The Dark Stone Read online

  For another cold, damp week they struggled by. The rain showed no sign of stopping and so puddles only got bigger and the wood did not dry. Narrow gutters, cut into the side of the street ran brown with filthy water which overtopped in places and filled wheel-ruts and potholes.

  Then Lillian got sick. First came the sneezing and coughing, and then swollen glands and purple blotchy skin. The signs were unmistakeable. Sam's emotions were a blur; a mix of relief that his little sister wouldn’t be left alone to fend for herself, and then guilt for knowing she'd die. But most of all he experienced gut wrenching fear. Fear had rapidly established itself as the one constant in his life and Sam embraced it, glad there was something he could still feel.

  He tucked Lillian up in bed and tended her day and night, holding her hand or wiping sweat from her brow, calming her when she screamed out in fevered pain. He didn’t leave her side for any longer than he needed to fetch water or relieve his own needs. Each night, he tenderly kissed her burning forehead and wrapped himself in a blanket on the floor next to the bed.

  On the third night after she fell ill, he slept undisturbed and woke knowing the worst had happened.

  Carefully, he carried her downstairs. It wasn’t a struggle like it had been with the others, she was as light as a feather in his arms, although he had to turn sideways to get her through the door and down the stairs, so as not to bang her head or feet.

  He set her down in the same place their father had lain in the rug only days before and then returned upstairs to fetch Lillian’s blanket from the bed. After getting a pitcher of water from the kitchen he set about cleaning her; gently wiping away the film of sweat and grubbiness left by disease, before wrapping her up. He kissed her forehead one last time before covering her face.

  That morning there was no bell sounding from the street. The cart did not come.

  3

  Over the next few days the rain only got heavier and as the puddles deepened, so did Sam’s despair. It was a constant, steady downpour from skies of lead. When at its heaviest the cobbled street became invisible beneath running sheets of brown water. Somewhere nearby, the river must have burst its banks and claimed the streets for itself.

  Sam could do nothing but wait as water began to seep beneath the door.

  For the most part he managed to ignore Lillian’s body, covered as it was, but all too often his attention was drawn to the rolled-up blanket on the floor and he wondered when his time would come. The best he could hope for was that his demise would be quick and he resolved himself that when he did fall ill he would take action, just like Pa. He’d already chosen a blade from the kitchen and set it next to Pa’s chair. It was Sam’s chair now. He had to make sure the knife was sharp, so his end would be as fuss-less as possible and so he’d balanced a whetstone on the arm next to him.

  As filthy water raced past outside and rain hammered at the windows, Sam sat in his chair, sharpening his knife and waiting for the end to come. The repetition of sliding the blade along the edge of the gritty stone helped focus his mind.

  He found himself thinking about his father.

  Anger welled up in him from the belly outward. He refused to believe Pa would abandon him and his sister. Did he snuff Louise? Sam pondered. She died much quicker than Ma or Lillian. He could almost understand Pa bestowing a mercy killing upon her, but abandoning him and his sister was beyond his comprehension. He would not believe it, and neither could it be denied.

  When he looked up from sharpening, the room was dark. Sam couldn’t fathom how long he’d stayed in the chair, unmoving, and he touched a finger to the blade to check its edge. A droplet of blood formed in an instant and he watched it well up, until large enough to trickle over his skin. He let it, and brought his hand up to his face so he could examine the scarlet rivulet snake across his hand and down his wrist until he stood up and shook his arm. The drop of blood spattered on the wall.

  The floor was sodden but the rain had stopped. When he noticed he couldn’t hear it anymore, he went to the window to double check. The torrent of water running down the street had slackened a little, which offered Sam a small shred of hope. “Tomorrow,” he said to the bundle on the floor and went upstairs, to bed.

  His dreams were fitful but Sam was exhausted and slept more soundly than could be expected, until the clatter of something in the house woke him so suddenly that he sat bolt upright. Ordered thoughts eluded him and his first instinct to was call out for Pa before, with a sinking feeling in his belly, he remembered. At first his mind told him there was an intruder, and he listened hard, straining his ears with the blanket pulled up to his chin.

  Shuffling sounds were coming from downstairs along with shrill squeaking. Through an inbuilt and primal knowledge, he knew it was rats. Relief there was no one in the house quickly turned to horror when he remembered Lillian’s body lying in the middle of the floor.

  Half-naked he bolted for the stairs, his feet hardly making any contact with the steps as he flew down. In the instant he reached the bottom, the image of his sister was branded onto his mind. The floor heaved with rats, which were mostly pouring over Lillian's body, fighting to get at her. They’d chewed away most of the blanket to frayed, yellow tatters through which he glimpsed her face. Where her cheek had been eaten away he could see teeth and gums, the empty eye socket above licked clean of flesh.

  He stormed into their midst, stamping and kicking but the rats were in a blood frenzy and for each one he killed, another five tore at his legs with teeth and claws so his own blood ran freely from the lacerations they inflicted. There were too many for him to fend off or frighten away and so he was forced to flee back up the stairs before the rats threatened to eat him alive.

  Once back in his room, he slammed the door closed and pressed his shoulders to it. He shuddered as the image of his half-eaten sister refused to leave him and the noises coming from downstairs made him clamp his hands over his ears.

  Sam knew he couldn't stay in the house any longer but couldn’t face going back downstairs and so he looked about the room for an escape. Naturally, his attention turned toward the small window overlooking the yard. It had no glass in it, just heavy wooden shutters which were held closed by a simple iron catch. It undid easily enough and the hinges creaked as he pushed the shutters open wide.

  Poking his head out first, he tried to spy a good place to land. A small shelter, which would have kept the logs dry had they been in there, leaned against the wall directly below, but it was still a long drop to the sloped roof of half-rotten planks. Pa had been talking about fixing them for as long as Sam could remember.

  He pulled his head back inside the room. The window was too small for him to manoeuvre and so he had to climb out legs first and lower himself until he was clinging to the windowsill with his legs dangling below. He had thought by hanging from the sill first, he'd have less distance to fall but now that his fingers were slipping on the wooden ledge, he was having second thoughts. But it was too late and he didn’t have the strength to pull himself back up, so there was no alternative but to let go before his fingers gave up their grip and he fell.

  The shelter broke his fall and as he crashed through the roof the whole structure collapsed around him. He checked himself over for injuries and for the first time saw the mess made by the rats where they'd bitten and raked chunks out of his feet and ankles, and also for the first time, he felt the pain of those cuts.

  Wincing as he stood up, Sam looked around and wished he'd planned his escape better. He should have gone through the window in the front bedroom, which used to belong to his parents, and from there dropped into the street.

  The yard was enclosed on three sides by walls of lime washed stone, almost as high as he could reach, even on tip-toes. On the fourth was the house and the thought of going back through it filled him with dread. Full of dismay he peered around, trying to formulate a plan. He hadn't had much luck at the neighbours on either side when he'd gone with his sister and so he decided to try the yar
d directly behind.

  He began by gathering up logs, still sodden from the rain, and stacking them against the wall. When satisfied they were high enough, he clambered up the pile and reached up to hoist himself over.

  On the first attempt he found his arms were too weak to pull himself up, never-mind over, and so he gathered the last few bits of wood from around the yard and balanced them precariously on top of the others before trying again. But they still weren’t high enough. Tears of frustration formed in the corners of his eyes but Sam knew he couldn't go back through the house to face the rats and the sight of his sister, so he backed up all the way to the kitchen door, wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and took a run-up.

  As he sprinted the short distance across the yard he knew there would only be one attempt and left it until the very last moment before he jumped. The logs collapsed beneath his feet but he’d gained enough height from the vault to hook his elbows over the top of the wall and with much scrabbling of feet, he finally found himself looking down into the neighbour’s yard.

  It was very much like his own, although their woodpile was more ordered, stacked neatly under a shelter of preserved timber. He jumped down and although it was not a great height, pain ricocheted through his legs and he collapsed into a heap, swearing as he hit the floor. At first he bit his lip but then wondered why he needed to supress his shouts and let forth a barrage consisting of every swear word he’d ever known and a few more besides of his own invention. The only other sound came from a startled crow, flapping away from the chimney above.

  The tirade continued for long after the pain had subsided before Sam picked himself up and hobbled to the back door, banging it with his fist, desperate for someone to answer but nobody did. He knocked again before lifting the catch. Luckily for him the door had been left unlocked and swung open smoothly on well-oiled hinges but as it did, flies swarmed out into the yard. The stink that wafted out with them made him gag and he reflexively raised a hand to cover his mouth before taking a cautious step inside. Fully aware of his trespass, part of him still worried about being caught.

  Inside the house was almost identical to his own, even the furniture was similar, albeit in better condition and Sam had no inclination to explore. Keeping his hand firmly clamped over his mouth and nose, he kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the front door and the way out to the street, trying his hardest not to look at the old man slumped in an armchair, nor the woman lying next to him on the floor. Even in death they were holding hands as their bodies pulsed with maggots and flies crawled out from their eyes and ears.

  Panic set in and Sam fumbled the bolt in his haste to escape, shaking the door and kicking it while trying to draw back the lock and when he finally got it open and spilled out onto the street, he slammed the door closed behind him and pressed his back to it, taking big gulps of fresh air.

  4

  Gingerly at first, he ventured away from the door, leaving footprints behind him in the green-brown sludge left by the receding flood waters. It made the ground slick underfoot and he was almost walking on tiptoes to stop from slipping over and to keep his feet out of the ooze.

  As he ventured further, the silence thickened his fear. Every noise he made, each squelching footstep, sounded out of place and made him want to run for cover, even though every step forward brought with it a certainty he was alone.

  In an alley known locally as Pauper’s Row, where the houses were packed so close their roofs were almost touching overhead, so even in the summer months the shade was permanent, he heard coughing coming from behind closed shutters. Sam jumped clear across the alley before slowly crossing back to the warped and half-rotten front door, fist half raised and ready to knock, when he realised it was hopeless. One solitary cough was all he’d heard, and that sounded weak. He decided against knocking and instead carried on his way toward the middle of town.

  Alleys soon opened out into streets, which became wider as he approached the city centre, where he was certain there’d be someone to help him. When the streets finally spat him out into the main square, Sam walked across it with a knot in the pit of his stomach. Since the coughing, he hadn’t seen the slightest hint of other survivors and he didn’t need to try the door to know the town hall stood empty. But he rattled it anyway out of desperation; the sound echoed inside the building and resonated around the deserted square.

  Sam was suddenly hungry; only when the chance of a meal had been snatched away did he realise what he'd been hoping for more than anything, was food. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten, but drew a blank. At the realisation, a sudden nausea came over him and he went dizzy.

  He turned his back on the town hall and sighed, trying to suppress his gnawing appetite as he shuffled away with downcast eyes. The clouds had begun to break into pieces of silver edged flotsam and shafts of sunlight streaked toward the ground. Sam raised his head to look around, unwilling to believe there was no one to help him. Three spires of the cathedral rose proud above the rooftops. At the top of the tallest, minute through its height and distance, a weathervane glinted as it caught a sunbeam. For a few moments he gloried at the brilliant speck before, with a glimmer of hope, making his way toward it.

  When he reached the bridge he paused to rest. Although the floods had receded, the river was still charging beneath and he gazed over the parapet at the grey, powerful, swirling waters. Directly below him, a sizeable tree had lodged between the stanchions, causing water to back up and surge through the branches, making them sway from side to side in the current. Debris collected and piled high in its boughs and amidst the flotsam a bloated, purple corpse was folded backwards around one of the thicker branches, its limbs tangled in the twigs. Sam let out a small sigh and continued upon his way, hope fading, toward the spires.

  A long, paved avenue bordered by green shrubs led into a large open square across which were the granite cathedral steps. Before getting even halfway along it, a stench he knew all too well wafted to his nostrils, but he swallowed hard and urged himself forward, driven by a morbid curiosity and refusing to believe what his nose and stomach were telling him.

  At the top of the steps great, arched studded oak doors stood slightly ajar and as he climbed toward them, Sam once again needed to cover his nose and mouth to alleviate the stink. Bracing himself for the worst, he poked his head inside. The smell hit him hard and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust the gloom. A tangible miasma of filth filled the air in which flies hung thick, their constant buzzing loud in the silence. Sam tried his best to bat them away with his free hand as he gawped at the horror laid out in front of him.

  Every pew was filled with bodies in varying states of decomposition. Some were reduced to little more than thick black slime, only identifiable as human by teeth and hair while others were more recently deceased, or better preserved. Rats had found rich pickings and Sam placed a hand against the door as he momentarily became giddy, before taking a few involuntary steps backwards. The ground disappeared from beneath his feet and he found himself tumbling down the steps, wind-milling his arms to catch support which wasn’t there. He landed hard on the bottom step and stayed there, fighting to catch his breath with his last reserves of will and strength knocked out of him.

  Someone was prodding him in the ribs. With a stick. Sam reluctantly opened his eyes to see the fuzzy image of a boy, layered in grime and looking down at him with intense curiosity.

  "You alive?" The boy asked.

  Sam blinked and tried to sit up. He felt dizzy and his head stayed where it was on the cold paving slabs.

  "Only just," the boy mumbled to himself then, "You hungry?"

  At the mention of food, Sam found renewed strength and slowly lifted himself up on his elbows. The world spun out of focus and he squeezed shut his eyes against the giddiness, which eased after a few seconds. "Hi," said Sam when he’d recovered enough to speak.

  All the time the boy had been looking down at Sam and waiting patiently. "Follow me," he said an
d began to walk away from the cathedral steps and Sam clambered to his feet to follow. At first his steps were small and teetering. The boy slowed and waited while Sam found his legs. As they wove through the empty streets, he noticed the boy constantly looking around, turning his head to look into the side streets, alleys and doorways they passed. "What's your name?" he asked without looking back.

  "Sam."

  "I'm Joshua," he introduced himself. "Where's your folks?” he asked. “Dead?"

  "Yes," said Sam having caught up to Joshua. "Yours?"

  Joshua pointed with his thumb, back towards the cathedral.

  Sam winced and they both walked in silence for a while, each wrapped up in his own sadness and memories.

  "Here we are," Joshua announced as he turned into a narrow alley. After a few yards he stopped outside a small, glass-fronted shop with a faded sign swinging over the door, before lifting the catch and pushing his way inside. He turned and smiled. "Didn't even have to break into this one," he said as they entered. "I used to come here as a kid, sometimes."

  Sam thought it an odd thing to say. Joshua wasn't much older than him but he nodded all the same as he gazed around the dusty interior of the shop. Two fat, round cheeses with mouldy rinds hung on metal hooks behind the counter but Joshua went straight past them, through a small door and into a store-room at the back, not much larger than a normal pantry. The room was bare apart from three barrels against the far wall.