The five of them sat around the huge kitchen and ate a desultory meal that Caroline had scrounged from cans. Candles that they’d found in a storeroom cast a disconcerting light. Shifting shadows that caught the eye however hard you told yourself that it was simply the magic of candlelight. They drank bottled water scavenged from the bar in the dining room. An attempt to discuss the dead girl came to nothing, sputtered and died, just as the candles inevitably would. None of them wanted to think about it too deeply, let alone discuss it. They’d each endured too much already, the mutilated and murdered girl was a bridge too far.
When they’d finished, Pearcey struggled to his feet and asked Julian to come with him. They disappeared and returned after a few minutes with a tray loaded with glasses, coke, bottles of Budweiser, and a bottle of Jim Beam. Julian struggling with the tray and Pearcey’s heavy hand on his shoulder.
“There’s plenty of choice out there, so let me know if none of this tickles your fancy.”
Pearcey poured himself a generous measure of Bourbon and wearily dropped down beside Adalia again.
Philip Sault rose and announced he’d take the first watch, outside between the dining room entrance to the kitchen and the foyer. After that, when he was relieved, he intended taking the first bedroom in the corridor. He didn’t take a drink or refer to it.
The four of them watched him slide away.
“What’s his story, laughing boy there?” Pearcey asked Adalia.
As said it, he gulped a mouthful of neat Bourbon, wincing and sighing like somebody had lanced a boil. Glanced sideways at her.
“Don’t worry if you don’t want to kick the shit, or whatever you kids say these days.”
She shrugged.
“He came into the centre with a woman and another man,” Adalia replied.
“The woman had been bitten by one of those ...things. She turned into one of them. Bit the guy, Attis. He was a nurse. Seemed alright. Attis, that was who Ranj was trying to save when ...when we had to leave, when you guys turned up. Attis might have become one of them ...who knows? It looked that way from what happened to the woman he brought in with him.”
Adalia looked over at Caroline who was talking to Julian, the pair of them sitting on a worktop, feet dangling like kids at a house party.
“Be honest, I feel grey about leaving him, Ranj that is. Really bad. He saved us, me and Caroline. He didn’t have to ...but he wanted to help people. He was definitely a good guy. It was cold. The way we left him. Cold.”
She shook her head, eyes veiled and faraway.
“Sault? I don’t know what his story is. But whatever it is, he’s cold as well.”
Pearcey nodded and drank again.
“Ranj? That was the guy who helped Jules and me right? No, I don’t feel good about driving off without him either.”
He sighed and lightly touched her knee with the back of his fingers.
“They say it’s easier to leave than to be left behind. But leaving can be tough. Harder than you realise,” he said gently.
She smiled sadly at him and went and got a beer from the counter. He’d already removed the bottle tops and that odd thoughtfulness struck her as much as what he’d said about Ranj.
“How’s your leg?” Adalia asked as she sat down beside him again.
“Pretty rough. Painful. I’m getting the hang of walking on it so it can’t be that bad. I’ll live. I’ve survived worse,” he replied.
“What are you? Army or something? You said you were at a government shelter. What happened to it? Why’d you leave? How many people were there?”
The questions tumbled out of her as if they were being chased from a cage.
“I’d have brought another bottle if I thought I was going to be interrogated.”
Pearcey smiled as he said it and swirled the dregs in his glass.
“In another life I was in the forces but that’s ancient history. I worked for the government when this shit kicked off. So did Jules, work for the government I mean. In a roundabout sort of way. Worked I should say. Him in his roundabout way and me in mine, we worked for the government. Government’s gone now, along with most of everything else. Anyway, that’s why we got pulled into the emergency command centre. We were on someone’s list. Did I say command centre? Control centre? Ha, there wasn’t much control or command about it. It was the usual fuc ...the usual mess. But with less people. Thirty, forty perhaps.
Most of those people didn’t make it out. They’re gone, along with the government. Somehow those things, the jacks, the changed people, got into the shelter, poured in like water. It ...it wasn’t pretty. Carnage. Not like anything I’ve ever seen.”
Pearcey shook his head.
“Not something I ever want to see again.”
Adalia didn’t know what to say. Hearing someone else talk about it, hearing the same horror in another’s voice just made it all the more real. Whatever Pearcey had experienced sounded as unimaginable as what she’d gone through. After a moment, rather than offer an opinion, she asked more questions.
“Do you think we should have stopped? Are we safe here?”
Pearcey shrugged and drained the glass.
“It’s a twenty-two, isn’t it? Drive into the dark unknown or sit tight in a dark unknown place? Try and let it wash over you until daylight gives you slightly better odds.”
He sighed and stared at the empty glass as if it might once have held answers.
“I better go easy on this stuff, the last thing I need in the current circumstances is to get Oliver Twist. Yeah, I think we made the right choice, we had to stop. No, I don’t think we’re safe here.”
Their destination, the Black Hills institute, was close. A few short miles. The intention was to spend the night at the hotel and get there the next day.
Like a lot of plans, it didn’t work out that way.
Chapter 7.
Joe and Elliot Northward Bound.
Dawn had broken and the sun cleared the horizon as Joe and Elliot made their final preparations for departure. It had the feel of another beautiful day. The spell of fine weather showed no signs of ending yet.
It had been weird for Joe spending the night at Andy Pells house. The dream house just outside of Marlborough. Especially when what used to be Andy was lying outside with its brain skewered like the craziest fucking kebab you’d ever seen. No wonder Joe was weirded out and didn’t sleep too well, the Andy incident was yet another cherry on a cake that was already overflowing with them.
More nasty cherries on this baby than you can shake a shitty stick at hey Joe-Joe?
He thought it was Saturday. Not that it mattered. He didn’t think there’d be any football on the box.
The box? Mary mother of dirty marketing ploys, the box? Who calls them fucking boxes anymore? Really, how old are you Joey-Joe, old-age-pensioner-Joey? A hundred and twelve?
The flat screen. Not boxes anymore. Those big boxes were redundant, things of the past. So were the flat screens for that matter, unless the monsters decided that hunting and killing was all too easy and they needed a little distraction. There was every chance that those flat screens were all so much more complicated-clever but useless crap without the networks that made them work. Without the infrastructure and all the people that kept it ticking and clicking and electronically shuttling.
Dark thoughts for such a lovely morning Joe-boy. Sounds like you need a little pick-me-prick-me-up fella. How about it? One for the road maybe? It could well be a pretty rough road if the last few days are anything to go by.
Joe lit a cigarette and tried to hush the voice, meditated on their luggage while the kid went to the toilet one last time.
He and Elliot had each chosen a bag, from Andy’s extensive selection. Filled them with basics and essentials. Personal stuff like spare clothes and toothbrushes. A third bag, a large Polo sports holdall, God bless ever stylish Andy, contained imperishable foodstuffs looted from the house.
Joe had found an A to Z and planned a rou
te. Wherever possible, he intended blasting most of the journey on motorways. That’d either work out or it wouldn’t, but it was the plan. He’d checked the petrol and figured they had plenty in the tank unless they hit any major diversions and there was sweet fuck-all he do about that. He wished there was, he’d have given serious consideration to choking the Pope with a condom in exchange for safe passage and the chance to see Elliot reunited with his brother. Apart from the fact that there was a pretty good chance that the Pope had grown himself a set of somewhat heathen claws and distinctly unchristian fangs.
The cynicism dwindled and shrank to nothing as Joe exited the dream house for the last time and surveyed the grounds. Andy’s dream house, fitting that it should be his final resting place even if the dream had ended in a way that he could never have imagined.
The night before, Joe had dragged Andy’s body into the shrubbery. Stains marked the path of that final inglorious journey. The stains seemed to glow in the morning light. The body was only partially visible amidst the greenery, but the oddly angular form held a hint of red trouser, enough to make Joe feel sick to his abused stomach.
Good job Joey, you merciful old fucker you. Joey-Joey, gravedigger extraordinaire. Locked up your old friend’s house, as safe and tight as a nun’s cunt, after having unceremoniously dumped said old friend in the undergrowth to rot. Really good job. Let’s face it, that old queen Andy got special treatment. You don’t always care for the casualties, do you Joey-Joe? Your recent record is a little dubious on that front isn’t it? They generally lie where they drop and you skedaddle on down the rough old road to fuck up somebody new.
Andy’s Rever House was sealed, shuttered and impregnable at his back. Elliot was already in the Renegade. Antique hand scythe gripped in his bruised young fist. Worn wooden handle riveted to steel that was curved like a crescent moon. Heavy old steel but sharpened like the first day in the field. The kid found that little beauty in the house when he went searching. Maybe a leftover from the old farmhouse that had been here previously, maybe something Andy had purchased on a whim. Impulse purchase wouldn’t have been unusual for him.
Elliot had eyed that agricultural artefact like a demi-dry junkie would look at spilled talcum powder, trying to fight the overwhelming urge to run over and check it out. Ridiculously, the kid had asked Joe for permission before adopting it as his weapon of choice. Joe had told him to keep it
He would have given him Adi’s nightstick as well, but that that wasn’t what it used to be. Broken off in Andy Pells head as it was. A shame because it struck Joe that this fella could probably use both at the same time and be quite effective.
Effective? This kiddo is kill-bill, grim-reaper, despatch-as-desired Joe-boy. Baby-boyo-Joe-boy. Find out if he can shoot and give him the fecking gun as well you dipshit fuck-wit.
Joe got into the Jeep and settled himself. Glad to be in the safe zone of the car.
Elliot looked at him, face blank but voice hesitant.
“I put as much of the err ...the stuff ...the stuff that was already in here in the carriers, the booze and cigarettes ...in the supplies bag. Packed it like my mom used to pack the holiday luggage, wrapped and padded. There are some cigarettes still in a plastic bag on the backseat. There wasn’t room for them.”
Elliot was looking at him like he might have done something wrong and Joe didn’t want that. He didn’t want the kid tip-toeing around him like he was some dog that might go bad. No, not even a little bit. He wanted to explain to Elliot. Wanted to explain so badly. To simply state the facts in all of their bald, bland, awfulness. But where do you begin? How do you justify your shortcomings and jettison the guilt? How do you begin to explain your whole life and how you ended up here?
Instead, he smiled a little sheepishly at the boy.
“Cheers fella, your mother sounds like she had a fair old handle on stuff. Travelling light is as sound as a pound, but it’s always worth having a few goodies bagged and ready to rock.”
Elliot smiled back, but it was a tired old smile on a young face.
<><><>
They made good progress.
Given the circumstances.
It wasn’t easy. A story all of its own.
Brutal and unremitting at times.
Terrifying.
Empty and unnerving at others.
Ghostly.
<><><>
They were close when they hit the roadblock. In the Midlands, past Birmingham. Not far from Oakhill, Elliot’s home, a northern suburb of the city.
In the normal world, twenty minutes from their goal perhaps, if roads were clear. Maybe more if there was traffic in that ordinary reality, but very close nevertheless. Very close.
Even then, when they hit the roadblock, a twisting, clogged junction that spiralled ahead of them, Joe spotted a path. Weaved through it until he came upon another vehicle that completely screwed it up for them.
“Oh Mary mother of midget whores, this is all fecked up,” Joe muttered under his breath.
He’d had plenty of practice at unfecking things but there was always a limit. Elliot didn’t comment, merely sat frowning and fiddling with the blade.
A van was rammed into the only gap, wedged in a scrunch of metal that begged cutting gear and expert extraction. Doors and windows broken, the blood and bone spewed around its interior visible from the back windows as Joe rolled right up behind it.
He had a feeling that the intrepid driver of the van, Paddy Plough the field and fuck the hindmost, had tried to bulldoze through and misjudged it. There was evidence ahead of them that someone had already cleared the way to some extent and so maybe Paddy had underestimated the task.
Whatever the scenario, they’d got stuck here, Paddy and his crew, and then been attacked. The van exhibited smashed windows and all that kind of good stuff, but it was also ...pockmarked. It reminded Joe of the stampede he’d endured on the outskirts of Marlborough. As if the van been swarmed, encountered a lot of them and, more than that, attracted their attention. Paddy’s van, haven and transport, had become a focal point. A can that had been battered and eventually broken. Emptied and the contents eaten, just so much tin that stood in the way of a starving man. That was how way those things treated any container of food, organic or manmade. Break it open and gobble down the goodies.
Joe stopped and left the engine running, trying to think it out. The odds were that the keys were still in the ignition of that van. And it was perfectly possible that it would start and he could reverse it and unplug the gap and they could keep going. The gap was big enough, Paddy had simply bollocksed things up, the fecking ijit that he’d been, and turned a small space into a fucking impasse. There was still a decent-sized space if the van was removed from the equation. Joe might have to monkey around with the van, maybe unhook it, wrench it free, if it was caught up on the cars either side of it.
But it was possible.
Yeah, it was possible. And when it was sorted, squared away nice and clean, simple and straightforward as it was, they could all live happily ever after and Joe could take up jogging to keep fit.
Maybe learn to bake delicious cakes that he’d always give to friends because he was such a health nut.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This felt all wrong. He didn’t like the feel of it at all.
Or is that you feel a teensy bit moby dick at the thought of getting into that gore-filled van. Might get your nice clean, borrowed, jog pants all dirty on that funky blood and gunk when you sit in that no doubt dead driver’s seat? Bet the wheel’s got some delightful sticky shit on it. What do you reckon Joe-boy?
“I don’t like this,” Elliot muttered, echoing his own thoughts like some strange sounding chamber.
Joe lit a cigarette and lowered the window a fraction before blowing a stream of smoke at the sliver of space between glass and metal. Mumbled an apology and offered the kid a cigarette from the packet. Elliot paused and took it, and then took the proffered light as well.
“I’m probably being a grade
A cabbage here kidder, but I’m considering parking up and then getting out and trying to move the van. Then scooting us through.”
He indicated the empty tarmac to his right, a spot large enough to accommodate their vehicle, and dragged hard on the cigarette.
“I figure that we’re close to the objective right? Get past this and we’re there in an hour ...two hours tops. We’re at Oakhill village, the place you told me about. We can start looking for your brother.”
Elliot continued to scan their surroundings, the cigarette awkward in his thin fingers, the scythe sitting comfortably in his lap.
“I think it’s worth trying. I think there’s another way if we back up but I’m not exactly sure of the directions. So yeah, let’s go for it. I need to get to George.”
Joe reversed the Renegade before he could think about it anymore.
Half-smoked cigarette in one hand and last-hand machete in the other, he got out of the vehicle and stood.
Lone and fucking unfriended out here Joe-Joe, lonely boy off on his own again Joey. Can you hear the distant noise Joe? The almost ambient background sound? A distant suggestion of bells in the smoky distance. Could be tolling for you old fella.
Dear God, it was weird. Stepping out of the vehicle was like stepping into another dimension. Without the thin sliver of glass separation, the world was even realer and stranger. It struck Joe harder than he could have imagined, raising the hairs on his body and flooding his eyes. He’d always been stimulated by the visual, started his business off the back of that self-same aptitude, but this was an illustration so evocative that he would have been proud if he’d have brought it into existence.
A picture that swamped him, almost left him reeling, disorientated and curiously overwhelmed. Had the quality of hallucination. A picture composed of the ordinary and the familiar that was unlike anything ordinary and far from familiar. Wrecked cars and blood and bone, ashes in the blue sky and in his mouth.
Ferine Apocalypse (Book 1): Collapse Page 46