Free The Devil's Plague by Mark Beynon Page B

something strangely amiss in Kempsey and it bothered Betterton that he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Was it the rich smell of the nearby clematis, or perhaps the sprawling, disjointed layout of the buildings? As he mulled it over it suddenly dawned on him - there was no one in sight, no sound of conversation or drunken singing. Betterton warily approached the tavern. He was surprised to find the door ajar, gently swinging on its hinges in the cool breeze.
    "Hello," he called out as he peered inside.
    Inside the tavern was empty; lanterns blazing and tankards untouched. Betterton decided that his next best option would be to try one of the nearby dwellings, see if he could find out where everybody had disappeared to.
    He held aloft a lantern that he'd liberated from the tavern as he made his way back down the dusty street. He felt a rush of relief as he saw a young girl shuffling towards him.
    Thank God, he thought to himself.
    As he approached the girl he was suddenly struck by a chilling realisation. He fearfully held the lantern up to reveal the cavernous wound - a wound so deep that her head was barely attached to her neck. As the girl staggered onwards, blood poured from the gash saturating her yellow petticoat. Betterton dropped his lantern and ran to her assistance.
    As he reached out to the girl, she collapsed limply into his waiting arms. "God in heaven!" he exclaimed, easing her to the ground and wiping the blood from her neck. He soon realised that his effort was futile, as another wave of blood poured from her. Betterton began to sob as the girl's eyes rolled back into her head, but before he could make any sense of the horrendous situation he had found himself in, a noise of dragging feet caught his attention. As he looked up, he could see the silhouettes of a group of seven or eight men against the moonlight, lurching their way up the lane, not with the step of normal healthy men, but with some kind of ungodly stagger. Long, dry moans emanated from coarse throats that didn't have the capacity for speech.
    Betterton didn't wait to try and piece together what deranged situation he'd stumbled upon and got hastily to his feet to make his escape. As he turned to run, he found to his surprise that the young girl was back on her feet and reaching out towards him.
    "Come with me!" he said, grabbing her hand. "We must go, now!"
    It didn't occur to Betterton that he was trying to help a girl who had died in his arms seconds earlier. Instead, his only thought was of getting her to a doctor and away from the strange group staggering their way. She resisted his tug and when Betterton tried a second time to move her, she reciprocated by crushing his hand in a vice-like grip. Betterton let out an agonised yell as his knuckles cracked and popped. The girl's face was hideous, a feral snarl marring her features. What had once been a pretty little girl was now a monster. Crying out, Betterton swung his fist and struck her hard across the face. The force of the blow severed her head completely and she dropped.
    Betterton allowed himself a glance over his shoulder as he fled. He was horrified to find that the group of men had gained on him and he could smell their stale breath on the icy wind. As they shuffled into the light he saw their wounds and knew that they were dead. Yet they walked!
    Right at that moment, there was only one place in the world Betterton wanted to be and one group of people he wanted to be with. He sprinted back onto the country lane that led to Evesham Abbey.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
     
    Onboard the Algernon, the Solent
    20th June, 1642
     
    They hadn't long left Portsmouth and Davenant was already feeling seasick. He leant over the side and took several deep breaths in a hopeless attempt to stop himself from vomiting, but the rolling of the vessel and the sight of the monotonous waves caused him to lose his lunch. This resulted in much hilarity amongst the crew, a mixture of jovial sailors,