Deadweight | Book 2 | The Last Bite

by Forster, Paul

  “It’s no better than rape,” he spat. The judgement in Kenneth’s voice cut through the room, the tension could be felt by all.

  “It’s better than starving to death or being torn apart. Kenny, stop thinking this is the old world. You’ve been out there, how much death have you seen? You lost a hand for fuck’s sake,” Liam had a touch of fear in his voice. This arrangement was simple and there was safety in numbers.

  “Kenneth, you’re not comfortable. That’s fine, you can go. But don’t you dare judge me for surviving,” Charles said. He was calm, but it was obvious he was insulted. With money and power all his life, he wasn’t used to being challenged. “So, feel free to take your monkey arse out of my fucking house?”

  Kenneth was already disappointed in these people and what they had allowed themselves to become. Now this fuck, thinking he’s in charge because he had twenty bedrooms, is a fucking racist. “Excuse me, would you care to rephrase that?”

  “What? This is my house, I will speak however I damn well like! You will do well to get out of here now before I have your one-handed nigger arse shot.” Charles puffed out his chest and placed a hand on his pistol, ready to draw it.

  Kenneth looked to Liam, he was uncomfortable but was siding with Charles. He knew which side his bread was buttered.

  “Kenny, just go mate, please,” Liam said. The resignation was in Liam’s voice, he didn’t want to shoot Kenneth but knew he was moments away from doing so.

  “I’m going,” Kenneth replied. He marched himself out the way he came in. Charles signalled Liam to follow Kenneth.

  “Kenny, life has changed. You’ve got to change with it. There isn’t a good or a bad, we just have to do what we have to, to keep on going,” he told him. Liam didn’t believe the words himself, he was disgusted for even trying to justify what they did.

  “Liam, tell yourself what you need to, but there is good and bad in this world, if you’re not one you’re the other. Look after yourself and try not to hurt too many people,” he said in response. Kenneth got to his car, the boot was open, the food all gone. The fuckers. He didn’t question it or protest. There was no point, they wouldn’t deny it, they wouldn’t need to. He felt like smashing up the fleet of super-cars but doubted that posh psychopath would let him leave if he did. They’d either beat the shit out of him or take him out back and shoot him. At least they’d left him the hatchet.

  He got in the car and drove. His former comrades were marching up the driveway, he rolled down his window, “You’re all better than this. All of you.”

  No one could look him in the eye. They knew he was right but couldn’t bring themselves to admit it.

  Chapter 16

  Kenneth had to see for himself. He couldn’t take Liam’s word as the truth, not now. The lad had gone wrong and was obviously only interested in his own wellbeing. He knew how bad things were heading when he left Wellworth. Half a dozen lads deserting wouldn’t have been unrealistic. The drive had been long and arduous. The car wasn’t fit for going off-road, and sometimes that had been the only option. Every time he crossed a field or climbed a verge, he was certain he’d get hooked up on an unseen rock or an axle might snap. He hadn’t attempted to engage any of the feeders he came across, there were too many to make a difference. The herds had been growing, their frequency increasing. He could only speculate with the fall of the rescue camps more concentrations of the dead existed and wandered together. They hadn’t saved survivors with the camps; they recruited soldiers for the ranks of the monsters.

  When he arrived at Wellworth, Kenneth had wished he hadn’t. The mass of feeders at the fence line kept him back. As much as he concentrated and stared, there were no soldiers patrolling the grounds. The OP looked unoccupied, and there were no signs of movement in the main building. Two lights left on, but that was it. He thought maybe he saw a figure move, but he couldn’t be sure. Liam was right. Maybe the major was still there, but even if he was, how would he get inside with so many feeders lining up for a meal? It was useless. He was useless.

  After looking at all Wellworth, the death surrounding it, the knowledge of all of those innocents who died or were turned because he wasn’t there, he decided he would head back to Nutwood. He should never have left the small, kind community of survivors. They were resourceful people, lucky to a point but hard workers who he could help. He turned the car around and started the drive back. It frustrated him, his blood boiled as he thought of those inside who had died. He knew he was to blame, these rotten fuckers would never had got inside on his watch. Then he saw his punchbag.

  An old one hobbled towards his car. It was in terrible shape. It was male, had been shot several times in its torso, and its face and hair badly scorched. It had been in a fight. It was hard to tell if it had won, but the fact it was still standing confirmed it hadn’t lost.

  This stinking fucking cunt has no right to exist. It was death, not life, so it should bloody stay dead.

  Kenneth stopped the car and got out, the hatchet grasped tightly in his hand. He ran towards it as he swung the hatchet striking it in the neck knocking it to the floor. He struck it again and again in the neck until the head dislodged and separated from the body. Still its teeth gnashed at him. Tossing the bloodstained hatchet to the floor, Kenneth started stomping on its head with his boot. Harder and harder he struck it until the skull cracked and popped open. Grey blood and gore leaked onto the road.

  Moments passed before Kenneth composed himself. Now it was proper fucking dead.

  Kenneth noticed the noise of feeders approaching. His grunting and exertion surely attracted them to the gruesome scene. He felt better and didn’t give the corpse a second look as he grabbed the hatchet and jumped back into his car.

  He was going back to Nutwood, he could still do his duty and protect the good, kind people of that village.

  Chapter 17

  Jake walked through the quiet village street, listening for any sign that he wasn’t alone. The road was narrow, having originally been built to serve horse-drawn carts rather than modern motor vehicles. They had removed most vehicles, leaving only sporadic cars to provide cover and concealment in case they were caught out in the open during an attack. A dense woodland protected the entire village, with vast fields beyond that. It helped slow the stream of unwanted, hungry and murderous visitors. Stopping to listen every few feet, it was a relief when only the wind rustling through the leaves could be heard. Since they had set up camp in the old school, he had performed this patrol many times. Young, fit and able were his qualifying skills, his ability with the rifle a bonus. Rarely had he been presented with the need to put that sharpshooter skill to the test, but Michael had drilled into him the importance of not becoming complacent. They both knew the numbers the feeders roamed in; but even a single creature would be fatal if you let it get too close.

  Movement up a few hundred years ahead caught his eye and instinctively he dropped to his knee, .22 rifle pointed forwards. Stillness. Silence. But he’d definitely seen something, he was sure. Then he saw the figure stumbling down the road, pursued by two other creatures. Then a third. With the iron sights on the rifle, he couldn’t make out more than the silhouettes of the targets at this range. He could wait. There were only four of them. He could drop them when they got to fifty yards and not have to reload. He tensed up and controlled his breathing as his heart pumped wildly, getting the better of him. One hundred and fifty yards, and a fifth appeared, giving its determined pursuit. One hundred yards, nearly there. They tempted him to take a quick shot, but he stuck to his plan and waited. Nearly there. He still couldn’t clearly make out the feeders, but it didn’t matter. With the first in his sights, he began to gently depress the trigger. Suddenly the creature swung at one of the following monsters with a hatchet, taking a slither of scalp clean off as they both tumbled to the floor. What the fuck? The first scrambled back to its feet. It was a big bastard. Kenneth? Jake turned his attention to the pursuing feeders, slowly sending the small .22 calibre
bullets into his targets. As the small rounds struck their victims, the creatures dropped to the floor and ceased moving. He waited a moment for the last to reach his desired range and a single shot through the bridge of its nose knocked it to the floor.

  Kenneth looked forward to Jake with a beaming smile, then back at the handiwork of his friend. He bent over, trying to catch his breath as Jake approached, loading a fresh ten round magazine into the rifle.

  “For Gods’ sake, Kenny. That car survived the end of the world, but it couldn’t survive a Welshman. I can’t believe you lost it.”

  “Lost?” Kenneth panted, slowly getting air back into his lungs. “I know exactly where that piece of shit broke down on me. It’s about four miles that way, just follow the trail of those dead bastards laying on the floor,” Kenneth gestured back up the road, still wheezing.

  “You okay?”

  “Bloody knackered.”

  Jake handed him a bottle of water, which Kenneth gulped down before handing back empty.

  “Are there any more of those things following?”

  “You put three down in addition to my one?” Kenneth’s breath had returned, Jake nodded. “That should be all of them then.”

  Michael and Jake’s father appeared, running towards the men, wielding shotguns. They slowed when they saw Kenneth, who gave them his big smile and a wave as they got closer.

  “We heard the gunshots, are you two okay?” the vicar asked, to which Kenneth and Jake nodded.

  “I wasn’t sure we’d see you again. Glad you came back. I take it things weren’t well?” Michael looked sympathetically at the tired man before him.

  “No, it’s all gone. Just the dead and thieves in that direction. Never go that way,” he replied. His mood changed to a more sombre one, Michael knew not to press him.

  “Mikey, I got three bastards, right in the fucking face!” Jake was excited to tell of his kills, then looked at his religious and disapproving father. “Sorry dad.”

  “Let’s get you lads back in St. Joe’s, looks like Kenneth needs to work off the debt of a lost mint condition 1997 Ford Fiesta.”

  As the men walked back, Michael followed, glancing back regularly up the road. He knew Kenneth wouldn’t bring trouble to them, but he wanted to make sure no wandering corpses were making themselves at home in his village.

  Chapter 18

  The ship was enormous, but Jenny could feel every wave. Having lived on the HMS Reckoning for nearly two weeks after a spell on the much smaller HMS Belfast, she still hated being on the ocean. The HMS Reckoning was much like several of the ships in the fleet, liberated from countries that had fallen to the plague. Its new crew named the Reckoning after being taken from Naval Station Rota in Spain. Several teams of Special Boat Service soldiers and Naval personnel secured the Reckoning and several smaller vessels before joining with the main fleet in the English Channel. The Juan Carlos I had been the pride of Spanish Navy, but as mainland Europe descended into chaos, the Spanish government evacuated to the mountains and old cold war bunkers. The shipyards were abandoned. The interim Prime Minister and her advisors reached out to the Spanish Government, but contact was sporadic and didn’t fill anyone with hope. The ships weren’t being used, and the Prime Minister decided it was better to seek forgiveness than ask permission. The newly named HMS Reckoning was better than most ships in the British fleet, modern and plenty of room for the refugees and personnel who would call it home.

  Jenny found it more comfortable than the HMS Belfast, the former World War II light cruiser had been decommissioned over fifty years ago and served as a tourist attraction on the Thames. It was small, cramped, but seaworthy. Decommissioned ships and those borrowed from neighbours made up nearly half of the military class ships at the British Government’s disposal. They lacked the most basic of creature comforts, and safety was questionable, but all agreed it was better to be on an eighty-year-old vessel than stuck on the mainland with the feeders.

  Before the plague, Jenny had worked as a project manager within a government department overseeing infrastructure upgrades. It had been boring work, endless meetings to decide the best company to buy concrete from or agreeing budgets for portable toilets. As she hit her thirties, she had hoped to have been doing more interesting things with her life. She had never expected the world to have taken such a turn. Her organisational skills were put to use by the interim government. Now she worked with a small team, ensuring those aboard the many ships in the armada didn’t starve to death and received all the care they required to survive. Many personnel were families of those in service, high-ranking politicians or, like Jenny, had been lucky enough to be deemed useful. Most evacuated civilians that didn’t fit into the friends and family box were put aboard a civilian vessel.

  Much like the military ships, ferry, cargo and cruise ships had been rapidly pressed into service to save the civilians that hadn’t succumbed. They kept this flotilla separate from the military and government vessels for security. Each of the civilian boats had rapidly become their own little, and sometimes large, communities. Each enjoyed a distinct personality, taking on the characteristics of the ship. Those on a luxury cruise liner felt a great sense of entitlement, compared to those in the bay of a cargo ship who were just grateful to be alive. Jenny often had to deal with the heads of each ship. Negotiating supplies, manpower or civilian transfer. These meetings would often become heated. There were not enough supplies, no manpower to spare, and nobody wanted more mouths to feed on their boat. Jenny was sure that if it wasn’t for the naval vessels patrolling between the vessels, piracy would have taken hold and half of the ships would have sunk the other half.

  To be called into a meeting to discuss the status of the civilian ships wasn’t unusual, she had an insight through her dealings. It was unusual for the Prime Minister to be in attendance. Jenny was taken aback as she entered the briefing room. Despite the PM’s attendance, only an army general and naval admiral were with her. Normally, a dozen faces from various logistics departments would be in attendance. If the PM had shown up, it was normally for a quick photo opportunity before she was whisked away. Normally a low-ranking representative of the navy would be in attendance if only to make sure they knew what was going on. Never had she seen the two highest ranking members of the remaining armed forces show up. General Stuart McKinley had been put in charge of the remaining army units, and the marines who would normally be under the direction of the navy. Admiral Grant Hollis oversaw his ships and those of the civilians that made up their armada. These two men were vastly different, with the general having been on the ground in various war zones many times with his men under fire. Whereas the admiral, much like the PM, found himself over promoted through the death or disappearance of his colleagues.

  “Jenny Fairbrass, please come in and take a seat,” she called. The Prime Minister was in her late forties, she had a welcoming smile but was an experienced politician. Before the outbreak, she was going nowhere in a party that had no hope of ever taking power. She had overplayed her hand a few times too many against the various leaders of her party over the years and was pushed to the sidelines as a punishment for her failed power grabs. Margaret Norville was an MP before society collapsed. Now she was the Prime Minister, and she insisted that she addressed by her title, not her name. Now she controlled what was left of Great Britain and wanted everyone to remember that. Jenny accepted the PM’s outstretched hand and shook it.

  “As one of our logistics coordinators, I’m sure you’re aware of the strain we find ourselves under?” she stated. The tone was firm and authoritative, Jenny nodded. “Which ship has been the most troublesome amongst the civilians?”

  “Troublesome?” she repeated. They were all troublesome, scared, and desperate people are.

  “Who needs the most, provides the least and, in your opinion closest to breaking?” The admiral asked as he took over and the PM sat back.

  “That would be the Angel of Vengeance,” Jenny replied. She had dealt with the
m many times, often ending in a shouting match when she wasn’t able to provide what they needed.

  The admiral looked over a list of ships, running his finger up and down the A4 printed sheets, beginning to look confused.

  “That’s not the ship’s official name, it’s something Greek. But nobody uses it. It has three-hundred and seventy something civilians onboard,” Jenny offered.

  “The Carman Spyros?” The Admiral said. He was satisfied he had found it.

  “That sounds right,” Jenny nodded.

  “We need to get a package onboard, we need a familiar face to get it on there,” the general took over. He seemed resigned to this course of action, unlike the admiral who seemed happy, nearly excited.

  “You understand how close we are to extinction. Law and order fell on the mainland, it’s beginning to do the same out here. Food and fresh water are perilously close to running out. I need to do what’s best for the many, even if it means hurting the few,” the prime minister explained. She needed Jenny to see the situation as it was, sacrifices had to be made.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Jenny lied. She knew, of course she did.

  “Cut the shit, Jenny. I don’t like it, but we can’t maintain our current situation. We need to reduce the demand on our limited resources and set an example. People are pissed off and complacent. They’re not grateful to survive, they’re angry because they want more. If we don’t take action now, we risk losing all of the civilians, and then what is the point? The Angel of Vengeance, three-hundred, and seventy people?”

  “Three hundred and seventy-nine civilians, ten military, and ten sailors. No high-value personnel or VIP’s,” The admiral stated. He had already seen the numbers.