The Infected Chronicles (Book 1): Origin Page 2

  He paused a moment, to catch his breath.

  “We must secure the barricades completely now and keep this within our village lest it spread. When this is over, our good Lord willing, I will send word to you that it is safe to return.”

  Jonathan stared into the pleading eyes of the Reverend, bloodshot and a look of deep sadness and despair.

  “Lord willing,” he repeated.

  Before Jonathan could protest, the Reverend withdrew from the blockade and a piece of wood now covered the gap.

  “Reverend!” Jonathan shouted, but there came no reply, other than the sound of wood against wood.

  “Reverend!” He called, but again received no response.

  He turned to face his companions.

  “We have to go back home!” Hugh cried, breaking their silence.

  “Shush boy!” Robert instructed him.

  “I know what you are thinking, but we had best heed the Reverends warning and be off Jonathan. We should tell his Lordship as soon as possible of this strangeness,” Robert said, staring at Jonathan.

  “Aye Robert,” Jonathan replied, surveying the barricade and hearing the hushed voices from within, “maybe Lord Godfrey will have an idea of what we should do, but I do not relish the thought of returning with an empty cart.

  “Better an empty cart, than a cart full of disease ridden cloth,” Robert offered.

  Jonathan nodded his head in agreement.

  “What if it spreads?” Hugh asked.

  “For pities sake, shush boy. You can see that the Reverend has taken more than enough steps to prevent that,” Robert replied.

  They stayed in silence, turning their horses and the cart reluctantly away from the village and beginning their long journey home.

  The party slowly passed the perimeter of the village in silence for about twenty minutes, fields to one side of them and ivy-covered rears of several of the cottages on the other, each gap crudely barricaded.

  “May we stop a moment please Robert?” Hugh asked, as they passed the last of the buildings, before the lane widened on the route North.

  “What?” replied Robert, staring over the heads of the two horses pulling the cart.

  “T’was only a short while ago you did seem all for flying home, let alone riding home?”

  “I need, I need to go now,” Hugh pleaded.

  “Go to where boy?” Robert asked, turning to look at the skinny young man. He could see the boy’s legs held tightly together, the features of his face grimaced in contortion.

  “For the sake of God, can you not hold it in or piss over the side?” he asked.

  “I can’t,” Hugh urgently replied.

  “Jonathan!” Robert called in exasperation, “may we stop for a moment?”

  “What on earth for Robert? We have barely travelled but for a few minutes,” Jonathan replied, bringing his horse to a halt and looking at his companion.

  “Aye Jonathan, that I understand too well, believe me my old friend, but her Ladyship here,” Robert thumbed to Hugh, “requires the use of a water closet.”

  “Why did we have to bring that whelp along?” Peter asked, alongside Jonathan, “he has been more of a hindrance as usual, no bloody help to us at all.”

  “To keep him busy and out of mischief I suppose, my friend,” replied Jonathan.

  “He could not clean the shit from my boots without somebody to give him directions and somebody else to hold his bloody hand,” Peter exclaimed.

  Smiling, Jonathan looked to the cart.

  He did not envy Robert the journey home sat next to Hugh.

  Knowing the lad would be a grumbling pain in Roberts behind if not able to relieve himself, he called to them.

  “Two minutes is all you have! There are bushes near the stream. Hide your fanny behind there and best be quick about it.”

  Relieved, Hugh jumped from the cart, hurrying to the deep bushes alongside the path, separating it from a small stream.

  After locating a suitable spot and ensuring nobody could watch, he pulled his britches down and squatted.

  Jonathan spoke with the other riders, about which routes they could possibly take to save time on their journey to the estate.

  “Hugh!” Robert shouted, as nearly ten minutes passed since the boy left the cart, “For pity’s sake lad hurry up!”

  “I will be done in a moment!” Hugh called.

  “Sard! Fetch the wench Robert please and let us be away from this accursed place,” Peter called, riding to the cart.

  “Aye Peter,” Robert replied, “grab the horses will yer please son?”

  Edging his horse forward, Peter took the harness of one of the two horses pulling the cart. Robert climbed down from his seat, feeling his age as he lowered himself to the ground.

  He made his way through the thick brambles and bushes, until he caught the sight of Hugh’s bent form ahead, now beginning to stand up, raising his britches up his legs.

  “I thought you were having a piss, not a shit for crying out loud!” Robert said.

  Startled, Hugh hurriedly pulled the britches the rest of the way up his legs, as Robert approached him.

  “I was, only taking a piss, Robert,” replied the young man, blushing, as he tied his britches together.

  “A piss?” Robert exclaimed, “Sitting down?”

  “I don’t piss standing up.”

  Hugh made his way to the stream, the glow of embarrassment radiating from his cheeks.

  “Now, for heaven’s sake, where are you going?” Robert asked, becoming impatient with each passing second.

  “To clean my hands,” he replied, his head held low.

  “To clean…to clean your hands?” Robert asked.

  “First I find you piss like a girl and now you have to wash your bloody hands afterwards like a girl? Be quick about it lad.”

  Moving gingerly to the stream, Hugh looked to see if he could locate a patch of wet, sodden grass he could clean his hands upon. Near the side of the bank, he stopped, staring into the slowly moving water beneath him.

  “Oh, for the Lords sake, hurry up lad, before Jonathan has your head.”

  “I did not realise the stream was so close and the water so, so much of it.”

  “That is because it is a bloody stream!”

  Moving a couple of steps closer to the edge of the bank he stopped, turning to face the other man.

  “Robert, I am afraid of water, I’m scared of falling in.”

  “Well do not bloody go near the water then!”

  By the gods, this day is getting worse with each passing moment.

  “Very well.”

  Turning away from the edge of the stream, Hugh’s foot slipped on the wet grass, nearly entering the water.

  Gasping, he straightened himself up, before feeling something grasp his exposed ankle, pulling his foot along the wet grass on the edge of the bank into the water.

  Slipping completely, he landed on his side as his foot became pulled out from beneath him.

  “Robert!” he screamed. “Something has me grasped!”

  Struggling and kicking to reach up the bank, he could feel his leg being slowly pulled by a strong grip, to the running waters of the stream.

  “Please Robert!” he wailed, kicking out.

  Sighing aloud, Robert walked to the edge of the water.

  “You, stupid oaf, you have just slipped.”

  Kneeling over the struggling figure, he pulled on the fabric of the tunic’s sleeve, but the lad’s leg would not budge from near the water’s edge.

  “Robert!” he cried again, “it has me!”

  “You have just got your foot caught on something for pity’s sake! And for the dear love of God, will you stop struggling?”

  Edging closer to the edge of the water, he knelt to place his hand on Hugh’s leg. He could see the foot completely submerged, the lads other leg thrashing out.

  Moving his hand down the sodden trouser leg, until it became submerged under the surface of the water, he
suddenly felt a cold, hard grip grab his wrist.

  “What in heavens?!” he cried out.

  Hugh’s leg now slipped free and, scrambling quickly to stand up, he moved away from the edge of the stream.

  He stood frozen, watching the old man.

  Robert lay with one arm over the bank, its hand beneath the surface, holding his free hand out to him.

  “Grab my hand Hugh!”

  Staring at Robert’s outstretched arm, he watched the writhing and splashing of the water, as his other arm flayed about. Shaking his head with fear in his eyes, he turned, fleeing away from the edge of the stream.

  Robert struggled, feeling his arm dragged beneath the surface of the water.

  Using his free hand, he picked up a stone from the side of the water’s edge, striking at whatever held him.

  Staring into the water, he could see a dark blurred shape, outlined within the swirl of silt amongst the white flume of thrashing water.

  His efforts fruitless, he felt a painful sting as something dug into the flesh of his arm beneath the water.

  “Mary, mother of Christ!” he exclaimed, a pain emanating from his wrist, spreading like a wildfire throughout his whole arm.

  Using his free arm, he unsheathed the dagger lain at his side at all times. It fell on the wet grass next to him and his hand scrambled for it franticly, until his searching fingers finally fell upon its leather hilt.

  Blindly, he stabbed at the water. After only moments, the grip loosened and he managed to pull his hand free from the terrible grip and from the cold water into the air. Scrambling away from the water’s edge, he fell onto his back, gasping and panting for air.

  Staring, he found only ripples, from where his arm was, a moment before.

  Staring at his hand, he rolled his sleeve up, finding his forearm bloody, skin scratched and shredded. Pieces of sinew hung from the worst injury, revealing the muscle underneath.

  Teeth marks? Finger marks? What in heavens name was that bloody thing?

  “Robert!” Jonathan’s voice cried.

  Running through the brambles and bushes, he came quickly to his friend’s side, leaning and gently easing the old man from the ground.

  “What happened?” He asked, his voice full of concern.

  “I think,” Robert croaked, “a rat.”

  “A rat?” Jonathan asked, examining his forearm, “This does not look like any marks left by a rat.”

  Standing, he began to unsheathe his sword as he walked to the water’s edge.

  “No!” Robert called.

  Stopping, he turned around to stare at the old man.

  “It was a rat Jonathan,” he exclaimed. “What are you doing son, it was just a rat? Now let us please get the hell out of here and be on our way back home.”

  Jonathan looked to the water, for a second it looked like something brown and thin broke the surface.

  Is that a twig or the tale of a rat?

  It disappeared beneath the surface

  Grabbing his friend around the waist, he led him to the cart.

  “Gods man! Are you alright Robert?” Peter cried, noticing the ashen skin of his old friend, as Jonathan helped him to the cart.

  “I am,” Robert replied, “I am fine my friend.”

  Dismounting quickly from his horse, Peter rushed over, helping Jonathan get Robert into the cart.

  Leaning into the rear of the cart, his hand scrambled around until it fell upon a piece of cloth. Rolling up the torn sleeve of the old man’s tunic, and after cleaning the wound as best he could with water from his flask, he bound it up with the cloth.

  Grabbing the reins, he thrust them into Hugh’s hands.

  “Make yourself bloody useful boy,” he snarled. The younger man took the reins, looking on the verge of tears.

  Peter and Jonathan mounted their horses, Jonathan casting a glance at the cart, before beckoning his horse on. Peter followed suit.

  Hugh, shaking like a leaf, slowly beckoned the cart horses forward.

  “I…I’m sorry Robert,” he said, staring ahead, “I was scared. I did not mean to run.”

  Robert, hunched in the seat, wrapped his cloak around himself as if to keep off a winter chill.

  “Leave it boy. We will speak of it no more until we return to the estate,” he said, “just get us home.”

  Hugh urged the horses pulling the cart forward, and they made their way behind the riders ahead, as the party moved off down the lane.

  At the stream, all lay quiet.

  The water continuing its slow, relentless flow, as it did for centuries.

  Momentarily, there appeared upon the surface a small ripple. It became followed by a few other ripples, gently expanding outwards in a rhythmic, circular pattern.

  A brightly coloured dragonfly, its wings translucent, descended from the air and flew near to the surface of the water. It hovered for a few moments, before ascending upwards suddenly, as the surface of the water broke, as a charred, skeletal hand rose and grabbed at the air above.

  Chapter Two

  After their long journey, the party of men finally arrived upon the outskirts of the small village where Robert lived with his wife and sons.

  Their journey home was peculiar, compared to the many occasions they undertook it before. Normally meeting at least, a dozen other carts upon the way, the only other travellers they encountered throughout the length of the journey home, being a caravan of merchants heading South.

  In a deep slumber for the most part of their long ride home, Robert stirred only a few times. On those occasions, appearing to awaken from a nightmare. Apart from small sips of water from one his flask, not a morsel passed his lips.

  “Let me off at home,” Robert quietly instructed, sat wrapped in his cloak, hugging it tightly to his aged body.

  “But do you not want to tell his Lordship what has happened?” Hugh asked, staring at him.

  Jonathan rode alongside the cart at this point.

  “Do as Robert tells you to lad,” Jonathan said, riding alongside the cart, “we are more than capable of telling his Lordship ourselves. Drop him at the village and make sure he gets into his home safely or you will have me to answer to.”

  “Yes sir,” Hugh replied, nervously beckoning the horses to the narrow lane leading to the village further on.

  “Once you are done,” Jonathan called, “get straight back to the estate and pray don’t dally about.”

  “Yes sir,” Hugh replied.

  Cursing under his breath, he beckoned the horses on tothe village. whilst the four riders continued the rest of their journey to the estate.

  Casting a glance at Robert, he discovered his companion appeared to have aged well past his years, since they embarked upon this journey.

  Turning his gaze away, he stared at the lane ahead.

  Arriving outside Robert’s home in the centre of the village, Hugh pulled the horses to a stop directly outside the thatched cottage, tying the reins and stepping to the ground.

  Robert’s wife exited the door of the cottage, as he helped the old man down from his seat.

  “Heavens above!” she exclaimed. “What has befallen my dear Robert?”

  Before Hugh could reply, Robert stared up at his wife through the thick cloak covering him.

  She gasped, discovering how white his skin appeared, the veins across his face appearing prominent and dark against the pale pallor of his skin. His eyes, usually as grey as granite and clear despite his autumn years, now completely bloodshot.

  “I am fine woman,” Robert said, his voice barely above a whisper, “a fever tis all.”

  “Fever or not man, get yourself in here!” she insisted, placing her arm under her his to support him.

  As she took the weight of her husband, Hugh let go, wiping his hands vigorously upon the cloth of his tunic.

  Two large men appeared at the doorway and grabbed Robert, before he could fall from his wife’s grasp.

  “Father,” one of the men said, “Dear Lord what
is wrong?”

  “A…fever…is all,” Robert replied, his voice barely heard as his sons placed their arms underneath his armpits, taking his weight from their mother.

  “What happened boy?” the older of the two demanded, glaring at Hugh, rushing to the cart.

  “A fever,” he replied, “he has a fever. I was only told to bring him here and then I must return straight back to the estate. It is just a fever. I have to go now.”

  “Be gone with you then,” the man demanded.

  There was something about Hugh he disliked, now finding himself disliking the boy further, even though he returned his Father to their home.

  Leading their father into the cottage, Robert’s eldest son turned his head once again, watching over his shoulder as Hugh whipped the carthorses, riding the cart away as if chased by the Devil himself.

  Lord Godfrey stood with Jonathan at the doorway to the manor.

  His family lived there for several generations. Not a huge building in comparison to other homes owned by other gentry, but a handsome place and his family’s home.

  The land where the manor stood, was originally the site of a Saxon fort. Any remnants of the original building long gone since, save for sections of the original stonework, used to create the fireplace in the great hall.

  To the front of the manor lay a large courtyard, surrounded by a tall stone wall, standing for decades. A large arched gateway led into the courtyard, in the centre of which stood a small ornate fountain, the central piece of this being a large stone rose.

  He commissioned the fountain built as a gift to his wife Elizabeth. On warm summer evenings, they would sit on its stone surround, talking and enjoying each other’s company.

  The porch he and Jonathan now stood in, housed a vaulted roof covering, ornate with engravings of flowers. His late grandfather installed as a gift to, for his late Grandmother.

  Godfreys own father commissioned the doors leading into the house, comprising two large oak doors, engraved with his family emblem.

  “Is it true do you think Jonathan?” He asked. “That of which the Reverend spoke of, about it being a plague worse than before?”