The Lingering Outbreak At Hope Cove Page 7

  “Let’s go,” he croaked in a voice thick with emotion.

  The two ran from the mill and headed for the men knelt some fifty yards away. On reaching them, the two youngsters helped them to their feet, and then guided them back to the mill. As they reached the door, Callum took his father’s tomahawk, and Sally took Alfred’s pitchfork.

  “You’ve both done enough,” Sally said with a kindly smile. “Me and Callum will take care of what’s left.”

  Jonathan moved to protest, but his son stopped him with a slow shake of the head. “No, Pa, leave the rest to us. You and old man Marsh get some rest.”

  Without further debate, the two youngsters headed out into the field to finish what their elders had begun.

  ***

  A little over two hours later, Callum and Sally walked wearily back to the mill. The toll on their spirits had been immeasurable, but both felt at least a little glad that they had lifted some of the burden from the shoulders of their elders. The killing at such close quarters had been hard, both physically and mentally, but at least it was over … for now.

  Callum lifted his nose to the wind, and over the odor of rotting flesh, he could faintly detect the smell of baking bread.

  “Do you smell that?” he asked as his pace quickened.

  Sally nodded. “Sure do. Smells like Alfred has fired up his oven.”

  Much to Callum’s surprise, he suddenly felt very hungry. A growl from Sally’s stomach confirmed she felt the same. Suddenly, the two were running, and all they could think of was food. The greater part of the day was now behind them, and none had as of yet eaten. Hunger washed all images of the past few hours from their minds.

  The two began to run towards the mill, and the closer they got, the stronger the smell of fresh bread grew. Callum burst through the door and looked hungrily around. Alfred stood by a large stove. He turned and Callum saw the old man holding a tray, on which sat two freshly baked loaves of bread. The boy scanned the room, but could see no signs of his father. With a slight sense of panic rising in his gut, he looked back towards Alfred.

  “He’s upstairs sleeping,” the old man said before Callum had a chance to ask. “Your pa has taken on a great deal, and I think it’s finally hit him. We should let him sleep until dinner is ready.”

  “I’ve no more need for sleep. Food is what I need now.”

  All eyes turned to the stairs, and they beheld a man scarred by his deeds. Jonathan Wentworth looked wearier than any man who had ever walked God’s green Earth. His skin appeared sallow, and his eyes seemed to have sunken into his head. He looked like one of the creatures.

  Callum swallowed hard. Had one of the monsters bitten his father? The boy’s hand moved to the tomahawk his father had lent him.

  “Pa, you look like you’re fit to drop.”

  His father smiled weakly, then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell down the remaining few steps of the stairs. Callum dashed to his father and placed a hand on his forehead. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch. His breathing was short and erratic.

  Callum patted his father’s face. Gently at first, but harder when his father did not respond. “Pa … Pa. wake up!”

  Callum looked up at Alfred and blurted, “What’s wrong with him?”

  Alfred was still holding the bread, but he passed it to Sally and then knelt by the boy. “Quickly,” he said, “check him for bite marks.”

  Both Callum and the old man started checking every inch of Jonathan’s body, but they found no evidence of any bites. Jonathan Wentworth appeared to have collapsed for no reason.

  The old man looked at the boy, and then grabbed his wrist. “There’s a doctor in Warrington. I know that he is more than likely dead, but we need him. If you leave now you may be able to return before dark.”

  Callum did not hesitate. He jumped to his feet, and found all thoughts of hunger had gone. He ran to the rear of the mill and led one of the horses to the door. He looked back at Sally and Alfred, and saw both now stood over his father. Deep concern etched their faces, a concern he too shared. Callum mounted the horse, and then tore off across the field of corpses, and towards Warrington.

  Chapter 12

  Callum arrived at the outskirts of Warrington roughly an hour after leaving the mill. The place seemed abandoned and completely bereft of life. Strangely, he had encountered no creatures on his way to town, and now it appeared as if even the ghouls had left the place for dead.

  He slowed his horse to a walk, and then headed up the center of Main Street. To either side of him, shops and houses stood empty. Where was everyone? Surely, the creatures could not have killed or eaten everybody?

  He held a hand to his mouth and bellowed, “Hello! Is anybody here?”

  He drew his horse to a stop and waited. At first, he heard nothing, but then he heard movement from a building to his left. He looked towards the building and got ready to spur his horse forward. The doors of the building opened, and a middle-aged man stepped out. The man removed his hat and used it to shield his eyes against the sun. He then peered up at Callum.

  “Where did you come from?” The man asked enquiringly. Despite his query, he seemed unsurprised by the boy’s presence.

  Callum looked at the sign hanging above the man’s head, and saw he had appeared from the town’s saloon.

  “My name’s Callum Wentworth. I came from the mill over yonder.” He pointed back up the road. “My pa’s back at the mill, and he’s fallen poorly. He passed out and we couldn’t wake him, which is why I need to find the doctor.”

  “Well, you found him easily enough. I pass for what the town considers their doctor. Richard Channing be my name. I suggest you come with me, because I think you should see what’s inside for yourself. If your pa has fallen sick with the same thing my patients have, then I’m of little use to you.”

  Callum jumped from the horse, and then led it towards the saloon. He quickly tethered it to a rail, and followed the doctor inside.

  The saloon no longer resembled a drinking establishment. Instead, it now looked more like a field hospital. Hastily erected cots covered the floor, and on each lie an unconscious person. Callum slowly took in his surroundings, and then turned to the doctor.

  “What happened to all these people?”

  Dr. Channing raised his eyebrows and said, “To be frankly honest, I’m not really sure.” The doctor then looked at Callum solemnly, and asked. “Have you met any people who have … changed?”

  The boy simply nodded.

  “Yes well,” Channing continued uneasily. “A large group of those … things … attacked the town. I’m guessing you know what happened next. Many of the townspeople found themselves bitten and as a result, they changed almost instantly.

  “The whole thing happened very fast. One minute the things appeared, then they attacked, and then they simply disappeared. Most of us were too shocked to react straight away, but finally we set about the task of finishing those bitten, and burying the dead. Within hours of first contact with the creatures, the first of the sick began to appear.

  “As the hours passed, the numbers of sick grew. In an attempt to slow the advance of this new disease, I ordered those untouched by the malady to leave town. I, however, decided to remain behind. I came to this difficult decision for two reasons: firstly, I wanted to be here so I could tend to the sick. Secondly, I wanted to keep accurate documentation of my patients’ decline. If we are ever to beat this horrendous disease, then we must study it carefully.”

  Callum began to walk slowly around the cots. The symptoms displayed by these poor souls looked exactly like those of his father. Their skin shared the same gray tinge as his, and their respiration seemed just as jagged as his father’s.

  Callum looked back to the doctor, only then did he notice how tired the man looked. “And none of these people were bitten?”

  Dr. Channing shook his head. “No, not a one.”

  “Then what’s happened to them?”

  The doctor bright
ened to an almost excited state. “I have a theory, but I must warn you, most would think it mad.”

  “Go on.”

  “Most physicians believe disease spreads through bad or toxic air; this is known as the ‘Miasma Theory’. However, there are a growing number of physicians, most of whom hail from Europe, who believe this not to be true. From everything I’ve read, I must come down firmly in the camp of the latter group of physicians. That is to say, I believe disease isn’t spread because of bad air, but rather by tiny microbial creatures commonly known as germs, or bacteria.”

  “Bacteria?”

  Channing seemed to become almost childlike in his enthusiasm. “Yes, Bacteria. Would you like me to explain?”

  Callum nodded. “Yes, but only if you make it brief. As I said, my pa is sick, and I need to get back to him as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, so here it is in brief. I correspond with a colleague in England by the name of John Snow. He believes, as do I, that disease spreads because of poor hygiene. If a person comes into physical contact with an infected individual, then these germs spread through the touch. In this manor, the disease moves at a rampant pace through a community.”

  “But I’ve touched these things, yet I’ve gone unscathed by the disease,” Callum said with more than a little confusion.

  “There is also a belief that some people are simply immune to some diseases. For example: have you ever been around a group of people with colds, yet you yourself do not fall victim to the ailment?”

  “Yes, of course I have.”

  “That could mean you were immune to the cold, or simply just lucky. The same could be said of this disease. You could have some sort of immunity to it, or so far you’ve just been lucky and missed its infectious nature.”

  “Are you immune, Doctor?”

  Channing shrugged. “Maybe, but I’m using good hygiene practices when dealing with the stricken. After examining any of the fallen, I wash my hands thoroughly. I also wear a mask when dealing with them.”

  “I thought you said disease didn’t spread through the air.”

  “Bad air, or more accurately, stench, cannot spread disease. Putrescent odors are simply the byproduct of the decomposition of the flesh, or of human waste. While smell does not directly spread sickness, it can warn where sickness hides. However, bacteria can move through the air, or at least, I believe it can. I think a disease can be carried on one’s breath.”

  “So you think my pa has the same thing as these folks?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, and there is nothing I can do to help him, or the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Yes, the others you mentioned. They’ve most likely succumb to the disease too.”

  Callum’s eyes went wide. He had not even considered the thought of Sally and Alfred falling ill. “You mean my friends could be sick too.”

  Channing nodded grimly. “More than likely.”

  Callum ran from the saloon in a panic; the doctor followed hot on his heels.

  “Callum!”

  The boy turned to look back at the doctor. “What?”

  “If they’ve fallen, then try to bring them here. I will do what I can to make them comfortable.”

  Callum nodded, and then mounted his horse and galloped off.

  With his heart pounding and his mind wheeling, he tore back towards the mill. He thought of his father, and of how quickly the new illness had taken him. He thought of old man Marsh, and of Sally. If they had fallen to the illness, then he would truly be alone.

  His thoughts then moved to his mother and sister.

  There was no way he could proceed to Boston on his own. He needed to stay at his father’s side until the sickness passed, but what would that mean for his ma and Tilly? Were they even still alive?

  He shook the thoughts from his head. One thing at a time. First, he would need to help his father. He would worry about everything else after that.

  Chapter 13

  Callum came into the clearing surrounding the mill just a little after dusk. The smell of decaying flesh filled the air. He coughed and covered his mouth and nose with one hand. In another day or so, the smell from the hundred or more corpses would be overwhelming. He knew his father had intended to gather all the bodies so they could dowse them with lamp oil and burn them. Alfred and Sally should have already started the task, but bodies remained strewn throughout the long grass. From what he could see, no efforts had been made to clear the dead. This made Callum feel extremely nervous. What would have stopped Sally and Alfred from starting this vital task? Then with dread, he remembered the doctor’s words.

  Callum dug his heels into the horse’s side, and he started towards the mill once more. A minute or so later, he reached the mill and dismounted. He tied the horse to a pole beside the door, and then tried to open the door itself, but he found it locked.

  Callum moved back and stared up at the open window above. He cupped his hands to the sides of his mouth, and shouted, “Hello! Sally … Alfred … are you up there!”

  Callum waited for a moment or two, and then repeated his call. However, his calls went unanswered. He looked around and pondered on how best to get back into the mill. He walked towards the river and stared at its glistening waters. Gradually, his eyes drifted to the small boat bobbing at its moorings. With his hopes fading, he decided to see if the boat held anything of use. He knew he only had around fifteen minutes before full dark, so if his search of the boat yielded nothing of use, then he would need to find somewhere safe to spend the night. The prospect of spending the night alone filled him with not only fear, but also a bitter foreboding.

  His search of the boat only yielded three items: two oars and a reasonably long length of rope, but Callum knew the items might offer him a little hope. He grabbed the rope, and one of the oars, and dashed back to the open window at the front of the mill. Working quickly, he tied the rope to the middle of the oar, then, like a spear, he threw the oar up at the open window.

  The oar barely made it halfway to the window, before it plummeted back down again. Callum tried three more times, but the oar was too heavy and the window too high. Darkness seemed to be falling like a shroud around him, but he seemed no closer to getting inside the mill. He then remembered the waterwheel. The creatures had tried to use it to gain entry to the mill. Maybe he could do the same, but with more success.

  Without giving himself time to consider how foolhardy his plan might be, he quickly gathered the rope and oar, then dashed to the jetty. By the time he reached the pier, the light of day had all but failed, and now the nearly full dark of night threatened to unhinge his risky plan. However, a small amount of light spilled from the open windows above, shedding a meager but welcome amount of illumination on his situation.

  Callum looked at the slowly revolving wheel, and suddenly felt very scared. He knew he only had one chance of getting things right. Otherwise, just like the creatures earlier that day, he would find himself washed down river. With a gulp of apprehension, he started readying the rope.

  He began to feed it out along the jetty, which made it look like an immense but perfectly straight snake. He then took the oar in his right hand, and readied himself to jump. Like someone preparing themselves to jump rope, he began to rock back-and-forth in time with the paddles as they appeared from the water. His grip tightened on the oar, and he began to mutter to himself.

  “You can do this … you can do this …”

  He worked his bravery up to a sharp point, and almost leapt for the wheel, but froze at the last possible second. In the distance, he could hear the now familiar groans of creatures as they approached. It was now or never. Either he jumped onto the wheel, or he would need to seek refuge elsewhere.

  Callum looked up at the window above the waterwheel, and pictured the oar sailing in through it. He then looked at the wheel, and pictured himself riding it towards the window above. Then, with a deep breath, he launched himself into the air.

  He hit the whe
el hard, slipped, and almost dropped the oar. He dared a look towards the jetty, and saw the rope lifting from its slowly rotting deck. He struggled into a position that would make it easier for him to hurl the oar, and then he waited. He crouched on the paddle for what felt like a year, but in reality, was only a second or so. The wheel reached the zenith of its arc, and Callum stood. He was now only around seven feet below the bottom edge of the window, and as close as he would ever get to it. He launched the oar at the opening with all his might, and waited.

  The rope sailed through the air after the oar, and Callum allowed it to feed out from his slack hand. With a cry of delight, he watched as the oar flew through the open window and crashed to the floor inside. Callum readied himself for the climb, so he tightened his hold on the rope. The wheel was now taking him back down towards the river. The descent, combined with his body weight, caused the rope to go taught, which in turn caused the oar to snap tight against the window frame. Time to climb.

  Hand over hand; he started dragging the dead weight of his body towards the window. He had barely made it half way, when the rope went extremely tight, and a creak of wood under strain assailed his ears. He looked over his shoulder and saw the rope tangled around the workings of the waterwheel. His eyes darted up to the oar wedged in the window above. It looked as if it would break at any second.

  “God damn it!” Callum cursed as he doubled his efforts to reach the window. If the oar broke before he reached the window’s ledge, then he was as good as dead.

  Like a squirrel chased by a wildcat, he climbed with all the speed he could muster. Above him, the oar let out a loud and ominous crack. Somehow, he managed to increase his pace even more. From the jetty, the groans of creatures filled his ears, but he paid them no heed. Nothing else but the window mattered.

  He looked up and saw the window ledge a mere foot or so above. He reached up with his right hand just as the oar let go. He grabbed the ledge at the exact moment the splintered remnants of the oar flew past his face. It was as if this inanimate object wanted to attack him, or maim him in some way.