My Name is Stab

Chapter Twenty Four - Closer to the Heart

It had rained heavily in the night and the weather stayed damp with occasional rain and a chilly wind. Travel became much less enjoyable. In spite of my 'technical kit', I was cold all the time and I never really got properly dry. I also constantly had grit and spray in my face from the bike in front which made it difficult to see.

I cuddled up close to James at night but that was just an attempt to get warm. I was much, much too cold, wet and miserable for any sort of thoughts of romance.

The weather also meant that smells lingered in the air. Normally that was stomach churning but it was how we found the second group of survivors, two days later. Most buildings we passed stank but that was normally either rot and decay or the nauseating stench of decomposing human flesh. Unusually, this place had the stink of an overfull outhouse.

The place was a total mess. I'd have called it a hut but that would be doing a disservice to huts. There were other places that had already collapsed that looked to be in a better state. A corner of the roof had given way and somebody had attempted to patch it with what looked like newspaper.

Because of the state of the place, we almost stumbled into the man. Neither James nor I thought for a second that there could be anybody living there and we were still looking for the proper house. He was incredibly ugly with a long, badly healed scar across his face. He was dressed in a pair of ancient tattered jeans and a vest [singlet] that might once have been white but which looked as if it hadn't been washed since 'The Day'. These days, nobody washed as often as they used to but this man was taking it to extremes. Even from a distance of twenty yards, he smelt rank.

He was holding a shotgun that wasn't quite pointing at us - probably a good thing for his continued health because Mike had disappeared from view and I could guarantee that his rifle was trained on the man.

"What you want?" scar-face demanded roughly.

James told him about the Australians and the man appeared utterly unconcerned.

"Owt else?"

I was starting to get a bad feeling about this but James kept talking. "We were looking for a gang of about fifteen men. We think they were heading this way."

"Don't know nowt' about 'em. Now piss off."

He gestured emphatically with his shotgun but not quite emphatically enough to attract a bullet from Mike.

"That was unpleasant," I observed when we had successfully backed away and allowed ourselves to breathe again.

"And dangerous," Mike added. "There was somebody inside the hut who probably had a weapon on you and someone slipped out the back - probably trying to flank you. Please try to be more observant next time and more careful with how much information you give away.

"Yes, Sarge," we both replied, our eyes dropping slightly.

It was later that afternoon that we finally knew we were getting close. We found a place that was still smouldering in spite of the recent rain. We extinguished the embers with a couple of buckets of water from a nearby stream and then, as usual, Mike and James went in.

A short time later, Mike came out and said, "I'm sorry to do this to you but you need to see this."

He followed me into the little cottage staying unusually close so he was able to catch my elbow when my knees began to buckle.

There was a severed finger lying in the corner of the table where it had been cut off. I had to fight hard for several seconds when I saw that. Theodora wanted to escape and have her breakdown. I refused to let her.

"What the actual fuck?" Mike asked in a terrifyingly mild tone.

"Either of you touch the rope, you both lose a finger," I quoted impassively. Those words were indelibly etched on my memory. "Either of you say a word, you both lose a finger."

I held my finger close as a comparison and instantly regretted it. "Six or seven years old," I said, still fighting to keep Theodora in her box. "My guess is that some little kid wouldn't stop crying."

"OK, I'm now angry," Mike said.

For your information, an angry Mike does not scream and shout. He almost speaks in a whisper which is much, much more frightening.

We moved a couple of miles further down the road before stopping for the night. We had to. Nobody would want to spend a night close to that... evil.