He remembered that Adi had thrown up spectacularly at one point and not long after complained of feeling bad. Not just Grand Tour bad. Really bad, ill bad, not very well bad.
“Jesus Joe,” Adi had said.
Coughing. Adi had been coughing.
Wiping unfeasibly large and fascinatingly perfect globules of perspiration from his sweat popping forehead.
“I’m getting too old for this. Must be mate, because I feel like someone has unplugged me. No energy.”
This in the dimly lit air-conditioned splendour of whatever fifty-pound a drink establishment that they’d chosen.
Steptoe’s Lounge and Grill.
Joe was sure that it had been Steptoe’s Lounge and Grill.
He could remember old bicycles mounted on the walls and skeletons dressed in vintage overcoats. Fucking brilliant concept and design that was authentically shit. He’d loved and hated it.
Chalk board menus which offered such traditional delights such as Pig’s Trotters in Guinness, Larded Lamb Chops with Parsnip Pickle. Pork Scratching Surprise. The surprise was that your teeth were still in your head after eating them.
They’d stayed there until Adi had simply slumped sideways on the old couch on which he was sitting, unconscious and uncaring. The couch had the stuffing coming out, Joe recalled that. Nice touch, he’d thought. Or it could have been cheap and cheerless.
“You fucking lightweight,” he railed at Adi, alcohol fuelled anger springing up like a rabbit from a magician’s hat.
“Come on, get up you fucking dead loss.”
In his stupefied state, he’d been irrationally enraged that Adi had passed out, hadn’t cared that his old pal looked genuinely ill. Hadn’t comprehended any of the realness of the situation.
Shaking him with no response and looking round the room. Seeing it empty other than a waitress sitting dejectedly, watching them from a nearby table. She was smoking a cigarette, against the rules in here. He’d lit one himself in defiance.
“Fuck him, I’m not staying here, it’s a fucking morgue,” he said, exhaling smoke in her direction.
“When he wakes up, ring the hopeless fecker a taxi.”
“He’s got the bug. Same as everyone else. Well, nearly everyone,” she replied with a despondent, barely perceptible smile.
He vaguely recollected that she was pretty in a cynical, hard-edged way. Badly bleached blond, but it could have been the lighting. Thick ankles though, obscurely sexy. But you knew she’d be overly conscious of them. Probably hated the short skirted uniform that mercilessly revealed them here while she worked. Would tell you how they’d ruined her life, were the bane, those ankles, as soon as you achieved any level of intimacy.
It’s a blur then. Mist.
He remembers walking ...being in Adi’s apartment and digging into the huge store of booze. Surfaced for a while and watched television in a haze of incomprehension. Then it was all vague again before he passed out.
<><><>
He shook off the memories and found his mobile, but the battery was dead. Had he made calls? Yes, he thought so but he couldn’t recall details.
The charger would be in his bag and he thought that was probably at Adi’s office. Left there so he’d be unencumbered on the Grand Tour.
Didn’t want to spoil that Joey-boy. Good Jesus no, don’t fuck with the real business. Travel light to party hard hey.
And he knew from experience that he’d most likely have lost the bag anyway if it came with him. That had happened more than once over the years.
He’d travelled down by train and used taxis. His driving licence was long gone, pissed away along with his wife and child. He couldn’t remember when the ban would be lifted, but until that happy time, his right to legally pilot a car resided in Swansea with the good old driver licensing vehicle authority schutzstaffeln.
The realisation that something genuinely out of the ordinary may have taken place during this noteworthy orgy of overindulgence was beginning the sluggish climb through his muddled memory.
Practically empty establishments that would usually heave with humanity?
Nearly deserted thoroughfares that normally bustled with activity?
Murky images of characters collapsed on streets, in cars and bars.
Weird television stuff?
He dropped the useless mobile back on the sofa where he’d found it and moved to the huge French windows that opened onto to Adi’s balcony. Dragged back the expensively substantial curtains and jiggled the ornate key to open the dodgy doors.
The lock was temperamental, you had to have the knack with that little fuckety-fella.
He was momentarily blinded by the sudden exposure to sunlight. The brightness ignited the headache that’d been smouldering since he regained consciousness. Gave it a good old helping hand, like pouring lighter fuel into a flickering barbecue tray.
Sent a gut-deep wave of nausea washing over him. Staggered him, sickened him to his stomach, had him holding the door to stay upright as an inchoate moan escaped his lips.
You forget this, the pain, don’t you Joey-Joe? The disgust at your condition ....the almost visceral bewilderment as to why you fucking well do it, why you inflict it upon yourself.
He looked through watery eyes at the streets spread out below and, to be begin with at least, couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the picture. And then it started to coalesce into a whole montage of wrongness.
A column of smoke in the cityscape distance.
A fire is feeding that. And make no mistake Joey-boy, a right big fuck-me-somebody-get-de-fire-brigade fire by the looks of it. There’s smoke in the Smoke hey Joey-Joey, hollowed out Joey. Like they used to say, smoke in the sky and fire in your water man, hahahaha.
Joe was intrinsically visual by nature, translated ideas and words into images within his head. But he loved music and the lack of sound was what hit him next.
It was quiet.
Not totally silent but ...just quiet in a way that seemed wrong. Something about the quality of quietude that felt increasingly alien. This city was never quite like this. Not in his sporadic experience.
His eyes picked up movement on the streets. People appearing out of nowhere, lots of them, running towards a lone car that had trundled into view. Ragged, strange looking people. Joe would have sworn that some were completely bare-ass naked. The movement of the runners and the progress of the car were strangely synchronous from his higher perspective. There was a pattern.
The people reacted to the car, seemed to track and move with it. Seemed to be attempting to catch the faster moving target. Which was a little strange.
Joe could predict tragedy as the almost molecular motion resolved itself into convergence. The car met the runners who had succeed in dissecting the trajectory. It was an initially one-sided meeting that resolved into an odd equilibrium.
People were hurled into the air, crashing against metal, shattering glass.
Crushed beneath the wheels.
Churned.
But those same torn and twisted bodies were catching and clogging the machine that was destroying them. In a surprisingly short time, the car ground to a halt.
Joe was aghast. Already feeling sick with hangover, he was sickened further still by the sight below him.
He wondered if it might be hallucination.
God knew he’d had them after a binge. Swarms of flies attacking him. Insects covering the floor. Once a big black lizard crawling across the ceiling. Unreal and untrue, figments of his substance abused mind.
Not like this though. Not this real. Not this simultaneously concrete and abstract. On those occasions, he didn’t remember being able to smell the stale cigarette stink on his clothes or taste old bile at the back of his mouth. Didn’t recall being blinded by sunlight.
The car veered and stopped and the figures crowded on it, threw themselves at it.
Crawled over it.
It reminded Joe of videos he’d seen of microscopic invasion, smaller org
anisms swamping a larger one and overwhelming it.
Covering it.
Some of those figures slithered inside through broken windows. He couldn’t be certain from this distance but it seemed as if the interior of the vehicle seethed with motion like a storm inside an aquarium tank. And then it was like someone had started to dial down the magnetism.
Just tapping down the juice here folks. Sorry show’s over now, the star attraction has left the building guys and gals.
The knot of figures dissipated, began to drift away, leaving a few at the centre that scuffled and fought. Then bent, crouched and intent on whatever they were doing. The car appeared empty but, on and around it, what looked like big splotches dark liquid glistened in the sunlight.
Just then, he got the pretty fucking mad idea that the sun jewelled liquid could be blood and those crouched and intent figures were eating.
Yummy-yummy, it’s good in your tummy Joey-boy.
Eating whoever was inside that car.
Oh dear Jesus God, how fucking mad is that little idea Joey-boy? I’ll tell you fella. That idea is just about fecking-ijit, off-the-scale mad. Lock-you-up-and-eat-the-key mad ...that’s how mad.
Joe retreated from the balcony and closed the door. Bolted it because his hands were shaking too badly to be bothered fiddling with the key.
Held his pounding head and asked himself if he’d really just witnessed that.
What the jumped-up christing hell on a chariot has happened here?
He tried to calculate how much time had disappeared in the drink-fuelled fugue of the Grand Tour and knew it was days but couldn’t put a precise number on it. Joe had woken in some peculiar circumstances over the years but this was shaping up to be humdinger.
Better get your shit together Joey-boy. Get a good old grip on yourself, as the chronic masturbator once said. Sort your head out and see if you can revive your booze-bruised body maybe? Before you venture out to see just what the fuck has been occurring with the world in your absence.
The next hours were spent recovering and thinking. Forcing down whatever food could be found in this poorly stocked way station. Adi was big on the booze front but pretty shoddy on comestibles. If he’d needed food, Adi sent out for it.
Joe did his best to rehydrate, chugged down a bottle of water and a can of coke.
Trawled largely dead TV channels.
Rummaged around the apartment looking for a tablet or laptop. No joy. Adi didn’t actually use the place much himself and guests tended to come equipped.
Finally Joe resorted to scrolling through radio stations. The latter yielded the only real dividend however unbelievable he may have found the content.
“...you’re listening to First City FM, the sound of the capital and, you could say, the last station standing.
I’m Pete Tardieu, your Eighties Aficionado ...your DJ in the desolation, a friendly voice as the apocalypse approaches.
Taking calls again soon guys but to summarise, recap, and roundup, it’s still every man for himself.
I’ve had calls from isolated individuals and small groups but there’s no organised help out there, so stay sharp, stay frosty and be snap, crackle and pop alert. Remember, if you’re unturned, if you didn’t collapse, be very, very careful out there. There aren’t many of us and, believe me guys, from what I’m hearing and seeing, the numbers aren’t getting any bigger if you get my drift.
The web is less and less reliable, so don’t pin your hopes on instagram or twitter, don’t bother trying to google an answer. Give tinder a miss as well for now just in case. I guess the server farms need labourers the same as everything else and the workers are busy turning into a new breed. Mobiles are still working on the whole ...but no idea how long that will last, boys and girls.
If you’ve been hibernating, Rip Van Winkled away the last few days and don’t know the score, those who were infected and collapsed have changed baby.
When they regain consciousness they are deadly.
Let me repeat that guys for those of you who don’t get it.
They are deadly with a capital D.
Yeah, for sure they look, like seriously different, but that’s not the biggest deal here ....they will attack.
Bite and kill.
Eat.
Yes, I said bite, kill eat.
Anyone who hasn’t turned, we’re talking about your loved ones, family, neighbours and friends. If they’ve turned, you’ve got to avoid them at all costs.
Listen up my children of electronic revolution, I’m taking a break.
Gotta show Percy the porcelain and check my security.
I’m on my lonesome ownsome here, save for trusty Alex, engineer to the stars. So giving you some easy listening while I’m gone. Mixed in with some essential survival information that I’ve put together on the fly.
This is Siouxsie and the Banshees, Cities in Dust. Enjoy ...and survive.”
What the fuck? Nonsensically, it occurred to Joe that it was some sort of wind-up. Or he’d imbibed himself into some alternate universe. The theoretical physicists had missed a trick. All you had to do was party hard enough and you could swap dimensions. Fuck dark matter and that shit, grab the dark rum and hidden doors would open.
He stared at a bottle of Scotch, a third full, sitting on the counter top.
Mackmyra single malt. Swedish, very nice.
Adi had an eclectic taste and delighted in the less obvious, sometimes delighted in the offensive.
Well he did, Joey-boy. It’s quite possible Adi’s tastes have changed somewhat ...wherever he is. Could be his tastes are even more offensive to the sensibilities now.
Joe stared at the bottle and tried to silence his mind.
“Not now, Joe. Not now,” he whispered to the empty apartment.
He actually didn’t want a drink, not in the way he did when the tide was rising. It was just stress working on his nerves.
He rifled Adi’s supply of painkillers instead.
Swallowing down four Paracetamol and pocketed the blister pack along with some Diazepam, Co-codamol and a variety of other fairly heavy duty lovelies.
Never know, Joe, you never know.
He couldn’t stay there forever, he had to make a move and the thought filled him with an unalloyed fear.
Leaving the apartment was a scary thought. He couldn’t get a proper grasp on what was going on outside, wasn’t convinced he could believe what he’d seen. And what he’d heard on the radio was plain and simple deranged. Feeling a little ridiculous, like a joke was being played and he was the village idiot fall guy, Joe decided that if he was going to venture out there, he was going to prepare first.
If it was a backdated, infinitely intricate April fool being played on the drunk designer, all well and good. He’d laugh hard at himself and shake hands and say ahh...you wankers, you complete and utter bunch of feckless cunts. If not, well ...better to make at least some preparation, however ludicrous.
Adi had a Banksy on the wall, allegedly given to him personally by the ghost artist. Below it, resplendent on an exquisite Danish sideboard from the fifties, sat a police baton on a custom made stand. Adi said that the baton was part of the gift, a partner piece to the picture.
Joe was never sure he’d believed it. The whole Banksy friendship thing, the just a present from Adi’s old mate Banksy stuff. He knew that Adi had serious connections so why not, but it didn’t ring true somehow to Joe’s ears, and his old friend was unusually evasive whenever pressed for details.
The painting was of a policemen holding one of those black batons with a handle. In the background, a woman stood with her back to the viewer. Spread-eagled against an old brick wall, with a hand lifting her sweetly short skirt. An urban echo of the iconic woman tennis player scratching her backside. A peace sign was tattooed on the bare arse cheek.
Adi had maintained that the baton was the one that featured in the painting. Employed in unorthodox ways by a particular law enforcement officer whenever the circumstance a
llowed.
It was tantamount to sacrilege, given its purported provenance, but Joe took the baton from the stand and felt the weight and heft.
Swept it side and front and considered himself armed. Thought about how Adi would react if he knew that Joe was about to go walkabout with one of his treasures.
Ahh fuck, he’ll understand Joey-boy. In the circumstances. If he’d witnessed that horror show from the balcony, heard the fruit loop on the radio. Always assuming, that is, that Adi is still capable of understanding.
Joe pushed the voice in his head down and went in search of the door keys. Located them and retired to the bathroom to relieve himself. Groaned again at the sorry sight that was reflected in the mirror.
You really do look like shit, Joey-Joey-not-so-showy. A badly drawn picture of some especially sorry shit.
Unready but unwillingly to delay longer, he made a final check on the streets below through the balcony windows. There were figures, not that many, but they were there. And they didn’t look right somehow.
He left the apartment and locked the door behind him without ever knowing it was for the last time.
The landing was only shared by one other entrance. On the opposite side. He paused, considered knocking the door.
Do you think knocking would be a good idea Joey-boy? Really? Jesus wept buckets of blood, do I need to knock some more sense into your thick head? Stuff is more than a little off-kilter here. Ought you not see the lie of the land first maybe, before you go banging up the neighbours? If you think there’s shite in the alleyway, don’t go running down it like an ijit. Go slow and watch where you put your feet.
Joe had a fair idea that there was stinking sticky dog’s mess around here somewhere. He didn’t want to go tracking it onto anyone’s best carpet, least of all his own.
If you don’t look before you leap Joey-boy, you’ll spend a lot of your time getting into trouble ...and the rest getting out of it.
He decided against knocking.
There was a small elevator and beside that a stairway that served the four floors of the building. He didn’t want to use the lift. Oh no, not at all. The thought of being enclosed in that tight space and the antique doors sliding open to reveal whatever awaited below struck him as fraught with possibilities ...and at that particular moment in time, none of those possibilities seemed encouraging.
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