by Luke Kondor
For the first time since she had met him, Joanna looked at Sunny with something akin to anger.
“To live and love,” Joanna murmured.
Veronica nodded, tidying away the bleach into a nearby cupboard. “To live and love.”
~ 4 ~
“This stupid fucking radio’s playing up,” the small, chubby man said as he rubbed the grit and dust from his sore eyes. He slapped his hand on the amplifier and watched the VU needle jump up to the right and back. The static banshee-screamed until he rolled the volume knob downwards, only to find the howling winds take its place. “I hope you know without a radio we’re pretty pointless up here.”
The other man, taller with sallow skin – almost jaundiced, by the small man’s eyes – simply lifted his head from the scope of his rifle, cracked his neck and nodded, dancing his head up and down to some unheard beat as he chewed on a piece of wheat he’d pulled from the ground outside the shed.
A shed.
Yep.
Not exactly the creature comforts of his little cabin back down the hill, back in his little paradise in Hope, but what more could the small man ask for?
“You… you reckon we should head back?” the small man said, pulling his parker coat tighter around himself, struggling to block out the cold with its prying fingers.
“Nah, leave it. We’re useful up here, at least until the sun sets. It’s not like we’re in much danger these days. How long has it been since you’ve seen a rotter or a scavvie running along those fields?” The tall man kept on dancing his jaw and chewing as he squinted his eyes and pressed it to the rifle’s scope, looking down into the valleys and hills around the small village of Burham.
The small man nodded in lazy agreement before his eyes focused on the object between the tall man’s hands. Concern crossed his brow. “That being said, don’t you find it odd that Henry has allowed us guns again? We haven’t had a gun up here in months.”
The tall man turned to look at him. “Exactly. And that’s why we need to hold our post here for as long as possible. Henry may act the comedian to most of the Hopefuls, but he’s a smart guy, y’know. Man’s got more brains than he lets on. If he wants us up on Picnic Hill with a gun pressed to our faces until dawn, then that’s what we’re going to do. If he wants you to shit into a cup and lick off the frosting, then that’s what you’re going to do.”
The small man dry-heaved at the thought but said nothing. He slumped further into his little corner. The useless radio equipment to his left-hand side singing its white noise as it wasted what little battery power remained.
“You know, when I first found Hope,” the tall man continued, “Henry was the first to welcome me with a big smile and a hug. He even got Chef to rustle up some of the best lentil broth I’ve tasted in years.”
“Is that with the fake vegan mince meat and beans?”
“Oh, aye. The stuff they only break out for special occasions. And you know the next morning, I wake up – belly still full from the evening of food and legs still aching from my dancing – and he’s sitting there, at the bottom of my bed. The sun hadn’t even risen and the man was dressed and ready for show. He’s practically sitting on my legs, locking me down in that bed, and the old coot lays it to me straight. Tells me everyone needs a purpose, says he knew about my tours in Iraq and he says my purpose is clear.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” the small man said, feeling sleep paw at him but unable to welcome it, finding himself needing to squeeze something, break something. As his old Ma used to say. He was getting tetchy. “Is this little flash down memory lane going to make fire? I’m freezing my dick off here. We’ve been camping in this outpost for three nights and I’m tired. I haven’t slept more than two hours in one go and now this fucking shortwave radio isn’t even working. And what are you concerned with? You want to stay put because it makes you feel needed? Because Henry gives you purpose? Come on!”
Here the tall man laughed. “No man, that ain’t what I’m saying. I already know I have a skill, a purpose, and a reason. As much as I hate to say it, I’m a tool.”
“Phrasing.”
“And you know what? You are too. Tools that Henry has placed on this hill, to watch over the innocent Hopefuls and report back should we see anything.”
The sun was now setting. What little warmth it cast down on those hills was soon to vanish. If the small man was already feeling cold, he was about to get a whole lot worse. Far down the hills and into the valley was an empty little village of stone and rock with a single steeple poking upwards. A five-mile jaunt to its left, hiding amongst the trees, was their little home of Hope. The tall man carefully scanned the roads for torchlight and the skies for smoke but saw nothing. They were the key indicators to watch for. They were the telltale signs of scavvies.
“I’m a tool?” the small man asked, offended but too tired to complain.
“Sure are, and if Henry’s asked us to stay up here, there must be a reason. Something’s happened, or is happening, and Henry’s worried. So if you want more of Henry the comedian and his tasty lentil broth, we are going to have to lick the shit every now and again, be useful, and do what the fuck he says, because we’re up here for a reason.” He looked back down the scope, gently moving it and realigning the focus as he moved towards Hope. Soon the Hopefuls would be lighting up for the night. Another evening meal he was happy to miss out on for the greater good. “And, if you ask me, Hope is worth protecting, and I intend to do my very best to help Henry in any way he asks. What about you, man? What are you prepared to do?”
The small man remained silent for a second before turning back to the radio and turning the volume knob back up.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, resigning himself to another frosty night on Picnic Hill. At least we got old packets of digestive biscuits up here, he thought. Stale and soft to their bite, but at least we got them.
~ 5 ~
The fires lit the way. Wooden stumps pressed into the ground wrapped in bundles of cloth. Thick, caustic smoke poured upwards from the dancing flames, filling the air with streaks of grey against the bruised evening sky.
The waters of the lake were mostly peaceful but for the odd sound of some fish or bird in the distance, splashing carelessly in the water. Still, it wasn’t enough to break the tranquil spirit of the evening. The spirit that was doing its best to unfurl Colin from his tightly coiled spring, to tease him out and open him up to the world around him. He could already smell the scent of food in the air, saliva pooling in the corners of his mouth.
So why was his heart thumping so loud? Why were his breaths shallow? Why couldn’t he stop thumbing the wedding band he wore around his finger? Was it fear of openly accepting a new life? Was it shame at having kept himself to himself since arriving in Hope? To open himself up to a new family? It couldn’t be that hard to smile and let go, surely? What would a guilt-free smile cost him?
The torches left white sparks in his vision as he passed another, then another, the warmth of each one enveloping him. Occasionally he could see the distant silhouette of a Hopeful making their own way to the dinner hall. Some by themselves, others in small groups. All with a smile on their faces.
And he could hear it now, the distant melody of music. The bass thumping louder than the other instruments, hiding the tune, causing Colin’s heart to slam against his ribcage that much quicker. He passed the last of the cabins and made his way over the painted red bridge into the centre of Hope. A place he had made an effort to avoid at all costs during daytime hours (besides his little canicross adventure earlier that day).
The town centre was circular and designed to resemble an idyllic, almost medieval town, with a stone well in the centre for throwing coins and wasting wishes, a supermarket with a facade made from giant lengths of tree, now used for food storage and an armoury for the Hopefuls (not that Colin had made use of its facilities yet). Next to that was the admin cabin. Standard brick and mortar painted child-vomit yellow. As if the charade
of perfect mountain wooden town didn’t matter when it came to administration. Only business. No fun. That was where Henry lived with his daughter, Veronica. At the centre of it all.
The music drifted from further down. He could now hear the dancing strings of a guitar and the tuneful whine of a violin, or cello, or whatever the hell stringed instrument it was. One that you played with taut horsehair. Colin was never much of a musician.
He heard the growing call of chatter and laughter coming from a set of large double doors with the warm glow of light spilling onto the pavement. Above the doorway, three bowling pins and a bowling ball were drawn in old school vinyl lights, unused for a decade, sat above a big sign which read “Kingpin Alley” in faux-handwritten calligraphy. Feeling his hand shaking, he buried it deep into his coat pocket, gripping hold of the fabric, steadying as best he could as he took a deep breath, and entered.
It was almost instantaneous. A scene from an old rom-com.
The music softened and a hush fell over the crowd from the moment the first head turned and saw Colin. A few Hopefuls attempted to continue their conversations but were soon quietened by the event of the stranger standing at their door.
Colin scanned the dozens upon dozens of faces and recognised less than half of them. He searched through their features, the women, men, the old folks, the children, feeling hotter with every second that passed. He found himself instantly regretting his decision, feeling like he wanted to be anywhere else but here, exposed and under the spotlight. Unable to hide. He willed his legs to turn and run, but he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to stop the feeling of vomit rising in his—
“Wells, hello stranger,” Anton called from the table nearest to him, earning a small wave of chuckles from across the room. He was sat next to the head of a long table. Across from him was a woman Colin recognised as Henry’s daughter, Veronica, her doe eyes fluttering as she giggled into her hand and prodded Joanna’s side. Sunny was sat next to Joanna, idly staring off into some unknown vision, and further down the table he recognised a few faces but knew no names. Greying men and women, a handful of kids in their early teens.
And then there were the musicians. A man in his thirties with a large dent in the top of his head was sat on the floor with his guitar, plucking masterfully at the few strings which remained. The thing seemed to be in almost as bad a shape as its player. Colin thought he could see the gleam of sticky tape and string holding it together. Next to him sat a woman with gaunt cheekbones and skeletal-thin fingers with the stringed thing (viola?). After Anton’s call to Colin, they had begun playing again, quieter now, settling into a sweet, folky tune.
Anton signalled for Colin to take a seat. Taking his cue, everyone returned to their conversations.
Colin forced a smile but felt himself taking a backwards step, as if his legs had made up his mind for him and had decided it best to simply retreat. Why bother trying to integrate and get to know these people when any day something else could happen to rip him away from company? He took another step, eyes never leaving Anton’s, and felt himself building the energy to run.
He might’ve followed through with it too if a hand hadn’t suddenly gripped his shoulder tightly.
“You know,” the voice spoke, a rasp like he’d been guzzling syrup. “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving? The Hopefuls have heard tales of that famous Bolton charm.” Colin turned to see the familiar old face. The grey goatee of some conquistador lost in time. The same cheeky smile and warming eyes. The hair matted and messy in fits and spurts of grey tufts. “Well?” Henry said, gesturing to the seat next to his own on the table.
Colin nodded, feeling the lump catch in his throat, wondering why he was more scared at that moment than he’d been back at Ditton. Back at that factory there were rotters and scavvies. Here there were people – strangers – and dinner, and chit-chat. This was much, much worse.
Henry led him by the shoulder like some lost schoolboy to the chair and sat him down. He was half-impressed by the lit tea-lights decorating the tables, making everyone’s faces gleam and their cheekbones glisten. As he pulled his chair in he nodded to Anton, then to Veronica, and even allowed himself to nod at Joanna whose pale face seemed to redden by the second.
On the tables in front of them were plain dinnerware consisting of a single white porcelain bowl, a plastic party cup full of water, and a second smaller cup (looked like half a plastic bottle sliced in two) with two fingers of some clear liquid Colin could smell without even lifting it to his nose.
“Typical man, jumping straight to the drink,” Veronica giggled. “That pungent little tipple there would be Hope’s own little brand of moonshine.”
He placed his hand around the cup, feeling the thin plastic bend. He lifted the cup to his nose and almost felt the hairs evaporate and his hairline recede a good inch.
Anton shook his head. “Don’t do its.”
“You not a drinker, Anton?”
“Wells,” he shrugged. “I mean if we had some sort of Schnapps then perhaps I’d joins you, but I can’t drink Henry’s vile concoction. It tastes like diesel oil.”
“What our little Dutch friend won’t tell you is what this moonshine of mine is, he did try to drink it but found he couldn’t handle the full-bodied flavour profile.” Henry smiled as he placed his own drink to his nose and sniffed deeply. “A bouquet of rose petals, with an earthy timbre, and some intense notes of… well, I guess you could just say alcohol.” He cast his smile around the table. A couple other Hopefuls across the room turned to watch. Among them, Colin saw another familiar face. Ria, the ex-leader of the scouting pack who had taken Colin hostage and almost gotten them all killed. “Very intense notes.”
The others laughed and Colin found himself smiling along.
He’s Jerry LeShard’s brother alright. No doubt about it.
Colin knocked the shot of moonshine back in one smooth motion. Down the hatch. Hole in one. He instantly felt his gag reflex going into overdrive as he coughed and burped up a mouthful of bilious gas. His eyes watered and reddened as he shrugged and said “What’s in this stuff? Rocket fuel?”
“Potatoes,” Veronica said. “Dad makes the moonshine from potatoes.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, Veronica, but yes, you get the picture. The prime ingredient is the foundation of any good culture. La pomme de terre.”
“It tastes like creosote,” Colin said dryly.
The musicians finished their piece and rolled right into a slower melody as a man in a green fleece jumper emerged from a door which led to the adjoining ‘burger joint’ kitchen. His loose steel-toe-capped boots slapped the floor with each step as he wheeled, what appeared to be, a trolley formally used for school dinners and kid’s birthday parties. On the trolley sat a big old silver pot. The weight of it pressed and squeaked the wheels against the plastic floor. From the pot poured a delightful smell that had Colin’s stomach growling. The man pushing didn’t look happy. Not sad either, just tired and a little pissed off.
“Ah ha,” Henry said to the man. “What’s on tonight’s menu, Chef?”
The man turned, and grumbled, “A shit load of baked beans and a handful of rice.”
“Lovely jubbly,” Henry said as he stood and addressed the Hopefuls. “A meal fit for kings am I right? Dig in!”
Within a half second, most had climbed from their seats, queuing up to receive a bowl of juicy red bean mulch into bowls which had been stacked on the burger joint counter.
Waiting until everyone had been served (by Henry’s orders, not his own, Colin guessed at his grumpy demeanour as Chef watched the Hopefuls already slurping away at the food on their tables), Chef grabbed a bowl for himself and sat down on a stool away from everyone else. He used his fingers to shovel in the food, and, when he spotted Colin watching him, he grinned like a crazed goon, juice and husks caught in his teeth until Colin turned his attention back to his own food.
“We hope you’re all settling in okay,” Veronica s
aid as she gulped a mouthful of food and reached for her water. “How long’s it been since you guys arrived together?”
“A week now, I think.” Joanna looked at Colin for confirmation, then continued as he focused on his own food, scraping the dregs of juices from the bottom of the bowl. “The cabin you’ve put us up in is kind of great. It’s the comfiest bed me and Sunny have slept in for months. And in the mornings we have such a beautiful view of the lake. The morning sun catches it just right and we can watch the birds and the squirrels running around.”
Colin looked up at this. Despite his best efforts, he found his eyes drawn to the way her mouth moved, the way the fire from the table’s tea-lights caught her pink lips.
“And you, Sunny?” Henry asked.
The boy remained silent, looking down into his bowl of scraps, moving them around with his spoon. “Ever the strong silent type, eh? Well, I have to say, the lake is a great foundation and has acted as a sort of holy centre for us all here. A common sight of beauty and tranquillity. Who knows, soon we might start performing baptisms on Sundays. You don’t fancy moving into one of the cabins with a view, do you, Colin?”
“No,” Colin said flatly. “I quite like my little home in the outer layers.”
“Sure, sure. Different horses and all that. I suppose you’re not too far from Byron’s digs around there, too.”
A knowing smile crept on Henry’s face as he winked.
Colin didn’t reply, but finished his food and washed it down with his water.
“I think it’s time we got some more drinks in,” Henry said. He stood up and addressed the room. Within seconds, all spoons had been placed on tables and heads had turned. “Ladies and gentleman. It is not often that we have the chance these days to welcome new people into our family. It’s a cold harsh world out there in the country, and although a lot of us have been living here in comfort and safety, we must always remember that there are some who are not so lucky. Some folks are out there, in little survivalist bunkers, tucked away in some residential back garden. Some have found solace in the cold ruins of the cities now filled with scavvies and junkers, and some are still out there, wandering up and down the arteries of England, like starved blood cells, alive with electricity but weak, slowing as they move until something catches them and they stop altogether.”