Aftermath

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