Aftermath

Progress was slow, their footing constantly unsteady. Obstructions had been hidden by the blanket of decay. Walls, fences, streams … everything remained invisible until they were virtually on top of them. Up ahead now was a dark, featureless mound—it looked like a glistening heap of rot—and for a time the men were unable to work out what it was or why it was there.

“It’s a car,” Harte said. “Fuck me, look at that.”

He took another sliding step closer, then gingerly grabbed a cadaver’s shoulder with one gloved hand. He tried to pull the corpse away, but its level of decay was severe and where he expected the whole body to move away, instead its legs remained fused. He pulled it harder still and it snapped, folding back on itself near the base of its spine. The creature’s head was now upside down, its skull almost touching the back of its heels, and as he stared into its disease-ravaged face, he thought he saw its mouth move.

Harte moved another corpse to try and uncover more. He was right, it was definitely a car, and he pushed several bodies away to reveal almost the full width of its windshield. The make, model, even the color of the vehicle was impossible to make out such was the amount of rot piled up all over it, but he could see that the dead driver remained behind the wheel, held in position by his safety belt. Preserved by the relatively dry air inside the car, the corpse was less decayed than most others. As they watched, it lifted its head to look at them, then raised a single bony hand and slapped it against the window. Harte jumped back with surprise. To Michael’s right, another body tried to lift itself up and separate itself from the rest of the upright mass it was glued to. Even now after months of decay and all that it had been through, the creature still seemed to immediately identify Michael and the others as a threat and tried to attack.

“Keep moving,” he said. “Try not to look and just keep moving.”

*   *   *

The gruesome, sticky sea through which they were still slipping (and frequently wading now) seemed to constantly be changing in texture and depth. Knee-deep in some places, shallow in others, every single footstep was unpredictable. They’d been walking for what felt like an eternity. Harry estimated they’d crossed almost a mile of dead-packed land, but it was virtually impossible in the low night light to see how far they still had to go. While more bodies remained upright the deeper the three men went, the constant shifting and grinding of so many of them in such close proximity for so long meant there was little more left than bone. Occasionally one still had enough muscle and nerve remaining to manage a clumsy swipe at the men as they trudged past, but such attacks were easily avoided.

“Cut right,” Harry said suddenly. Harte moved too far too soon and took a misstep, one of his boots crunching through exposed rib cage of a creature which lay on the ground with its back arched. Michael steadied him as he shook himself free.

“Fucking things,” he complained pointlessly as he shook all manner of foul gunk off his shoe.

Harry continued to walk forward, and he suddenly began to sink. For a moment he panicked, terrified that he was about to be sucked down into a foul quicksand-like pit of decay. He fought against his instincts and did all he could to remain calm and not thrash wildly, and his feet eventually made contact with solid ground again.

“It’s okay,” he said, feeling his way forward. “Some kind of furrow, I think. Maybe what’s left of the moat.”

Michael and Harte followed cautiously, matching his footsteps and speed as best they could. Michael continued to sink—the mire reaching his thighs, then almost up to his belt—and he found himself gripping onto the remains of occasional corpses stranded upright so that he could keep his balance. Harte gagged when he slipped and found his face just inches away from the slurry, and his retching and dry heaves made Michael taste bile too. Christ, he hoped this was going to work. He didn’t think he could face the prospect of having to walk back the same way if they couldn’t get into the castle. He glanced down when he almost lost his footing, but when he saw an ear floating on top of the slop, then the fingers of a hand, then half a face, he made himself look anywhere else. He breathed hard, each time taking in a lungful of germ-filled, foul-smelling air, but it was either that or he’d vomit and he didn’t want to lose control. With his head spinning and his entire body drenched in a cold, sticky sweat, he made himself look dead ahead and focus on Harry’s back. And then, finally, he saw that the other man was climbing again. Harry changed direction slightly to avoid another corpse—he couldn’t see its face, but he could swear it had started turning towards him—then led the three of them toward clearer ground. Before long they’d made it through the slurry and away from the last of the corpses.

Despite now climbing a steep and steady rise up toward the base of the castle walls, Harry didn’t let his pace drop. He only dared stop when he’d reached the very top and could stand with his back up against the ancient masonry, safe in the knowledge no one inside the castle could see him from here.

Michael reached the top of the climb about thirty seconds later, Harte another minute after that.

“You both okay?” Harry asked.

“Think so,” Michael said. Harte just nodded, too tired to answer. Michael took his rucksack off his shoulders and emptied it. There were three smaller bags of clean clothing inside, one each. The men took their allotted bags and began to change, peeling off their sodden, stinking gear and dumping it. Harte passed around towels and they cleaned themselves up as best they could. It was bitterly cold, but each of them preferred to freeze than to keep wearing their soiled clothes. The rot had even seeped through to their underwear. Michael’s inner trousers, long johns, and boxers all had to be discarded.

It took an age for them to change, but eventually they stood together in the shadows of the castle wall, numb with cold.

“What do you think then, Harte?” Harry asked. “Is this the right spot?”

Harte looked up and down the length of the massive, gently curving wall.

“It’ll do I think,” he said. “Should be fine here…”

Harry looked at him. Did he have more to say? He looked unsure. “But…?” he pressed.

“Nothing … it’s just that the wall looks fucking huge now we’re stood next to it. Are we going to get over it?”

“We’re going to have to,” Michael said. “Desperate times call for desperate actions.”

“Where d’you get that little gem from?” Harry grinned.

“Can’t remember. Some film or other, I expect. It’s true, though.”

“Bloody hell,” Harte continued nervously, “climbing over castle walls in the middle of the night. It’s all a bit James Bond, isn’t it?”

“Give us an alternative and we’ll listen,” Harry said.

“We gave up on the idea of a helicopter rescue, remember?” Michael said. “Now that was more like James Bond.”

Harte was too anxious to see the funny side. Truth was, he wasn’t even listening anymore.

“It’s fine,” Harry said, trying to reassure him. “I did a lot of climbing. I’ve been up rock faces far worse than this in my time.”

With that he began to get himself ready. He took various pieces of kit from the bag Harte had been carrying —carabiners, harnesses, and the like—and issued the same to both of the others.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Harte asked.

“Nothing. Leave it to Michael. You remember what to do, don’t you Mike?”

Michael nodded and hoped that he did. Harry had given him the briefest instruction before they’d started out, but after all they’d been through to get here, he thought he’d probably forgotten most of it.

“I remember,” he said, sounding less than convincing.

Harry laid out the climbing rope, unspooling it carefully along the ground, then attached one end to his belt. “I’ll get up and over,” he explained, “get the rope fastened to something on the other side, then you two follow when you hear my signal, okay?”

“Okay,” Harte said. “What’s the signal?”

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” Harry said. “If you hear anying on t of the ordinary, take that as your cue to start climbing.”

“Got it,” Michael said. “Get going.”

Harry stood at the foot of the wall and looked up to find his first handholds. He reached up, dug his fingers into the narrow gaps between the huge, ancient stones, and lifted himself off the ground. Michael watched as he hauled himself up, impressed by his dexterity and speed. He’d climbed several meters in no time at all.

“I’ll never be able to do that,” Harte complained.