Charlotte
Training assault chickens
In my previous life I had never paid chickens much attention. Or even thought about them at all. I knew they were birds and the source of eggs. My knowledge stopped there. Now I found myself caretaker to a small flock of six hens and one puffed up rooster. There was a certain comfort in watching their busy scratching, chatting to each other like a group of older women. I learned to delight in the way they tilted their heads when you spoke to them. They became my friends, running when they heard me call here chicken, chicken, eager to peck the scraps of bread scattered at my feet.
Bird brains sticking together, I heard Louise say.
To further my education, I learned that a broody hen could deliver quite a sharp peck if you tried to slide a hand under to see what she was keeping warm. Today one hen hogged the end nesting box. The perverse little creatures had access to a multitude of spots to lay, but if one went broody the others all decided only that particular box would do. The trait reminded me of Louise. I could pick up something long abandoned by her, but as soon as I showed interest she would demand the object back.
I clasped the hen firmly between my hands and picked her up. There was a quiet spot in the corner of the orchard where she could brood and leave the others to carry on their business. I tucked the chicken under my arm and another hen clambered into the warm nest as I dropped the lid.
I walked through the overgrown garden, past rampant shrubs spilling over the paths and roses desperate for a prune. In one corner, encircled by an old stone wall, were several fruit trees. The trees prepared for winter, leaves turned orange and red and then dropped to the ground. A few late apples and peaches still clung to a couple of the older trees, but the rest shut down for the cold period ahead. In the far corner of the orchard was an old dog house. I had cleaned it out and lined it with straw to make a cosy home for the chicken to sulk.
I wondered why the Turned never bothered animals. Sheep, cattle, and horses carried on with their lives, unconcerned by the undead that roamed the countryside and attacked the unwary. Not that I wanted to contemplate an undead broody chicken—the regular kind was fierce enough.
A cough from behind made me spin around. Perhaps Reverend Mason had ventured out at last and I could ask his advice about the leggy roses. My heart sank. It wasn't Lieutenant Bain either. A gentleman I didn't recognise stood by the apple tree.
"Can I help you? Reverend Mason is indisposed, I'm afraid." I had none of Louise's ease around men and often struggled with what to say. Despite my nervousness, I found myself craving the quiet moments with the lieutenant when he helped me wash up.
The man raised an arm, gestured at the house and said something indistinct.
I ducked under the cherry tree and approached. This person might be a wounded returned soldier. That might account for his slurred speech. Like Henry who came back a mute. A useless mutt, mother had called him, but I saw Henry labour all day long in the fields and never complain. Louise once nearly passed out from the exertion of picking up a dropped magazine.
"Do you have an appointment?" I asked as I neared. Then my feet stopped of their own accord.
The man regarded me with milky white eyes. Or did he see me at all? His form was not as decayed as some of the other unfortunates that roamed the countryside. His clothes were dirty as though he had travelled some distance by foot, but didn't look like he had ever been interred beneath the ground. This one was recent, Turned by a bite or scratch from another of the infected. Did his family know what had befallen him? Perhaps he went to work one day and never returned.
His complexion was pale, veering toward grey, and his dark hair was dishevelled. He looked more like he lived rough under a hedgerow than… dead. I know others stripped them of their humanity and referred to them as it, but I simply couldn't. What stood before me was a man, even if his soul was long departed.
His lip curled up in a snarl and a rumble came from his chest. He lifted his head and sniffed at the air, like a wolf scenting for its prey. That was when I realised I was trapped. The stone walls that enclosed the orchard also embraced me. Trees clustered to each side. This creature stood between me and the dash to the house.
"Miss Charlotte? Are you out here?" a voice called.
Lieutenant Bain. A chill took grip in my chest as his khaki clad form appeared on the path.
"Don't come any closer, Lieutenant, it's one of them," I shouted.
I was of no consequence, but the officer did vital work in the battle against the Turned. I cast around for any weapon and tried to ignore the shiver trying to take hold of my limbs. Ella faced these things every day. For once in my life I would be like her and summon up the courage to stand my ground.
The lieutenant stopped but his hand went to the pistol holstered on his belt. He pulled it free of the leather and raised it. "Step away, Miss Charlotte, I don't want to shoot you by accident."
There was a slight problem. Because of the trees and overgrown garden, I stood right in line with the undead creature. Foliage and trunks blocked the way on one side. If the lieutenant shot, there was a high chance the bullet would pass straight through the Turned and lodge in me.
I swallowed. "I don't appear to have a direct avenue of escape." Then I remembered a certain object in the kitchen. "There is an old Calvary sabre in the kitchen, by the back door."
Bain's fingers tightened on the grip of the pistol. "I'll not leave you alone to fetch it. I have foolishly left my sword hanging behind my saddle, as I did not expect to need it. The best bet is a shot to warn it off."
The low growl came from the vermin, like a dog guarding a bone, or one that had found a far tastier morsel. His lips quivered as the growl became louder. Nostrils flared as he scented away from me and toward the lieutenant. In slow motion he turned.
"No!" I could not let it attack the lieutenant. Why did it not want me? A sob welled up in my chest. Even the undead thought me unworthy of attention. Mother was right all along—I was a useless nobody. As I tightened my arms to my body a startled squawk reminded me of the broody fowl in my grasp.
In a desperate moment, I did the only thing I could. I apologised to wee Henrietta and relied on the fact I had never seen an undead chicken so she should emerge unscathed. And then I threw the hen at the monster.
She gave an almighty screech as I tossed her. The vermin's head disappeared under feathers as she flapped her wings, battering at him in an effort to stabilise herself and in doing so, blocked his view.
"Over here, demon!" Lieutenant Bain called out, attracting its attention while trying to aim his pistol around both me and the agitated bird.
I shouldered past the narrow gap between creature and tree, determined to reach the officer before the undead gent. I averted my face so I couldn't see how close I had to pass. Pain lanced along my forearm. Did I snag it on the rough bark of the tree or a chicken claw? I tugged my arm free of the obstruction, inadvertently looking down expecting to see feather or leaves. But it was a dirty hand with long fingernails that raked down my exposed arm. I cried out as fire flared under my skin where the vermin's scratch broke the surface and blood welled up.
"Get down, Charlotte!"
I flung myself to one side, ducking my head as a shot rang out. I looked up from between branches to see the thing stagger backwards, a wisp of smoke curling from a small black hole in the centre of its forehead. Henrietta hit the ground and ran off into the long grass, squawking as she had witnessed a murder being committed. The commotion brought the rooster running around the corner to defend his woman.
I scrabbled to my feet as the vermin clutched at a tree branch to steady itself. The shot had repulsed him a few steps, but given he was already dead, he wouldn't be halted for long.
The lieutenant never took his gaze from the creature as he retreated deeper into the orchard and farther into the corner where the stone walls met. "The sword, Miss Charlotte. Do run and fetch it, please."
My body and mind reacted instinctively thanks to long years of doing what I was told. I picked up my skirts and ran, pounding down the path and around the corner of the house. The back door stood open and I dashed in and grabbed the old sword, sitting amongst the umbrellas in the wooden stand.
Lieutenant Bain had the creature cornered when I returned. The puffed up rooster acted as his wingman. Bird and vermin appeared to be staring each other down. The Turned would snarl and lash out at the rooster, who would charge in and peck at his legs. I held out the sword hilt toward the officer.
He cast a quick glance in my direction and changed the pistol to his left hand, before drawing the sword from the scabbard with his right. "You might want to look away now, this part is rather unpleasant."
The dead man wavered before me and seemed to dissolve to be replaced by the image of my mother. She dropped to her knees, her hands extended to Ella, begging for her life. I bit my knuckles and spun, running away from the horrible image of my step-sister slaughtering my family.
Strong arms caught me and panic raced through my chest. Was there another one?
"I have you, Charlotte. It will be all right."
The deep voice was familiar; I looked up into the haunted eyes of Reverend Mason. "Reverend Mason? What are you doing outside?"
"I heard the shouts and the shot." His gaze drifted over the top of my head.
A whack and a thump were followed by a squawk. Then the rooster crowed and announced himself the victor. In my mind, Ella stood with a bloody sword in her hand and one foot on my mother's decapitated head. The sob broke loose from my throat and I turned my face to the reverend's rough waistcoat.
He patted my hair. "It is horrible, but necessary. I watched as my poor Lizzie's body was sent back to eternal peace. May her soul rest quietly."
I blinked hard and cleared the tears. That was the first time I heard the reverend mention his wife and acknowledge she no longer walked this earth. His mind shattered when she clawed her way free of her grave and ambled through the kitchen door. We had maintained the pretence that she was out shopping or visiting.
"You remember what happened?" I whispered.
A sad gaze dropped to meet mine. "Yes. I remember. I know it was not her that returned that day, but an empty shell controlled by a demon."
"Mr Mason, do you have some petrol and wood? I will move the body to the yard to burn it," Lieutenant Bain said from behind me.
Confusion entered the reverend's eyes, as though he struggled to focus on the conversation. I willed him to stay with us, to grasp at the tendrils of rationality he could now see.
"There is petrol and firewood in the shed," I said.
Mr Mason frowned and nodded. He looked so lost, but for a moment he had returned to this world. He nodded again and his vision cleared. "Yes, in the shed. I will fetch them if you take care of Charlotte."
The lieutenant pointed to my arm. "You're bleeding. Let's clean that up. Must have been that attack chicken you lobbed. Quite an effective distraction." He winked and put a hand at my waist to turn me toward the house.
I glanced down at the scratch. My arm burned as though I had rubbed it on the edge of the oven. It was no chicken scratch. Oh God. I'm going to turn into one of those.
I bit my lip to stop the scream that wanted to burst free of my throat. Instead a strangled sob combined with a hiccup emerged. "It wasn't Henrietta that scratched me, it was him—" I pointed back to the wall, where a body twitched in the longer grass.
"Oh, Charlotte." Bain's brown eyes widened.
"It burns. Already I can feel their poison inside me. Changing me. Ella will have to dispatch me too, won't she?" Good job Ella, you managed to rid yourself of your entire horrible step family. Another hiccup cut off my words and the tears rolled down my cheeks.
The lieutenant pulled me close to his side as he walked me to the house and through the back door. Then he let me go to pull out a chair and I dropped to it, my head slumped as I cried.
"You won't necessarily Turn. Miss Jeffrey has hypothesised that those who survived the original influenza pandemic are somehow resistant to the bite or scratch of these creatures. Private Jenkins, he's one of our chaps, was able to move among them in the catacombs and they never paid him any heed. He survived the first wave of sickness, you see." He fetched a bowl and poured in warm water. With the end of a tea towel, he dabbed at the blood on my arm and washed around the wound.
"I had the influenza, or what we thought was the influenza. I nearly died." My hiccups eased but the tears still trickled down my face.
"Part of the reason I visit every day is to collate the records of those who survived. So far we haven't found any who have subsequently Turned." He smiled in a reassuring manner and wiped my arm dry.
The cut was long, well over six inches and still afire, the sharp sting moving up my arm and into my chest. The edges of my skin even seemed black and scorched.
The lieutenant opened and closed cupboards until he found the small medicine chest. He carried it over to the table and flicked the lid open. Using a clean corner of the tea towel, he applied salve along the cut, then wrapped my arm in a crepe bandage.
"There. I'm sure it will heal without problem." This time the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
I drew a deep shuddering breath into my body and tried ever so hard to be brave. It almost worked. "I won't Turn?"
He took my hand in his and squeezed my fingers. "I shall continue to visit every day to monitor how you are, but on my honour, I believe you are quite safe from such a fate."
I wiped the tears from my face with one hand. There was one silver lining to this cloud. "I'll make sure there is shortbread every day when you visit."