by Luke Kondor
“Everything okay, Anton?”
“Fine. Fine,” was the answer. No eye contact. Colin wondered what was going through his mind. It certainly couldn’t be fear, could it?
Dylan stood to attention and sniffed at Anton’s pocket as he walked past. Whisper, followed suit.
“Ah. Good doggies,” Anton said seeming to notice them for the first time. “We’re set to go, thens?”
“On your command,” said Byron.
“Don’t you need a dog, Anton?”
“I don’ts think it’s for me.” He held up a Glock 17 – standard army issue. “This is more my speed.”
They lugged their equipment out of the supermarket, past the stone well, and out to the carpark. On their way, Colin spied that same VW Campervan he’d seen as he arrived with Anton, Joanna and Sunny. Unused and collecting rust. The two motors they’d arrived in were parked next to it.
They opened the doors and let the dogs climb into the back seats, Byron topped the Ranger with biodiesel and they all clambered inside – Byron in the backseat tucked between the two dogs, Colin in the passenger seat, and Anton behind the wheel.
“All set?” Colin asked the car.
Byron fought through tongue lickings and nose nudgings, managing a quick, “Yeah,” before it was lost in laughter. Anton sat silently, revved the engine, and took to the road, soon disappearing in the forests of Hope.
Colin spared one last glance out the back window to watch the township melt into the scribbling of trees. A beautiful illustration etched out with lines of grey and brown ink. When it faded into varying shades of green, he turned to the front and made himself comfortable.
It had taken him a long time to find a place like Hope. And somehow he couldn’t shake away the feeling that, by leaving, he was never going to see it again.
At least not in the same way.
~ 11 ~
Colin vaguely recognised the dirty lines of roads as they left the forests and entered the countryside of Kent. The country pathways forever jumping left to right on such a narrow girth that at one point in time they’d be screaming at Anton to slow down, worried they’d turn a corner to see oncoming traffic with no way to dodge one another than to jam the steering wheel starboard, dip into the ditch on the side of the road, bounce and roll themselves to relative safety, hanging bloody from their seat-belts, waiting for the emergency services to come and cut them out.
Truth was that, although they didn’t have to worry about oncoming traffic, Anton was driving like a lunatic. Accelerator snogging the floor. The engine screaming. Colin remembered Anton telling him over a quiet drink during his first days in Hope about the terrifying car journey he’d endured with Chicory, how he feared for his life then. Worried that every pothole could be the next one to launch them several feet into the air.
Had he forgotten all that? Choosing instead to emulate Chicory?
“Easy now, Dutchman,” Colin said. “What’s your hurry, eh?”
Anton didn’t answer. The deep arcs beneath his eyes had turned a light purple. He rubbed at them feverishly with one hand, clutching the steering wheel tightly in the other. Colin glimpsed their speed on the dash to see the needle hovering between 50 and 60mph.
“I’m not kidding, Anton. Slow the fuck down.”
Dylan barked as if in agreement.
Anton sighed and dropped down a gear. The phrenetic roaring of the engine tempered to a deep guttural growl as though they’d swapped the pistons for a baby dragon.
Ford Ranger – Smaug Edition.
They passed through a small village. Mostly grey stone bricks and the odd farm here and there. A few bales of hay and the rotten ribs of some long-deceased cow. Colin had only been within a gated community for a week and already felt as though he’d lost touch with the outside world. He thought of what it took nowadays to keep safe. To stay alive.
“You guys have a pretty good setup with that supermarket. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. Either of you know how this wonderful world of Hope came to be?”
He expected an answer from Anton, but it was Byron who spoke.
“I wasn’t one of the originals,” Byron said. “I was one of the lucky few found before I perished. Got picked up from Burham after losing consciousness out on the fields.”
“How long were you out there for?”
“I wish I knew. I think it must have been at least two days, but I was out of it. There wasn’t much left of me. I remember waking up with water and an IV drip taped to my arm.”
“An IV? Fancy.”
“We don’t do that anymore,” Anton said, little enthusiasm to his tone. “Medical supplies aren’t easy to come by. Veronica now saves most of that stuff for emergencies.” He looked at Byron through his rearview. “I remember when they found you. I remember David bringing you in from his cache drop. Said you and your dog were out there on the wheat hills looking more like corpses than survivors. Said you weren’t alone.”
“I wasn’t,” Byron answered, turning to gaze out the window as he thought of the days gone by.
“We’ve all lost a lot, I guess,” Colin said. We’ve all lost a lot.
As they drove onwards they eventually found themselves turning off past a sign labelled “10 miles to Leybourne”. The road narrowed further, turning from smooth tarmac to rough gravel, growing looser with each passing mile. Even Anton, with his erratic driving, was forced to drop down another gear.
“Nearly there,” he said.
Colin turned his head to check on the dogs who were both nervously panting, uneasy at the mechanical monstrosity moving and bouncing beneath them. What goes on in a dog’s mind when they’re riding in a car? What magic would they contribute this to? Colin pondered, lingering on Dylan’s face.
He stopped when he noticed Byron looking at him, smiling. “It’s easy to form a bond with these guys, Colin, but do not let it ruin your peace of mind. These dogs, as much as we care for them and they care for us, are tools at our disposal. Trained for a single purpose.”
Colin chuckled. “Say that as much as you want, but you ain’t fooling anyone. You love these dogs like they’re your family and you know it. I won’t be surprised if I wake to find you spooning them in the night.”
Byron rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.
They pulled sharply onto a dirt road that peppered the underside of the car with dirt and pebbles and passed a sign that read, DANNY’S DIRTY BUGGY – £20 for 60-Minutes. They stopped at what looked like a painted-green outhouse, resting unevenly on raised legs, one corner sunk into the mud beneath it. The windows were mesh security glass. The door windowless and paper-thin. It looked to be some sort of caravan. By its side was a port-a-loo on its back with the door hanging open.
“Anybody need a potty break?” Colin said. “Now’s your chance.”
Looking over the fence behind the caravan he saw the muddy paths that zig-zagged up and down the hill behind it. On the corners sat piles of old car tyres, ready to absorb the impact of some clumsy driver. On the near corner he saw a quad-bike. Unused and forgotten, yet still with mud caked to its fat rubber wheels.
Anton walked to the door of the caravan and popped a key into the door.
“Where did you get the key?” Colin said. Anton didn’t respond. He turned and threw a wink at Colin.
Anton went inside and searched, leaving Colin and Byron with the dogs outside. A few minutes later, Anton reemerged.
“Nothing?” Colin said.
Shaking his head, Anton said: “Only the gas we left for them a few weeks ago and the same old note that I wrote last time.” He held up a wrinkled piece of paper, then let his arms drop. “What’s going on, Susie?” Colin caught him mumble into the wind.
Anton turned and headed back inside, the sounds of rummaging soon following. Byron handed over several dog leads to Colin and spent the next few minutes searching with Anton, flipping chair cushions and opening and shutting drawers with loud bangs. When Byron was satisfied that there was not
hing else to find, he came out the front of the caravan and shrugged. “Clean.”
“Well, then,” Colin said. “On to King’s Hill?”
Despite his eagerness to travel quickly, Anton paused a moment, fighting some inner battle. He looked from Colin, to Byron, to the dogs, and back, then nodded and began to walk back to the car.
It was as Colin placed a hand on the car door that they heard the sounds of muffled whimpering, carried gently on the breeze. The trio’s eyes met. Anton drew the Glock out of his bag. Without a word, they advanced in the direction of the noise, the dogs pulling at their leads. Aiming for a crop of thick, thorny bushes where a dark shadow moved inside.
“Who goes there?” Byron boomed.
A whimper, then quiet. They took another step. The boy’s shape came into view. Dark brown eyes looming out of the shadow of the bush.
Anton aimed the gun at the boy’s head. The boy stood up rapidly, then grimaced in pain as one of his legs folded. He looked to be in his early twenties. His skin was slick with sweat. The scars on his cheek were like Roman numerals in pink ink etched into skin. His scraggly tufts of tightly wound black curls bounced with each word and moan.
“Don’t shoot,” the boy said, raising his hands high, then dropping one to clutch at his leg. He stepped out from behind the bush and Colin could see what the problem was, could see the mess on his leg. Or even the mess that was his leg. The open wound glistened in crimson which trickled down his shin and into his socks. Deep gouges carved into the calf muscle revealed a glimpse of the mechanics within. The boy spoke with gritted teeth, choosing to lean on a nearby tree for support. “Please, don’t shoot.”
The dogs barked.
“Who are you?”
“I’m… Argh… I’m looking for…” the boy said, cutting off and wincing as a fresh jolt of pain ran up his leg.
“Looking? For what?” Colin said, loosening Dylan’s leash somewhat, letting him advance an extra few inches towards the boy, spittle flying from Dylan’s mouth.
The boy didn’t reply.
“What are you looking for?!”
Suddenly the boy groaned, eyes shutting tight. He fell backwards, his back finding the tree as he slid down onto his rump. Colin reeled Dylan back in and handed the leash to Byron. He kneeled beside the boy and placed a hand on his forehead – something that he might’ve automatically done for Fletcher, once upon a time.
“Hope,” the boy whispered, just loud enough for Colin to hear. His fingers clenched around his knee as if they would serve as a tourniquet. “Argh… ahh… I’m looking for Hope.”
Weren’t they all?
Colin carried the boy to a soft patch in the shade whilst Byron fetched a bottle of the clean water. They helped him to suckle from the end of the bottle as though they were feeding a calf. Clumsily the boy drank, coughing and hacking up what he didn’t manage to swallow. Byron placed a thick stick between the boy’s teeth, told him to “Chomp tight,” then whipped off his belt and tied it around the boy’s leg – tight. So tight that the flesh plumped up around the leather like sausage meat. The boy screamed and cursed. The twig dropped out of his mouth and to the floor. Anton dabbed and put pressure on the wound with a rag he found in the car. Not exactly clean, but desperate times, and all that jazz.
Somewhere along the line, it seemed to work. They all watched helplessly as the boy’s breaths went from rapid, to fast, to calm. The pain becoming more manageable now that the bleeding was under control.
When it seemed as though the boy was ready to talk, Colin asked, “Where are you from?”
“Where are you from, bruv?”
Colin found himself grinning. Mangled and beaten, the boy still had chops.
“We’re from the place you’re looking for. Hope. That good enough for you?”
The boy’s eyes brightened. He looked at them all in turn, then seemed to consider the original question. “Come straight from King’s Hill. Or… at least… what’s left.” He thumped his head against the rough bark behind him and looked up into the sky. “It’s bad, man. It’s fucking bad. Bad, bad, bad…”
“What’s happened?” Anton asked, a note of desperation in his voice. “Our scout said they heard gunfire? We were on our way to see if there was anything we could do? To find survivors.”
“You can go to King’s Hill if you want to. But you won’t find much there. Whole thing was a shit-show. A-grade catastrophe. From zero to sixty in five seconds, then… boom.”
“Scavvies?” Byron asked.
The boy nodded. “We got ambushed. Travel-folk. They flanked us from all sides and had numbers – boy, did they have numbers. Armed to the teeth with guns. Government issues, likely. Those fuckers must’ve found some old military lock-house or something. We’re talking semi-automatic shit they used when the rot first hit. But they weren’t soldiers. These were scavvies, no doubt about it.”
Colin’s stomach glowed with a hot burning as he remembered the last scavvies he’d encountered. He saw Jerry and Kitty’s dying eyes as their life spilled out of their throats. The demonic grin of Uncle Patrick Miller as Colin drove away from the LeShards’ farm in a haze of rubble and dust.
Something wet nuzzled his clenched fists. He opened his eyes and saw Dylan next to him, licking where he’d bitten him the day before. They locked eyes for a second and Colin felt calm wash over him once again. He ran his hand over Dylan’s nose and turned back to the boy.
“Do you know of any survivors? You can’t have run by yourself?”
The boy thought for a moment. “No. I didn’t. There were others… for a short while. My mind just got so occupied with running that I don’t remember where we parted ways. Beckett… and…”
“Susie? Is Susie okay?” Anton jabbed.
The boy studied Anton curiously. “Big bad Susie K?” A sadness washed over him and his lip quivered. Pearl-drop tears rose to the corners of his eyes. “She… she…” He lowered his head, took a deep breath, and met Anton’s eyes. “Let’s just say I hope so. But… when they started attacking, it was hell. We ran. I heard her shouting my name, then Quinton’s, then Beckett’s. Then it was drowned by gunfire.”
A soft moan escaped Anton’s lips. He clapped his hands on his head and walked back to the car, kicking pebbles as he went.
Colin looked at Byron, his face full of concern.
“Enough questions. We need to get that leg looked at properly. Kid, do you think you’re able to stand?”
The boy nodded, carefully bringing himself to his feet with the support of Colin’s hand on his underarms. “Thank you.” He took a step. “And I’m not a kid, bruv. The name’s Keaghan.”
Colin and Byron guided Keaghan back to the car, the dogs obediently following alongside, casting doubtful glances at their new companion. Keaghan soon fell asleep, the exhaustion catching up with him as Byron cleaned the wound and dressed it with items from the car’s medikit.
Meanwhile, Anton wandered in circles around the car, head deep in thought. Colin watched him closely, wondering what the hell was on Anton’s mind to make him act so irrationally. So out of character. Was it this mysterious Susie K figure? Could she be the source of his anguish?
As the clouds rolled by and they each pondered their next move, Colin began to wonder what the hell they’d gotten themselves into.
~ 12 ~
“I think we need to turn back,” Colin said to Anton as he watched Byron take Whisper and Dylan along the small racing track, weaving back and forth between the mounds of tires. “We can take the boy back to Hope, let him give Henry an update on what he’s seen, and fortify our defences. If there really is – and I have no reason to doubt the kid – a group of scavvies taking down towns with military weaponry, we have to be prepared. Up the patrols, arm the runners, hole up for a month or two. Maybe get into that bunker Henry was talking about.”
Anton stared blankly into the distance, his face a grim mirror of whatever thoughts were rolling around in his head.
“We’re so
close to King’s Hill now,” he said. “It’d takes longer to get back than to goes on forward.”
“So? What does that change?”
“We need to goes all the way now, we find what survivors we can. There could be more lives.” He turned slowly to Colin. “They need us.”
“Did you not hear what Keaghan said? These scavvies are armed – with real firepower. Not machetes, not baseball bats and golf clubs. Not even the poxy pistol you got there. They got more than pellets and dog-teeth, my friend, more than we can handle.”
Anton ran his hand through his hair and sniffed. The arcs beneath his eyes were growing darker; his skin paling with each passing hour. The man looked sick.
He looked at the floor. “You and Byron cans leave if you wants to, Colin. But I needs to go. I can’t leave those others out there alone. If they’re hurt, like Keaghan, then they’re going to need to be picked up and taken back somewhere they can get some helps and heal. It would be wrong of us to leave them there alone. Ins my bones, I feel I cannot let these folks die like that.”
“Anton…”
“There are so few of us left.” He turned to Colin, deep sadness wearing on him now like he’d been wearing a mask this whole time and now it was slipping, revealing the man’s trueness beneath.
“What do you mean?”
“There are so many bad peoples out there, Colin. I always figured that when it came down to it, when you boil down the mix, there would be more good than bad. That human natures was inherently good, empathetic. I figured that that was what made our species so successful, that, no matter what, the good would outweighs the bad, and there’d still be a happy society.
“But then when the rot hit…” His eyes glazed over for a moment and Colin wondered whether he was going to continue. “People turned to monsters. People I knew took their knives and their bats and they turned to demons. I saw the strong and vile take from the weak and sweet. An old lady surrounded by boys with… I don’t know… but they didn’t have knives. They looked like screwdrivers to me… Whatever they used theys attacked her and didn’t stop. They must have beens going for at least ten minutes until the woman eventually bled out on the floor of her apartment building.”