was muted at night, as if the black sky
sucked away anything that might give off light. Marta’s question made him feel
strange. It made his chest tighten, and he suddenly felt tears straining at the
corner of his eyes.

“What do you mean? I’m not-”      

“Don’t pretend with me, boy. I’ve
told you my darkest secret.”

He did feel alone. Most of the time,
in fact. It didn’t matter that there were other DCs in camp, because they
didn’t care about him. Kim did, in her way, but she only chipped away at the
loneliness, and it still sat on him as heavy as a boulder. The only people who
could shift it would be his mum and his sister.

There were three taps on the cabin
door. Eric turned in his seat. Even Marta looked alarmed. She pointed behind
Eric and mouthed at him to move. There was a wardrobe sat against a wall at the
back of the cabin.

The door knocked again. Eric stood up
and walked across to the wardrobe, careful that his feet didn’t make any noise
on the floor. His heart thumped so loudly in his chest that he was worried it
might give him away. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Marta shout.

“Come in,” she said.

The door opened, and Eric almost
gasped as Goral stepped into the cabin. The old man stood in the doorframe and
sniffed. He glanced around the room as if his nose had caught the scent of
something.

He wanted to move as far away from
Goral as possible, but there wasn’t much room in the wardrobe. Marta’s clothes
hung above him and brushed on his face, and he smelled mildew as they touched
his nose. The door was so close to his face that he felt his hot breath blow
back at him.

Goral walked around the cabin. As his
tiny eyes scanned every inch of the walls, he lifted his legs and took
exaggerated steps. He wore a necklace that clacked as he paced around.

“There’s tea in the pan, little
brother,” said Marta.

Goral walked over to the pan. He
scooped up some of the liquid with a metal spoon and brought it to his lips. He
sucked in some of it, and then screwed up his face. He spat the tea back into
the pan.

“You know I hate nettles, Marta.”

“I know,” she said, and grinned.

“Someday I’ll tire of your mischief.”

He walked over to her and sat on the
chair that Eric had used just minutes earlier. Eric thought the old man might
notice that the seat was warm. His pulse fired, and he had to remind himself to
keep still.

Goral settled into the chair. His
face was a pale pink, but Eric saw that there was a spot of dried blood on his
wrinkled right arm.

He could still smell the incense in
Goral’s room. He saw Allie naked on the table, arms and legs spread-eagled. He
heard the boy gurgle on his own blood. He closed his eyes and wished he could
be anywhere else but here.

“I can’t be thinking about you any more,
Marta,” said Goral. His tone was more casual when he spoke with his sister.
“You’re a nuisance to me. You bring out the worst in me.”

Yeah, right
, thought Eric.
You bring out the
worst in yourself. She’s nothing like you.

“Don’t talk to me like that, little
brother,” said Marta. Her bruised skin bulged underneath her eye.

“I care for you,” said Goral. “The
scars and the bruises are trifles. You know that, yes? You know I wouldn’t let
anything happen to you? I made a promise to Ma and Pa all those years ago.”

Marta looked up at the ceiling. “Back
in Vostock.”

“I’d give anything to be back there
sometimes. The jasmine and the saffron. Ma cooking for us. This place is
nothing compared to it.”

“So why do we stay?” said Marta.