Joe did a long slow turn on his heel and was satisfied that everything was quiet. He walked up to the filling station entrance and peered in.
Tried the door. One of those chunky old aluminium handles. It rattled a little but it was locked.
Joe pressed his face closer to the glass to reduce reflection and see the inside more clearly.
Empty. Deserted.
He rested his forehead against the cooling glass and closed his eyes in frustration.
Tried to think.
The pumps might be turned off inside he supposed. He didn’t know how this shit worked but he guessed there had to be switches somewhere and they couldn’t be that hard to find surely. But he’d have to break in and, if there was power still flowing, that might set off alarms.
Ooh, that wouldn’t be good Joe-Joe. Not even a little bit good, old hoss.
Or the power could be down in the whole area. Grid failure. How long would the power stay up without maintenance anyway? He didn’t know, and neither did he know how to get petrol out of the fucking pump without it. There was no doubt a way but he sure as shit didn’t know it. The car was a piece of crap anyway, whether he filled it up or not. Better than shank’s pony for sure, but flimsy feeling and slight.
And damaged, don’t forget damaged.
Forget about another horde of those monsters attacking it, he was pretty sure the back window would fall out if they hit a reasonably big pothole.
He took a breath and turned his head to regard the store across the way. Decent vehicles. Certainly better than what he currently had keys for. Odds on, one of them must have fuel.
Much as he might be pushing his dwindling luck, he had to explore the other obvious option, check out those motors. More undecided than sure, he crept over to the edge of road. Looking both ways for threat, feeling like a little kid learning the green cross code, he ran across and over to the shop. The cars were locked which left him at the front door of the Kenright premises.
He timidly applied pressure to the door and felt a conflicting surge of euphoria and dread as it eased open a fraction. He shot a glance over his shoulder but sun glinting on the glass of the little Toyota prevented him from seeing Miriam.
Well, if she was bothered to look, she’d know well enough what he was doing.
He shoved the gun more securely into his pocket and raised the machete. Then pushed the door wide enough to squeeze through and, once inside, flattened himself against the glass as it inched shut again.
It was gloomy and quiet. Larger than he’d expected. Not exactly Waitrose but a rapid inventory suggested it was well stocked. More importantly, it appeared orderly and undisturbed. Neat and tidy. Nothing that would imply there’d been any commotion or violence here.
There were bolts at top and bottom of the door and he briefly considered flipping them to seal the entrance behind him, and just as swiftly dismissed the idea. If he had to leave in a hurry he didn’t want to be pithering about unbolting the only fucking exit.
He glided silently down an aisle towards the counter at the back of the room. Old style, he thought. A new retail premises would have had the checkout by the door but this was a throwback to the old days of mom and pop stores. Cash register and long counter at the rear and beyond that another doorway that presumably led deeper into the residential part of the building.
They sold alcohol.
Of course they sell alcohol Joe-Joe, you jolly old Joester you. Drinking’s popular and harmless in moderation, lots of people do it.
Most of that it behind the long counter. Ranks of bottles and cans and next to that a bank of tobacco products. Smokers corner, on display, open to public appraisal. Not like the big supermarkets that had to hide them from view like so many wank mags under the counter. Out of sight and only available if you were dirty and desperate enough to ask for them. Not that he supposed wank-mags were that popular anymore. If you were interested, nowadays there was an infinite variety of porn available at the touch of a button. Well, there used to be. It struck Joe that porn magazines might become more valuable than gold if the internet didn’t spark up again.
His eyes lingered greedily on the tobacco products. Cigarettes and cigars, loose tobacco and even pipes, were displayed in all their death dealing glory.
Joe’s eyes roved over the bottles and his lips pursed in admiration as his gaze lingered on the whiskies, brandies and Champagne selection.
“Mr Kenright my good man, you must have a clientele with quite a sophisticated palate. None of yer rubbish here hey fella”
Joe knew he had more important matters to attend to. Little stuff such as delving deeper into the house and finding keys for a vehicle and generally trying to avoid being ripped apart by monsters.
Staying alive, critical kind of stuff.
Except he couldn’t resist. He moved behind the counter, laid the machete on top of it, took a plastic carrier and began piling boxes of cigarettes into the bag. Paused and threw in half a dozen disposable lighters and lighter fuel. Then paused again as he contemplated the scotch.
In a world full of ideas that were less than good, this one had to be up there with the least good of all. Some ideas are bad ideas and some wander off way beyond bad into a region that shares borders with insanity, suicide and plain stupidity. Grabbing some fags was one thing but prepping the ground to get shit-faced was of another order of self-indulgence entirely.
Might be the end of the world Joseph. Let’s face it, in any event, you’re not a one for making the sensible choice now are you, fella me lad? Never have been and, I daresay, never will be. Why change the habits of a lifetime at the last hour?
He stood and stared and bit his lower lip. He was by the door to the back office or living quarters or whatever the hell the set up was. It took a moment or two, but the smell insinuated itself into his nose just enough to drag his attention away from whether he could afford to provision himself for his own private oblivion.
The smell was ...well, bad he supposed you could say.
Yeah, bad. Off. Something definitely gone off. Spoiled.
He placed the bag on the counter and retrieved the machete before positioning himself back by the door. Up close, he could see that it was fractionally ajar, the latch bolt not sunk into its housing, leaving a tiny gap. He pushed it open it to reveal a short corridor.
Dark but sufficient light to see by. Another closed door to his left and, at the far end, an open doorway into a somewhat lighter space. What looked to be the proper residential part of the house.
Silent and still air. Tinged with the smell of corruption. Stronger now.
Stronger still as he slowly made his way to the open doorway, the one that held the promise of light, and surveyed the scene beyond it.
He guessed that this had been an extension, a later addition to the part of the house had been converted into the shop at the front. It would have been relatively bright except that the curtains were drawn. That made it dimmer.
It was still light enough to see the man hanging dead at the end of what appeared to be his belt. The buckle was a large metal affair and it seemed to have become embedded in the swollen flesh of his neck as the belt had cinched and bitten deeper and deeper.
The room, an open plan living dining room, included an atrium-like entrance hall and staircase. Surprisingly modern given the outward appearance of the building.
The man had attached his belt to a baluster. Bound it with something plasticky and thin, maybe electrical cable. Wound and tied it into the belt notches and then lashed that to the wooden post.
He drew Joe’s gaze like some stomach clenching, sickly attractive, sideshow grotesquerie. Joe couldn’t take his eyes off him. As crazy as the last days had been, this was something else. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a more mundane horror, more tangible somehow than monstrously mutated human beings. Entities from a horrid fantasy despite their deadly reality. This was horrible in such an ordinary way that it scraped a different set of nerves.
A
suicide. Someone fallen so far into a well of despair that they were compelled to garrotte themselves. To create a method of self-destruction from the everyday stuff of life. A noose fashioned from their own clothing and strung in their own home to carry out a death sentence, one in which they acted as their own judge, jury and executioner.
The man revolved imperceptibly, turned on his brown leather tether so his face was revealed that, oh so appalling, fraction more fully.
The man? The man Joey? That’s Mr Kenright. The good ole late and no longer so great Mr Kenright of Kenright’s upmarket convenience emporium. You were just in the process of stealing his stuff, you know, his stock, his livelihood. Oh yeah, and ripping off his motor. Don’t forget that Joey, you fancy one of his motors as well if you can locate the ignition keys and he’s been kind enough to leave some gas in one of them. Pay him the simple respect of using his name.
Maybe the body had been disturbed by invisible eddies in the air caused by Joe’s appearance. Or maybe it was just pleased to have company. Whatever the cause, Joe could have done without that slowly revolving reveal. The leather of the belt creaking in a way that made Joe’s skin crawl and his hackles rise.
He might have stood there forever, entranced by the abhorrent, an unwilling slave to the spectacle in front of him. What freed him was the gorge rising in his throat and the bile spilling from his mouth. He leaned forward and it was only his arm extending and stiffly pinning the tip of the machete to the floor that prevented him falling to his knees.
He wiped his mouth with the hand not holding the blade and in turn wiped the hand across his trousers.
What the hell, your clothes can’t smell much fucking worse Joey-Joey, not so perfumed Joey... you stink like a toilet bowl after phall and brown ale night.
“Oh Jesus and Mary Chain give me a break. I can’t do much more of this shit.”
Joe turned his head and let his gaze roam around the room. Looked anywhere but at him. Anything but Mr Kenright’s last stand. Please God, that would be gone, just a figment of his tortured imagination. If he saw it again, he might never be able to tear his eyes away.
The mantelpiece and wall above it on his left were adorned with framed photographs. He stood upright and shambled closer, his back to the stairs. Multiple representations of a sometimes bearded man and a woman, often with two children. Girls in varying stages of growth. The woman was attractive in a pleasingly cultivated manner. Smiling with a delicacy of feature, somehow refined looking. The girls were pretty and cute. Well dressed.
Joe turned and regarded the hanging man again.
Groaned as the creak whispered through the air.
Forced his legs to carry him closer to the figure. Joe’s leaden legs clumsily dodged the foul pool that was accumulated beneath the body and he leaned back against a wall to consider the stairs and dead man.
The beard was the clincher. Definitely the man in the photos. It was difficult to be sure but he thought that there was dried blood on the clothes and face. Speckles and splashes. He fixated on the boat shoe that precariously dangled from one foot, hanging with a tenacity that defied logic. If that shoe fell to the floor, Joe thought he really would scream and run away. Run away and keep running whatever the consequences. Discovery by the beasts, abandoning Miriam, discarding the slim chance of survival. All of it might be out of the window if that shoe dropped to the floor and he heard that soft thud of inanimate weight hitting soft carpet.
There were footprints on the beige brown stair carpet. Stains trodden into the material. Dark footprints that he knew were blood. Zigzag pattern that he knew would match the soles of the dead man’s boat shoes. The top of a sizeable sledgehammer protruded from the landing above him. Gluey substances stuck to the huge oblong head. Sprouting hair-like wispy tendrils that caught the light and glowed. An ambient installation piece, carelessly crafted for the catastrophe but perfect in its invocation of calamity.
He had no intention of ascending those stairs and exploring the upper regions of the house. Not on your nelly. He guessed he might if his life depended on it, if it was absolutely necessary, but he didn’t want to see, didn’t need to see what was up there, because he already had a fair idea.
A fair old idea that Mr Kenright had done some pretty dirty work up there. Dirty, and maybe merciful in its own way, but dirty nonetheless. Abundantly dirty. An absolute abundance of dirtiness for any man, if he loved his wife and children. Enough dirty work to last a lifetime. Enough dirty work to stop and decide you’d got to the end of your line. Then maybe take off your belt, and expend some brain power on how you could use it to play dark carnival hangman.
When you reached the terminus, there wasn’t really anything else to do but get off the bus.
<><><>
Both sets of car keys were in the kitchen, haphazardly thrown on the windowsill. It was a long sliver of a room at the left of the building and the window overlooked a substantial garden, resplendent with swing and brightly coloured playhouse. A kid’s garden with a paved area, table and chairs for the adults. A family space. It was as quiet and deserted as the village had been. Staring out at that peaceful scene, it was almost possible to imagine life was rolling along as normal. Sunlight and green grass. Almost possible, if you ignored the undercurrent of decomposition that floated lazily on the air. And shut out the image of the body in the other room. And blocked any notion of what could be upstairs.
Joe lit a cigarette. Nervously and too frequently flicked ash into the sink as he tried to get a grip on himself. Dragged so deeply on it that the filter distorted, collapsing in the centre.
It crossed his mind that they could have remained here. Not indefinitely, but maybe for a few days.
Maybe have a little drinky Joe? Maybe have a few little drinkies even?
A brief respite before plunging back into the madness that the world had become.
The village seemed quiet and free of creatures. For now at least. There were enough provisions to sink a battle ship.
And enough booze to refloat the fucker, Joey-Joe. Don’t forget that fella.
Even so, staying here any longer than absolutely necessary was a big no-go. A non-starter if ever there was one. He’d be glad to be outside and perfectly content if he never laid eyes on the place again, let alone treat it like a mini-break. The smell was bad, but the thought of the hanging body and the implications that accompanied it were gnawing at him like rats at a pantry door. He didn’t believe in ghosts but he thought that this house couldn’t ever be anything but haunted.
The whole world’s haunted now Joe.
He thought that if he had to stay here for any length of time, he might find himself checking out the supply of belts and before long he’d be hanging around with Mr Kenright. Creaking in half revolutions until the flesh sloughed off his body and gravity pulled him back to earth. Reclaimed and absorbed, him and everything about him.
He tried to concentrate on the job in hand. Which car to take. The Jeep. Decent size, not too small, sporty, should have some grunt. He guessed it was Mrs Kenright’s family ride, the personal transport. He tried to weigh up the pros and cons of each vehicle in light of the demands that were likely to be placed upon them. The van was probably sturdier, fewer windows meant less glass. The Renegade rode higher and should be pretty manoeuvrable. He pocketed both key fobs without coming a firm decision.
Whatever had the most petrol in the tank would be the one he took. Always assuming either of them had fuel. The way his luck was going, that had to be a somewhat questionable assumption.
He had to force himself not to run as he made his way back through the house. Sealing the door to the private quarters and being back in the shop felt like a reprieve.
He grabbed the bag of cigarettes and paused at the shop door. Scanned the area outside. It all seemed the same. Quiet and peaceful. Bright blue sky, an incongruously sunny day given the situation. His little car was still sitting on the petrol station forecourt across the road.
He clicke
d both remotes and winced at the discordant sounds of two central locking systems disengaging. Giving it a moment for any danger to emerge, he sat in each vehicle and started the engines to check the gauges. The Renegade showed a nearly full tank which made up his mind for him. Sitting in it, he also preferred the chunkiness and blunt squareness of the bonnet. He shook his head at the absurdity. Not only was he was stealing someone’s car, he was debating its effectiveness as an instrument of destruction before doing so.
Satisfied that he’d made a sound decision, however bizarre, he carefully retraced his steps over to the filling station, alert and watchful for movement. Perhaps that was why he didn’t look too closely at the Toyota until he was within spitting distance of it.
It was empty. Miriam wasn’t there. The baton was lying untouched on the seat. He’d left her the baton. Why wouldn’t she take it if she was leaving?
You’re one selfless bastard, aren’t you Joey-Joe boy. You left her the baton and it was dripping in your generosity when you did. Err, you didn’t leave it because it was your least favoured weapon? Not because you figured the gun and the knife were better and you’ve only got two fucking hands anyway right?
He whirled in confusion. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He hadn’t been gone that long surely?
God no, you only stopped for a smoke, had a bit of a breakdown because you had to look at the nasty dead man and grabbed some stash. Feck, the fall of civilisation would be a real ball ache without some fags wouldn’t it.
“Where the fuck did you go, you crazy old cunt. For a fucking stroll seeing as it’s such a lovely fucking day?”
For a moment, Joe didn’t know what to do. There weren’t any signs of a struggle. Could she have got out of the car to stretch her legs? Go to the toilet? Yeah, that was it. She needed the toilet. She needed the loo and she didn’t strike him as the sort of woman who would feel happy dropping her drawers and squatting on the tarmac. Doing her business in full view of any old Tom, Dick or hairlessly mutated Harry. Wobbled off to do the old pee-pee or ploppy-plop in secluded privacy. She’d be back soon. Wipe it off as best she could and scurry back to the car, nobody the wiser and no embarrassment caused to anyone.
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