by RR Haywood
‘You remember that meal Tucker did before the fight?’ Nick says quietly.
‘Fucking right, Tucker was a legend,’ Cookey adds.
‘You’d have loved him Lani, he always had loads of food in his bag,’ Nick explains, ‘carried snack bars and made sure we always had stuff to eat.’
‘He sounds amazing,’ Lani says quietly.
‘Fuck me we’re going soooo slowly,’ Cookey groans with a glance out the front.
‘Can’t speed up mate, those vans are seriously over-loaded,’ I shout back.
‘Did you see those girls in the crowd outside the warehouse?’ Nick says after a pause.
‘I did,’ Tom replies quickly, ‘the blond and brunette yeah?’
‘Yeah, they were fit,’ Nick says.
‘The one with the dark hair had massive ti…’
‘Alex!’ Dave shouts down from the GPMG, ‘I can hear you and there is a lady present.’
‘Sorry,’ Cookey winces, apologising to Lani.
‘It doesn’t bother me, I worked in a nightclub for long enough,’ she laughs.
‘She said she doesn’t mind Dave,’ Cookey shouts up cheekily.
‘I do,’ Dave replies making me and Clarence grin.
‘Can I say she was busty?’ He calls up.
‘Yes you can say that.’
‘How about melons?’ Cookey shouts to a round of low oooh’s from everyone else.
‘No.’
‘Bazungas?’
‘No.’
‘Airbags?’
‘No.’
‘Hooters?’
‘No.’
‘Gob stoppers?’ He keeps going, knowing he’s getting laughs from everyone else.
‘No.’
‘Tits?’
‘No.’
‘Titties?’
‘No.’
‘Love pillows?’
‘No.’
‘Love pillows?’ Lani laughs.
‘Norks?’
‘No.’
‘Knockers?’
‘No.’
‘Gazongas?’
‘No.’
‘Babylons?’
‘No.’
‘Boobies.’
‘No.’
‘What? Boobies isn’t offensive.’
‘No.’
‘Boobs?’
‘Yes.’
‘So busty and boobs, how about breasts?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay.’
‘Anymore Alex?’
‘No Dave.’
‘Good.’
‘Yeah so the dark haired girl with the big boobs, yeah I saw her,’ Cookey continues. I glance round to see Blowers clutching his sides with laughter, Nick and Tom almost crying from the quick exchange.
‘He’s a character,’ Clarence chuckles next to me.
‘He is,’ I laugh back.
‘Did you get their names?’ Cookey asks.
‘Nah, didn’t really think it was the right time for my chat up lines,’ Nick replies.
‘Kate and Julie,’ Tom says.
‘How the fuck did you do that?’ Nick asks stunned.
‘I asked them, introduced myself while you were talking to the others.’
‘You sly bastard,’ Cookey laughs.
‘Which one is which?’ Blowers asks in an interested tone.
‘Ah now that is sensitive information which I cannot divulge,’ Tom replies.
‘Tom! Come on mate, you got to tell us which is which,’ Nick shouts.
‘Do I?’ Tom laughs.
‘Tom, is Kate the blond one?’ Cookey asks.
‘I can’t say,’ he replies.
‘Yes you can! Kate is the blond one isn’t she? I know it.’
‘Not saying, I’ve got an advantage at the moment so I can’t give you any help.’
‘Oh that’s not fair,’ Nick cuts in, ‘you’ll be like walking about in the fort giving it large and saying oh hi Kate or hey there Julie…stroking your gun and…’
‘Stroking my gun?’ Tom laughs.
‘Ah this isn’t fair, we’re a team so we should share everything,’ Cookey whines.
‘Not everything,’ Tom chuckles again.
‘As soon as we get back I’m running down the vehicles to find them and ask,’ Cookey says.
‘Yeah that’ll go down well,’ Blowers replies.
‘Bribe Doc Roberts and get them in first,’ Nick jokes.
‘We could if we knew their names…Tom…’ Cookey adds.
‘The dark haired girl is Julie,’ I shout back.
‘Ah Mr Howie,’ Tom moans.
‘Sorry Tom, I couldn’t stand Cookey moaning the entire way back.
‘How do you know that?’ Lani asks.
‘Oh Mr Howie is in trouble,’ Nick jokes to a few laughs.
‘I heard someone calling her,’ I shout back, twisting round to smile at her. She grins back to a few more ‘oooh’s’ from everyone. I turn back to the road shaking my head at the absurdity of it all.
‘Sun’s going down, it’ll be dark soon,’ Clarence says after a few minutes of general chat.
‘I won’t miss not hearing the howls tonight,’ I reply.
‘Just keep thinking of that cool swim,’ he says.
‘Oh I am mate, a cool swim and a proper bed…sounds perfect.’
THIRTY-ONE
DAY SEVEN
Standing at the turnstile Paco looks back towards the town. Having left the house mid-afternoon and making his way through the residential streets, following the route of suburbia as it transitioned from terraced to semi-detached to the affluent outer reaches of detached houses with long driveways.
Carrying a gym bag filled with tinned food and water on his back he pauses and thinks if this is the right thing to do. Leave the town where there are houses with thick walls and doors. But that didn’t stop them last night, so yes it is the right thing to do. Find somewhere remote and hide away. He nods and looks down at the dog sat next to him. An image floods of his mind of the DVD cover for I Am Legend with Will Smith stood next to a big Alsatian dog.
Paco auditioned for that role but he was told he lacked the emotional range so he missed out. This was his first zombie film and it was already billed to be the biggest zombie blockbuster ever. Well it was. Not now.
Cursing his luck he pushes the turnstile open, waiting for the dog to squeeze through. They walk into the footpath, shaded by overhanging trees and head away from the town into the countryside.
Here he is, the biggest action movie star of all time, walking through a post-apocalyptic land devastated by infected monsters with a huge dog and no one to see it. Mind you, he muses, all they would see is me blubbing in the corner of rooms while the dog does all the work. Emotional range? Damn he’d give them emotional range now. If this ever fixes he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life in the counsellor’s chair.
He thought being away from the town would make him feel safer and settled, but despite the recent bout of rain, the ground is hard and compacted. His boots crunch with each step, the only real sound other than the dogs faint panting. He moves over to the side, walking on the grass verge and swerving back onto the path checking which is the quieter route to walk. The grass, definitely the grass. A dry stick snaps underfoot making him jump. His already shot nerves feeling even more strained.
They press on, moving steadily away from the town and deeper into the countryside. Following signed footpaths, crossing fields and scrambling through bushes and copses. Sweat drips down his face, soaking his beard and drenching his t-shirt. Wiping it with the back of his forearm he catches the smell emanating from his armpits, grimacing in disgust and realising how easy it was for them to track him.
He stinks. Not just smells but he stinks. Shitting himself, pee escaping with fright, sweat, food, grime and filth coat his skin. The rain refreshed him but didn’t budge the grease locking the dirt onto his skin.
Wash and stay clean, remove all traces of scent as often as possib
le. Muttering quietly to himself with an occasional glance from the dog he makes plans, creates lists and forms strategies for survival. The steady motion takes his mind back to the filming of Man on the Run. Playing an ex-special forces soldier accused of a crime he didn’t commit and using his skills to survive in the wilds while being tracked by an increasingly growing army of police and military. A large portion of the film was showing Paco’s characters using survival skills, testing for clean water, making a fire from sticks, making traps for animals. With audiences becoming ever more discerning he’d insisted on being shown the correct methods for each of the tasks he was set. A genuine survivalist was brought in to coach Paco through the close up stuff. Who was that guy? Paco frowns trying to remember his name, something all American, Chuck or Chad. Maybe Buck. He could picture the quietly spoken man now, showing him the techniques and talking him through the movements. Paco studied him closely, adopting his mannerisms and he’d scored a big hit with the audiences. But right now, at the point where he needed those skills more than ever he’d be damned if he could remember a single thing he was taught.
His mind was too full to think straight. Stuck on an endless loop of horrific images of what the monsters will do to him if they ever catch him. In his mind the sole purpose of the monsters, their sole intent was to track him down and eat him. Nothing else mattered. None of these normal little people that were killed to actually become the monsters of his nightmares. They didn’t factor in his egotistical mind.
He’d fed and watered the dog before they set off, but that was simply to keep it strong and healthy as it seemed intent on sticking with him.
Looking down at the dog now, trotting along happily in the bright sunlight with her long pink tongue lolling out the side of her mouth he thinks back to how she killed that first monster in the road. Tearing its throat out with utter viciousness. And last night, listening to her kill and kill again. He shakes his head, reaching down to stroke the top of her head. She looks up, big brown eyes and gives her tail a quick wag.
‘Good girl,’ he says softly rubbing her head harder. Keep the dog fed, watered and happy he thinks.
A few hours of walking brings them to the side of a shallow valley. Looking down at a collection of farm buildings surrounded by cultivated fields. He drops down low, hugging the ground and staring for signs of movement.
‘Too obvious,’ he whispers to the dog lying next to him, ‘that farmstead’ll be full of good old boys toting shotguns and rifles. No sir, not for us, come on,’ he scoots backwards dropping down the hill before standing up and walking away to skirt miles round the valley and deeper into the country.
They find an unmade track, rutted with potholes and two distinct lanes used by vehicle wheels with grass growing in the middle. A collection of buildings starts to show in the distance. Flashes of blue, green, yellow all in pastel shades. The land flattens out abruptly at the edge of a wooded copse. In front of him stands the stone built detached chalets. Built in a large circle around a central green. Still some distance away and he stands in the shades of the trees scanning and watching. No movement. No cars. No noise drifting over either.
They break free from the cover of the trees, edging closer to the buildings, puzzled at the display of colour so deep in the countryside. Each chalet is a different pastel shade with large sun windows. A gravel lane leads round the edge of the green giving access to the buildings. In the middle stands a brick built barbeque area and fire pit with old style wooden carved bench seats dotted about.
The lane leading in has a small car park and reception hut made of wood. Stopping every few minutes he listens and watches. Only moving off when satisfied.
Reaching the reception hut he stops to read the welcome sign. Table Top Holiday Chalets Are Currently Closed For Refurbishment. His forehead knots with puzzlement at the strange name, then glancing round he nods with realisation at the unusually flat area.
‘Table top,’ he whispers to the dog knowingly, ‘no cars, no people, miles from anywhere, what do you think dog?’ He asks. She doesn’t answer but sniffs the ground. He watches her for a while, checking that she’s seems happy with the smells she finds.
She looks completely normal, scooting about with her nose to the ground and checking round to check he’s still there every few minutes.
‘Okay, let’s do this,’ he nods bravely and ventures past the reception building. The nerves start straight away with something new that needs checking and it sends his terror levels soaring.
They loop round the back of the buildings first, checking each window and moving from chalet to chalet. Back at the start he enters the circle again, this time to the front of the buildings and again going to each to look through the windows. With the doors and windows all locked and secured he feels satisfied that no one else is here.
At the reception building he peers through the window at the office facilities inside. An alarm box fitted to the side of the building gives him a momentary minute of worry but with no power the alarm can’t go off. Finding a rock he gently taps at the pane of glass above the door lock. Wincing at the sound of smashing glass that cascades down onto the hard floor.
Inside he finds the key cupboard and thumbs through the fobs, each one tagged with a colour. Stepping outside he picks the one facing the entrance lane, pocketing the pastel blue fob and heading across the green.
Paco stands back after opening the door, staring down at the dog and watching her closely. She sniffs about and walks in without a care in the world. He holds position, waiting expectantly for her to bark, snarl or launch into an attack on monsters hiding in the rooms. It doesn’t happen; instead she sniffs around the rooms and trots about. Single story, no stairs.
He closes the door behind him and walks through the small building. Two bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen and lounge. Sparsely furnished with bare essentials, some kind of idea that being in the countryside means you don’t need home comforts.
In the kitchen he tests the cold tap, finding it still running with cool fresh water. With the dog watered he remembers his plans and strategies, stripping off in the kitchen and scrubbing his body down with cold water. No soap in the bathroom so he uses washing up liquid from a kitchen cupboard, foaming it up to remove the film of grease clogging his skin. Standing naked in the kitchen he soaks his clothes, using the washing up liquid and a stiff brush to scrub at the stains.
The dog watches him closely, lying next to the bowl of water and panting noisily as he wrings the clothes out and heads outside the back door to swing them round and round, sending the excess water spraying off onto the lush green grass.
With the clothes laid across a patio chair in the strong sun he potters about in his birthday suit, opening tins and feeling his skin tightening from the sudden removal of the grime.
He sits outside in the sun, feeling the warmth on his bare skin and eating cold beans, feeding the dog more ravioli and chuckling at the thought of the coming farting contest. As the sun sets he shrugs his now dry clothes on and stands at the front door, straining his ears. He waits for a long time, well past nightfall but no noises of the monsters howling reach him. He studies the dog closely, her ears prick and twitch as she detects slight noises in the bushes from animals but nothing more than that. When she lies down and rests her chin on her paws he knows they must be safe and gently calls her inside, locking the door and collapsing exhausted on the bed in the back bedroom.
The dog jumps up, walking round in a tight circle for a few seconds before lying down. Paco, laying on top of the covers with his boots on, moves his leg to rest against her back, feeling the comfort of the warmth from her body.
The following morning Paco woke from the sunlight streaming across his eyes. Blinking the sleep away he sat up, marvelling at having slept for so many hours undisturbed. The dog was already at the front door, scratching and whining. Stepping outside he stretched and yawned, checking the perimeter with a smile at the unchanged view.
‘Perfect,’ he whispered qui
etly as the dog took a piss on the grass. She turned round, sniffing her urine before moving off and taking a big steaming crap.
‘Nice,’ Paco said, ‘maybe I should take a crap on the lawn,’ he suggested heading inside to find a bag to clear the dog mess away before the smell attracted unwanted company. Failing to find a bag he used toilet tissue. The shit was half runny and still warm, soaking the paper which split as his fingers pressed into the gooey faeces. Gagging he stood up, turning round to glare at the dog. He stopped mid-turn, staring off into the distance at a thick column of smoke drifting high into the sky.
The sight brought him back to reality. Whatever it was that was burning was big, the smoke cloud was huge. Glancing around nervously he chided himself for being in a relaxed state before rushing off back into the house.
The rest of day was spent in a state of near bliss. No noises, no movement. Just peace and quiet.
He went outside periodically, making himself examine the view and memorise how everything was. If anything was moved or altered he’d know.
They drank water, lots of water and ate tinned food. The dog slept, sniffed about, pissed more and slept again. She seemed happy and content to just be which pleased Paco as he couldn’t think of anywhere better to be right now. Other than in Wyoming on his ranch with his parents and all their big guns.
The day passed peacefully with Paco content to sit with his back to the front door and his legs stretched out across the gravel path. The sun was hot, the humidity was high. He dozed on and off, gently waking up every now and then. The dog did the same, shifting position to stay in the shade of the house.
By nightfall they two were rested and feeling secure for the first time in days. Nothing had happened. Not one sound other than natural animal and bird noises. Before the sun went down, Paco walked the edge of the gravel path checking the view one last time and making sure everything was still the same.
As darkness descended he retired to the bedroom, stretching out on the covers with the dog at his feet again. He thought of home, of his family and the life he had. He remembered the girl in his trailer giving him the blowjob before it all went so terribly wrong. What was her name? Hell, what was any of their names? Lucy was a strange cookie he mused in the darkness. Shame she got herself trapped, could have had some more fun with that one.