The two men, who from a distance looked like they were on the verge of tongue jousting, bored holes into each other’s eyes. Russ nodded gently. “Fine. Fine, but we have to do something with him. We can’t just let him go.”
“Please, don’t hurt me! I didn’t mea—”
“SHUT UP!” Russ bellowed and lunged at Trevor. A wild swing connected weakly with his jaw. The Ringmaster held his face theatrically and mewed.
“We could put him in with the last freak?” Zena’s voice came from the cage tunnel.
“There are more?” Russ asked incredulously.
Francis yanked the pole, forcing Trevor to his knees. “Yeah, there’s one more out back. I don’t fancy our chances much with him, though.”
Zena coughed. “Doesn’t matter. There’s something you guys need to see.”
She led the small procession down the row of cages, into the monitor room. A door in the far wall, next to the TV table, jutted into the room. “Through there,” she said. “I’ll keep hold of him till you get back.”
She took the handle off Francis and pulled it violently, causing Trevor to gag on his own tongue.
Francis pulled the door open and looked into a large tent. As he walked into the new room, he noticed that the canvas was a dark green. He recognised it as the tents he saw from the hill, the ones which were stuck to the back of the Big Top like a chimney.
Russ shuffled in behind. His mouth dropped open as he saw what was within. “Holy fuck, man, look at all this stuff…”
Trestle tables ran in neat lines, leading off to the far end of the room which was shrouded in gloom. Stacked upon the tables were piles of belongings, sorted by type and the date they had been obtained. Francis rifled through a pile of assorted hand weapons; clubs, machetes, hammers of all kinds lay in a spreading heap; torches were on another table, sorted by size and battery type. There were whole sections devoted to clothing, broken down into women’s, men’s and children’s. Francis felt his hackles rise.
Another row had food neatly stacked and faced up. Soup was alphabetically arranged, pasta stacked by type, Pot Noodles, bags of crisps, teabags sorted by brand. There was even a table with packets of cigarettes and booze. Francis felt the room spin; Russ staggered round like a drunkard in a town centre.
“So what should we do with him now, huh? Give him a fucking medal? He’s been doing this for months, probably since this started…he can’t be allowed to do this again,” Ross said softly.
“Let’s go get some answers,” Francis uttered bluntly and made his way back towards the monitor room. Russ followed close behind.
“GAHH, GAAHHHH, GGAAAAAHHHHHH,” was the sound they were greeted with as they stepped back into the room they had left Zena and Trevor in. Both of them were still there, but not in the same place they had been left in.
Zena stood cross-armed, resting against the table with the TV stuck on something which resembled the Outer Limits intro. The voiceover, though, came from Trevor, who had both of his hands clamped round his throat. He had tried, and failed, to prevent the blocky rectangular microphone, and the top three inches of the stand, from being shoved down his throat.
Between his spindly fingers and gag reflex, he was trying to eject the foreign object from his throat. The two men looked at Zena, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me. He wanted to make an announcement, must’ve tripped when I wasn’t looking and accidentally swallowed it. Looks mighty painful, eh?”
Trevor collapsed to the ground, his face ashen, his moustache made bolder by the colour being drained out. His eyes were taking on the same appearance as an eight ball.
Russ stood over the suffocating man, staring down with pure unadulterated hatred. He turned to the others. “Fuck him, let him die.”
Chapter Sixteen
Eva shone the penlight into Bartholomew’s eyes. The pupils contracted as the beam flicked from one eye to the other. “Excellent, looks like you should make a full recovery,” she purred.
Bartholomew nodded groggily. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate everything you’ve done, really.”
A click turned the light into dark. Chopper slipped the torch back into her pocket and walked over to the sink. “I’m still a little puzzled as to how someone of your physique happened to be beaten to within an inch of your life and left out there.” She poured a jug of water over one hand, squeezed liquid soap into the other, and combined them to wash her hands.
“I don’t really remember what happened. I was travelling with someone, and they mentioned this place, so we headed here. We were walking up the road towards the gate and that’s the last I can remember. You say someone saved me?” Bartholomew asked quietly.
Another slosh of water over her hands cleaned the suds off. “Yes, he even fought off some chompers who were intent on having you for brunch. I wonder if he could be—” her words were cut off as Andy, Steve, and Thomas entered the makeshift medical bay.
“He’s awake, least that’s something. You looked in a pretty bad way when I found you, mate. Hell, you won’t be pretty, but you’re breathing at least,” Thomas said, noticing that the man’s face still had a yellowy-purple complexion.
Bartholomew offered a shaky hand. “I guess you’re my saviour. Thanks, really appreciate it. If you hadn’t come along, I—”
Thomas took the hand and shook it. “Think nothing of it, mate. You’ve survived this long, wouldn’t want you going out like a bitch. Now, if you fellas don’t mind, I better go and make myself useful. Heads Up is it Andy?”
Andy nodded once, and stood to one side of the doorway. “Jackson and Coates are out there, or they should be. Go join them. The three of you should be able to deal with whatever is out there. If it’s quiet, make a bonfire will ya? The west side is getting a little whiffy.” Thomas grunted in the affirmative and left them all to it.
“So, Bartholomew is it? My name is Steve. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind of course?”
Andy piped up, “I’m going to leave you all to it. Just something I need to check on, if you don’t mind?” Chopper and Steve shook their heads and turned their attention to Bartholomew.
Back on the factory floor, he picked up his pace. He looked across to see the exit door on the far side being pulled shut. Least he’s not going for another piss. He started to jog across to the door; his jaunt was interrupted by his name being shouted. He turned to see Grimm marching down the steps from The Gaffer’s office.
“Andy, we have a situation, he needs you, now,” Grimm grunted. The act of walking down the stairs had taken its toll and his leaden legs plodded slowly across the expanse of the factory.
“This better be good, Grimm. I’ve got other things to do right now,” Andy called out and continued on his path to the door.
Grimm coughed and shouted, “You need to grab a weapon and get up to The Gaffer’s office now. Some little toe-rag has got the drop on him.”
Andy froze. “Fuck’s sake. Okay, mate, gimme a minute,” he said, and ran off to the armoury.
“You don’t have to do this, mate, you know? You walk away now and nothing will happen to you, you have my word.” The Gaffer’s voice was level and calm. His arms rested on the arms of the chair usually reserved for his guests. He looked down the barrel of an old Webley service revolver. Up until the recent dead rising from death predicament, it had last seen service in the trenches of the Second battle of the Marne in July 1918.
“Shut up, just…shut up…” Tristan stammered. The gun felt heavy in his hand. He could feel the trigger was all hot and sweaty from his finger resting against it; the weapon swayed in his heavy grip.
The Gaffer raised his hands and crossed his legs. His right calf rested on his left thigh. He began to idly pick at the ragged hemline at the bottom of his grey trousers. “Well, isn’t this a fun way to spend the afternoon? Tell me, son, what exactly do you think this little stunt will achieve, hmm? Why don’t you just give me the shooter, and then you can be on your merry way.”
Tri
stan wiped his sweat-drenched brow with his free hand. “You think you can just do what the hell you want, don’t ya? Hurt these people who are scared and just trying to do the jobs you give them. You think you’re our fucking god or something. Well, you hurt my friend, he’s barely said a word to me since he got out of the chomper box the other day, after your ‘Remedial’.”
“From what I’ve heard, mate, you aren’t exactly the gregarious sort either, huh? Steve tells me that you’ve said the exact amount of words as a monastery full of Trappist monks. Your pal fucked up, he knows the rules, same as everyone here. You fuck up, you get a strike. It’s the only way to keep order. Now, I’ll ask nicely for the last time. Give. Me. The. Fucking. Gun.” The Gaffer enunciated. He pulled on his tracksuit top, emblazoned with MB on the right hand breast.
The gun shook some more, like it was the last autumnal leaf to fall, but was afraid to do so. “I don’t think so. I think I’m going to just…”
A shout from the doorway bludgeoned through the tension. “Tristan, don’t do it!” Andy shouted. He had a glock raised and pointed at him. He inched into the office. The Gaffer had his back to him, while across the table and in the large plush leather Queen Ann chair where he normally resided, sat Tristan; a slight man who seemed to be constructed solely from skin and bone.
“Andy? What are—” Tristan began to stutter. His sentence was punctuated by the sound of a crack. He slammed back into the chair, which enveloped his scrawny frame; a small round smoking hole was stamped into his bone white throat.
It throbbed from within and a globule of blood expanded from the crater. In shock, Tristan pressed his hands over the wound. The revolver clattered to the floor. The noise of someone gargling on their own fluids was the only audible sound. “Chopper, get up here!” Andy shouted into the vacuous factory, before rushing over to the bleeding man.
As he ran past The Gaffer, he saw a smoking Ruger .22 pistol pointed at the chair and window beyond. In the slabs of meat that lay claim to the title of hands, it looked like a cap gun.
Tristan slid off the chair and fell onto a grubby ruby red rug, Andy had to push the chair aside to get to the stricken man. “Hang on, mate, just hang on,” he repeated, though he could see that the wound had already given Tristan a sopping red bib over his once white shirt.
He knelt down and looked into a pair of desperate eyes, eyes which were pleading with him for help. Blood was pumping from the wound, between his fingers, and creating a crimson lake on his horizontal throat, his Adam’s apple a receding island of flesh.
“Gaahh…gahhhh….!” Tristan gasped. He reached a bloodstained hand towards the fading face in front of him, pawing at some unseen phantom.
“CHOPPER, GET HERE, NOW!” Andy bellowed. He could hear frantic footsteps up the stairs, but when he looked down again, he saw that they would be too late. A pathetic hand wafted at his face once more; blood-soaked digits reached out.
Tristan belched blood which made a waterfall of viscera pour from his throat, and was then still. His hand dropped and tapped his head.
Eva barged Andy to one side, but took one look at Tristan and closed her eyes. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a long thin stiletto blade. She roughly tilted Tristan’s head to one side, placed the point inside his ear, and jammed the blade upwards and into the skull. The handle was the only thing visible in the ear. She gripped this tighter and stirred it quickly. As she pulled the blade out a trickle of blood, crushed bone, and lumps of brain dribbled out through the hole.
She stood up, shook her head, and trudged out of the room. Andy was still looking down at the lifeless body when he felt a familiar grip on his shoulder. “Nice one, my son. Pretty sure he shot first, he had me bang to rights,” The Gaffer’s rich voice said, cloying in Andy’s ears.
“What the fuck happened, Gaffer? How...wh...just how, that’ll do for now?” he muttered.
The Gaffer pulled up to his full height and motioned to two of Grimm’s guards, who were stood idle by the doorway. “He came in and said he wanted to talk to me. I went to pour him a drink, the next thing I know I’m looking down the business end of his gun. Luckily for me, he didn’t know about Mister Twenty Two in my pocket and you managed to distract him. Cheers pal,” The Gaffer said. He pointed at the body, and the two guards walked round the desk and grabbed an end each.
“Burn it with the chompers. He don’t deserve anything more. He don’t get to go on the wall, neither,” The Gaffer ordered. The guards picked up Tristan’s body and pigeon-walked their way out of the office.
“Gaffer, no disrespect, but we coul—”
A large hand silenced Andy. “Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Some prick should have been on guard. Then they could have stopped that nutter just fucking waltzing in here with a gun. Where the fuck did he get that from anyway? Don’t look like one of ours. See, then I wouldn’t have had to do an emergency tracheotomy on him with my Ruger, would I? No.”
The two men exchanged glances.
“No Gaffer, you wouldn’t,” Andy agreed.
“No harm, no foul, Andy. It’s not your fault. You’ve been busy with our new arrivals. I trust they’re settling in okay?”
Andy distractedly looked at the puddle of blood which was struggling to soak through the dirt and grime and into the rug. “Fine, Gaffer. That one who was beaten is back up and running. The other, Thomas, there’s something not quite right about him. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
The Gaffer nodded. “Good. That’s why you’re here, Andy. Go on, I’ll get someone to sort this out, you get back to it.”
Chapter Seventeen
A funereal hush wreathed the group as they sat in a loose circle in the dusty storeroom. Even Anton looked shell-shocked from the events of the last few days. “Okay everyone, so you all know the terrible news about Tristan. This is why we do this. He wasn’t strong enough to cope with what he went through, was ill prepared to deal with the way the world is now, and…and that’s why he did what he did,” Steve ventured.
Matt shook his head. “Patches and Dad are gone. I haven’t shot anyone.”
“No, you haven’t, Matt, but remember, you told us all your story last week, didn’t you? Sharing helps people deal with the horrible things that they’ve been through, especially since all of this happened,” Steve replied.
Dee blurted out a “Bullshit,” which was met with more floor-gazing.
Sylvia looked across to her. “You know, Dee, there really is something familiar about you. It’s like we’ve met before, I just can’t remember where. You were in the police, do you say? But you couldn’t have dealt with…my situation, you know, with Donald. When he was. Hmm. No. Couldn’t have done.”
Steve cleaned his glasses, scratching a particularly stubborn piece of dried-on grit with his thumbnail through his t-shirt. “Well, Dee, perhaps you can tell us about yourself. What happened when this started. From what I’ve been told, you were there when it kicked off in Man—”
“SHUT UP!” Dee shouted, covering her ears with her hands. “You can’t judge me. None of you can. We did what we had to, the only thing we could. There was just so many, and we couldn’t be right all the time. It was war, bad things happen, okay?”
“Shhh, it’s okay Dee. You should know by now that we aren’t here to judge you, or make you feel bad. We are a conduit to help you deal with the things that have happened. Why don’t you start from the beginning, yeah? I think what you have to say could help everyone. You have seen so much, th—”
Steve was interrupted by a thunderous “Fine!” He slipped his glasses back on and opened his notebook.
“Dee, take your time, please…begin.”
Let The Beat Control You – Part 1
So, right, it’s weird isn’t it? How sometimes in life, things can come down to a simple decision. At the time it seems so innocuous, something that ninety nine times out of a hundred turns into nothing of note.
Sometimes it’s as simple as going left instead of right, or hitting s
nooze and staying in bed. Do you think that in some parallel universe there is a you who got up that morning when the alarm did? Instead of opening the door, late for work and seeing the aftermath of the crash, in that other universe you’d be the body sprawled on the floor in a puddle of your own guts and brain?
Do you ever think that?
I do.
Every single fucking day.
Me and DK were seeing each other on the sly. Never shit where you eat, that’s what me mum used to say. When you’re in our line of work, that goes double. I had pals who didn’t follow that advice. When that call came in, you see them double over, howling like a fucking trapped animal. You know there’s nothing you can say to make them feel better.
Nothing.
But no, not me. I thought that would never happen to me. We’d be different, we’d be careful, no way that would happen to us.
We were both in the Tactical Firearms Unit, part of the Greater Manchester Police department. We were on the afternoon shift, clocked in at five, and bored shitless by half past.
It was about ten to nine and my parallel universe moment was that I went to make a brew. That was it. I didn’t walk under a ladder, piss off a black cat, break a mirror or open an umbrella indoors. I made a cuppa.
The call came in. By the time I got back, DK and Mick were just heading out the door. I sat down and read through Brief, some article on us lot which had been doing the rounds.
All I can think of now is what would’ve happened if I had been there instead. Gone instead of him, or even with him. Would it have made any difference?
No, I doubt it, but at least then what happened to them would’ve happened to me and I wouldn’t fucking be here, stuck telling people I don’t even fucking know my bloody sob story.
We didn’t even know it had begun, none of us did. The call they had gone to was some domestic down at the hospital. Said some people were getting a bit frisky with some of the staff; some of the nurses had been bitten. We were laughing about it, then the second call came in. By the time we were Oscar Mike they were building up. They said Alpha One could deal with the city centre. We were sent out to Altrincham Ice Dome, said there was something strange going on, people attacking people, biting people.
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