by T. A. Sorsby
‘You’re telling me this now?’ Lucile drawled, ‘I just got that thing jury-rigged.’
‘We planning on being here long, anyway?’ Anita followed after her, ‘Those guys at the radio station, dodgy they may be, but they said they have a way out.’
‘I’m taking anything they say with a heap of salt.’ I shrugged, ‘The way he was acting, I’d look up if he told me the sky was blue.’
‘Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.’ Anita agreed. It was like the ghost of Edgar-past was there with us. ‘Trust your gut, that’s what I’d tell you. If you were getting bad vibes from those guys, there’s a reason.’
‘And yet despite that…’ I sighed.
‘Despite that,’ Laurel carried on, as resigned as I was, ‘we still need to give it a shot. Evacuation, safezone, could be better than waiting here for Gods know how long.’
‘Do we try them tonight?’ Lucile asked. Maybe it was the drink, filling her with confidence, making her want to leave the safety of the Tower after dark.
‘No, I don’t want to be out too long after dark. If we’re up for it, then we can go grocery shopping, then come back here for some rest.’ I told her, noticing everyone else was paying attention too. ‘Like Anita said, we hope for the best but prepare for the worst. The shutters are still down at the co-op right now, might not be that way soon. If there’s food to stockpile, then we should be doing it.’
We tooled up after that.
Those who had guns set about loading and reloading them while Neville distributed the new finds. Nobody had drunk enough for Anita to worry about friendly fire, and if it was okay with her, then it was okay with me.
He gave the Seg, the smaller, modern gun, to Lucile. I watched as she loaded the magazines and found the safety, like she knew what she was doing. She emptied the rest of the ammo box into her hand, a little pile of small rounds, and put them in her jacket pocket, slung over the back of the sofa.
Neville took the heavy old pistol for himself, carefully loading each magazine, counting the bullets. Maybe he was doing what I did earlier. Subtract bullets from population of Greenfield, equals a whole heap of trouble; and he didn’t even have bullets left to reload. But even so, he slid his nine-mill ammo box over to Anita, his pistol on top.
‘Take it. Only eight rounds left in the box, but two loaded guns with spare mags should be enough to go to the shops and back.’ He smiled.
Anita reached over the living room coffee table and put her hand over Neville’s, squeezing. ‘Thanks. I’ll take good care of it.’
I smirked, waited, and watched while everyone else played with their guns, loading spare magazines and shuffling spare ammo around in their coat pockets. When you get down into single figures, there’s no point keeping the empty box around.
Neville looked up after he’d finished with his weapon, and caught me staring. I’m not sure if there wasn’t anyone he’d rather have given it to, or he just thought I looked bored. But he passed me the oversized revolver, and the little tin bullet-box.
‘No speedloader for that one, but the cylinder rotates itself with each shot. So make them all count.’ He added.
‘Never before has the co-op seen so many well-prepared shoppers.’ I observed.
Finally, a gun that didn’t dig into my leg. I loaded the unsurprisingly heavy Cobra, one massive .44 bullet at a time, and secured its holster on my belt, puzzling out the shoulder rigging and detaching it. I even gave a few test draws to see how fast I could. Now that I had a gun to hand, I could put the Tetley in my jacket pocket, and give the sore spot on my leg a chance to heal.
The bullet box had quite a few spare rounds in, but without speedloaders they were of limited use if six shots weren’t enough. The damn things didn’t fit in Edgar’s empty ones.
‘Erm, not to pick holes or anything…’ Morgan said, ‘But some people have two guns, and we’re all out of guns. I’m going to be left gunless, if this trend continues.’
‘That’s the idea.’ Neville said, braced for the argument.
‘Anyone going to back me up here?’ she beseeched the senate. This time I was coming down on her Dad’s side. I gave her a little shake of my head and an apologetic look.
‘Until you know how to shoot, I wouldn’t feel comfortable with it.’ Neville said, putting his hand on her knee and giving her a weak smile. ‘It’s just safer for now, okay?’
‘Fine.’ Morgan said, the beginnings of a teenage pout forming. ‘Promise you’ll teach me later?’
‘If he doesn’t, I’ll shoot him myself.’ Anita said slapping a fresh magazine into one of her guns.
Between us, we had six handguns, a rifle, a shotgun and enough blunt instruments to make a very dull orchestra. In some cases, we had more weapons than hands. Quite inventively, Morgan cut the strap off one of her leather satchels and pinned it with many safeties through the empty carry-loops on Damian’s shotgun, so he could sling it over his shoulder.
‘Remember everyone,’ I said as we were pulling out coats and shoes on in the corridor, ‘these things are attracted to sound, so only pull your gun out if it’s dire. Stick close together, and coordinate your attacks against the zeds if we need to – and let’s hope we don’t. We’re only off down the shops, after all.’
*
Twenty Six
The sun was just setting as we were getting ready to leave the flats, suited, booted and all that other stuff that means we were feeling badass. We had guns, bats, bayonets and more than a few of us were wearing leather – how very post-apocalyptic of us. All we needed now were spiky hairstyles, a layer of dirt and bad teeth. Then we could be extras in the summer blockbuster.
I didn’t really have to get changed, it wasn’t like my clothes were bloodstained or anything, but after being in a few tense situations throughout the day, I’d caught myself the whiff of sweat. Figured my clothes could do with an airing out, and my pits could do with some spray. I abandoned the Some Bad Men t-shirt and donned a plain number, with faded black jeans and my dark steel-toed work boots. Edgar’s revolver went into a jacket pocket, fully loaded but with a loose bullet rattling around - it’d run dry soon, but fortunately we were only going to the shop. If I needed seven shots in two hundred yards, we had bigger things to worry about than ammo conservation. I left the empty speed-loaders on the kitchen side.
The bigger revolver, a Cobra I think Neville called it, went in its holster on my right hip. I put the tin bullet box into my other jacket pocket. The rounds were big enough that the gun would probably feel a whole lot lighter once it’d been emptied.
‘Strong hand draw.’ Anita commented, seeing me fiddling with the holster. There was a loop on the back to run your belt through, so you knew it wasn’t going to come off unless your belt did.
‘I don’t know guns. Is that bad?’ I asked, looking down at it.
‘Only if you’re sat down. Better for standing.’ She nodded, ‘But generally, it’s whatever you feel comfortable with.’
Anita wore the same hard-wearing black police trousers we’d found her in, but she’d spent some time cleaning all the blood out. Her white shirt was from a slightly better fitting closet this time, her search for supplies turning up some new outfits. If the world suddenly got back to normal tomorrow, there’d be a whole bunch of people wondering where all their stuff went.
She’d put on Neville’s old fur-lined denim jacket, which concealed his shoulder holster and pistol. Her own gun was on her utility belt, along with a telescopic baton, a club-like flashlight and her silver shield. There was even a canister of defence spray – be interesting to see what concentrated capsicum did to a zed, but my guess would be not a whole lot.
‘Haven’t thought about it in a while,’ she mused, reaching her right hand up to Neville’s shoulder holster - across her body, then moving it down to the gun on her left side - ‘Guess I prefer cross. Looks more professional, less cowboy.’
She was right, the heavy revolver at my hip, close to hand, did make me feel a lit
tle more wild west than law enforcement, but we weren’t heading out to GCR again tonight, so appearance be damned. The bayonet, secured by a firm steel clip, went on my left side. I felt better for having my baseball bat with me as well - it’d keep the zeds another couple feet away from me if we got into another brawl.
At the thought of having to use my bayonet, I turned to look for Laurel, picking her out of the rest of the party. She was knelt down by the coffee table, taping a flashlight under the barrel of her rifle.
‘Here,’ I said, kneeling down on the other side of the table, holding the rifle up off the glass, ‘I’ll hold them, you tape them.’
‘Thanks,’ she sighed, ‘I’m doing a shit job.’
She unwound the tape she’d already done, and we started again. Laurel had kept my other leather jacket, and must have brought some clean clothes with her in that backpack – I wasn’t the only one who felt like a change. A purple cami top sat underneath a black blouse. A smart/casual look.
‘All better, job’s a good un,’ she grunted, standing to hook the rifle over her shoulder.
Dark blue jeans were tucked into a pair of sensibly heeled boots that didn’t look like too much of an inconvenience to run in. Her jeans were faded like mine, but with a hole in the knee patched over in a not-quite identical shade.
‘Recent addition?’ I asked, pointing at it.
‘Yeah, well, function over fashion right now.’ She said, reaching down to smooth her hand over it, looking for any loose stitches.
‘What’s with the heels then?’
‘They’re only low. You’ve seen my stilettos before, right?’ She said, crossing her arms, doing potentially distracting things to her bust. It was move that reminded me of Katy.
‘Please tell me stripper heels weren’t on your essentials list when you packed…’ I said, giving her an eyebrow raise.
‘No comment.’ She replied, matching me.
I shook my head, walking back over to the kitchen, where Lucile and Damian were chatting.
Lucile had dressed somewhere between me and Anita – neat black trousers, grey shirt under her leathers, running shoes, with her new gun holstered in her belt - cross-hand, I noticed. She still carried her baseball bat, tip on the kitchen floor.
She tossed her head back at something Damian said, sweeping her hair back from one ear. Laughter touched her eyes and lit up her smile.
‘Hey man,’ Damian greeted, seeing me coming, ‘nearly ready?’
Lucile turned around, putting her bat up on her shoulder. She was chewing gum, making her look like a batter ready for the pitch. It’s amazing what a gun can do for your confidence. Either that or the thing between her and Damian was going well. There was something in the way the small blonde carried herself that reminded me of my Katy, a kind of “bring it on” swagger.
Everything was reminding me of her right now…and with the guns…maybe heading up to the hospital for one last look, maybe that wasn’t such a dangerous idea anymore? I lost myself for a moment before remembering I’d been asked a question.
‘Erm, I’m good to go. Checking you guys are all set?’ I made it into a question.
Damian was pretty calm before he had a gun. He swung into action on day one against our first zombie, rattled him though it did, he soon got himself composed. In his detective coat, with that shotgun in his arms, he looked all set to take on the world. He’d also stopped wearing his beanie.
His dreads made him look even taller without it, tied into a wild, scraggly bun. Guess he’d seen what happened to my hair. Under the coat he wore a white vest and a black shirt, half unbuttoned, with well-worn blue jeans that’d frayed around the ankles from hours of walking.
‘I good. Leaving me bat behind, think de shotty will do. Heavy, look strong enough to go clubbing with.’
‘Big fish, little fish…shotgun butt.’ Lucile smiled, doing the hand motions, but punching an elbow forwards for the last one.
Something poked me in the back. I turned around to find Morgan offering out a small flashlight. She had a couple more hanging off her wrist on lanyards. They were about the size of a tube of toothpaste.
‘Courtesy of apartment eight-oh-two, or somewhere around there.’ She chirped, a spring in her step as she went to offer the other two to Damian and Lucile.
‘Everybody have one, girl?’ Damian asked her.
‘Except the other ladies, and my Dad. They’ve got their own.’
Morgan had opted in for all-black again, just like after the funeral. A black shirt was buttoned up to a modest level and her black cargo bottoms were fitted more snugly than the usual cut – might have made the pockets smaller but it’d offer less material for a zed to grab onto.
She’d taped a kitchen knife to the flat side of the hooked end of her hockey stick, and carried it carefully, improvised spear-tip down. Motorcycle boots and the group’s fourth leather jacket completed the look of the survivor…and made her look older, though maybe that was the subtle make-up I detected about her eyes.
Hmm. Like girl back at Greenfield Radio, in the full office attire. Morgan didn’t have fake tan, but they’d both kept their make-up on, like there were some things the end of the world didn’t change, you clung to them like a life raft. I was suddenly aware of the mobile phone in my pocket, switched off. Guess I was clingy too.
‘Ready?’ Neville asked, coming over.
His winter jacket hid his new shoulder holster and would do a good job of keeping off the rain that’d just begun to speckle the windows.
We did a couple last minute things before we set off. Since it was raining, we followed Morgan’s advice, sticking a few bowls, basins or clean buckets out on the penthouse balconies, Damian and Lucile going downstairs to cover their own balconies.
‘We should just use this drizzle as a rinse-out, and probably boil the first few collections. Right?’ Anita asked.
‘Yeah, half of these buckets will have been full of cleaning chemicals and all sorts of horribleness.’ Morgan agreed, ‘So definitely. Ick. We could boil what we get this time and use that to scrub out the collectors for next time with standard washing up liquid.’
Anita nodded approval at the plan. Again, I hoped we weren’t going to be staying in Castle Towers forever, but if evacuation didn’t go ahead, or it turned out to be some kind of sham, then we’d need all the supplies we could muster. Hell. We might even have to start farming in the park after winter was through.
The drizzle was just getting into its stride as we squeezed into the cars; Morgan and Anita riding with Neville in his sedan, while Lucile rode shotgun – literally holding the shotgun – in Damian’s 4x4, me and Laurel taking up the backseats. The rain was light enough for us not to need the wipers before we got to the rundown plaza, but it did put a chill in the air, like the rain was blowing in straight from the north.
We didn’t park on the curb this time. Damian revved his mighty engine up the sloped verge and into the plaza, driving around the left side of the fountain and turning a little around it, so we’d be able to load the shopping into the expansive cargo hold, then drive around the fountain and straight out.
Neville wasn’t going to risk taking his car up the verge, didn’t have the ground clearance for it, so he parked by the curb. We exited our respective vehicles and gathered outside of the co-op’s shutters, clinker-built metal sheeting that could roll up into a long cover across the doorway. Lucile opened up the metal box beside the shutters, where there was only a keyhole and a couple of switches. She produced a little case about the size of a cigarette packet, unzipped it and selected a screwdriver.
I scanned the street as she worked, expecting at any moment to see a grey, dead face appear around the corner. I shivered, told myself it was just the cold, the whispering sound of the soft drizzle, and forced myself to take slow, deep breaths. I was getting bad vibes about this, and they’d only get worse as the sun continued to set, orange light fading to black. I put my hand on the Cobra, tracing the little push-stud that wen
t over the handle to secure it.
‘I’m stumped,’ Lucile eventually hummed, ‘we’d need the right key, or someone better at this sort of thing than me. I’ve fitted one of these before, but I wouldn’t know how to break into one. I could fuck it up and lock it down.’ She added, ‘So I ain’t risking it.’
‘Anything you can tell us?’ Anita asked.
‘It’s not alarmed. Ain’t a concern if we’re to try and force it open.’ She took a quick glance up the side of the building, ‘No main alarm system either. Once we’re through the shutter, don’t worry about tripping anything.’
Damian opened the boot of his ride, crawled in, and dragged the duffle bag towards the edge. His Uncle Robb’s toolkit consisted of all kinds of junk. Snow chains, a shovel with a folding shaft, a pair of crowbars, one four-foot prybar that didn’t quite fit into the bag, half a dozen hammers of different sizes and shapes, a heavyweight red car-jack, a power-drill, a set of bolt-cutters, a box of assorted screwdrivers and a weird tube that looked like it should have been a light fitting…
I could see how some of it could see use on a farmstead, general tools and the like, but some of it was a mystery.
‘Soft touch, or go hard?’ Damian asked, opening the bag so everyone could get a good look inside.
‘Softly.’ Neville replied. ‘No way can we get the shutters out of their runners without something a lot bigger than a lump hammer. We could try ramming it with the front of your tank, it’s got the cattle-bar, but for the noise-’
‘And damage.’ Damian interjected.
‘-and damage, it’s not worth it.’ Neville agreed, holding his hands up defensively.
The precision approach it was. We’d coax it up enough for someone to get underneath, and try to find a way in from there.
I took one of the crowbars and Neville the other. We jammed them off to each side of the shutter, finding just enough give to let them slip under. Anita appeared with the prybar, the crowbars’ oversized big brother, and forced it under the gap. On the count of three, we pressed down, Anita bending double, Neville and myself on our knees.