by RR Haywood
‘It’s not funny Marcy, I saw everything!’
‘Well everyone’s got to start somewhere, I can get her number if you want it?’
‘You’re being facetious, she does not have a phone and nor do I, now what were you saying? I fear I have somewhat guessed where this is leading.’
‘I’m sure you have, Howie has the fort, he told me they have doctors and equipment inside it…’
‘This being the same fort with the big walls, where Darren led tens of thousands of living challenged and got them all killed…the same fort with the thousands of people living inside it, with weapons and guns…’
‘Yes Reginald, that same fort.’
‘Marcy are you suggesting we take our thousands of infected hosts to this fort? They’ll kill us on sight.’
‘If we turn up on mass with thousands of zombies they’ll slaughter us, but not all of us needs to go,’ Marcy adds hastily.
‘What you are suggesting is both ludicrous and highly dangerous…and please stop using the z word.’
‘Why? And dangerous to who? We have plenty of communicators, both you and I are able to communicate fully…’
‘We might not feel pain Marcy but we can still die and they’ll kill us on sight’ he repeats.
‘Not if we do it the right way, we’re going to Fort Spitbank Reggie, that is final.’
Seventeen
Across the road, on the other side of the high chain link fence, and deep within the undergrowth, several men lay covered from view, watching and listening.
They had discussed what they had seen, with the girls seemingly making all the inmates fall to the floor then get back up and follow them.
Heated, whispered conversations took place with theories being put forward, ideas banded about and their fear evident. Randall let them speak for a while, thinking furiously and trying to make sense of what he’d seen.
They were still in situ when the large crowd came out of the prison gates and walked briskly up the road towards them. Spreading out and dropping low they once again lay silently as the crowd reached the corner. Randall straining his ears as their conversation drifted into hearing range, someone called Darren and Howie, a big fort with thousands of people living in it, doctors and equipment. These people were infected with a virus, that must have been what made the inmates fall down and then get back up like robots.
Randall focussed sharper as he heard about weapons and guns. A fort with thousands of people, doctors and weapons and guns. Someplace that had already killed tens of thousands of the infected people.
He listened carefully, trying to understand where this fort was, imagining a stockade with chopped trees forming a perimeter, men on horseback like something from a western movie.
The name came through clearly; Fort Spitbank. Then they moved off, the whole of them walking quickly away down the road towards the prison estates.
Randall keeps his men still for long minutes, waving his hand at them and glaring until sure the people were well gone. Only then did he move out, creeping slowly from the bushes to work his way along the fence and over the gate.
Motioning his men he takes them in the opposite direction, pressing his finger against his lips with a threatening look, leaving them in no doubt that he expects them to be silent.
He leads them back down the road, jogging past the prison, over the main road and into the gardens of a house opposite. Still pressing them to stay quiet they make their way from garden to garden, moving away from the prison. Spying an open back door he sends two in to check the house, waiting quietly until they return, announcing its empty.
Inside, the fifteen men go straight for the sinks in the kitchen, toilet and bathroom, using cups, glasses and hands to drink cool water. Taking turns to wash the worse of the blood and filth off. Cupboards are rooted through, whatever food was left is devoured by the starving inmates. The meagre supplies in the house only serve to whet their appetites.
‘What was all that about?’ An inmate asks the men stood crowded in the kitchen and hallway.
‘You heard that woman, she said they were zomb…’ Someone replies.
‘Fuck off! Don’t be so fucking stupid.’
‘You saw what they did to the blokes having a go on them girls.’
‘That woman said it, she said they’re infected or diseased or whatever…’
‘Zombies don’t fucking speak you cunt.’
‘How the fuck do you know what they can do? This ain’t the fucking movies…’
‘They had the inmates in the crowd…I fucking saw ‘em, stood there looking as dumb as cunts.’
‘Who the fuck is Darren and this cunt Howie? What the fuck is going on?’
‘Shut the fuck up and let me think you motherfuckers,’ Randall snaps harshly, his voice cutting through the multitude of voices as the discussion builds.
‘Yeah shut the fuck up and let Randy think,’ Colin adds, glaring at the others.
‘That means you too dumb-ass.’
‘Yeah that means you too, oh you mean me? Sorry Randy.’
‘You heard that bitch,’ Randall growls, ‘you mother-fucking saw what they did to the prisoners…’
‘Yeah but Randy…this is fucking nuts,’ an inmate replies, his voice rising with panic.
‘Get a grip motherfucker, that bitch said they infected, she said they zombies…all them mother-fucking people stood there quietly and shit, not moving, not speaking, no weapons, no guns, no knives or shit…and talking about a mother-fucking fort.’
‘That explains where the officers all went, the phones not working…computers offline…’ another inmate says.
‘Is it just here, on the Island?’ another asks.
‘Can’t be,’ someone answers, ‘they would have sent someone over by now.’
‘Fort Spitbank is on the mainland,’ an older inmate says.
‘You know this place?’ Randall turns on the man, a grizzled big man with a long grey beard and old faded tattoos over his hands and arms.
‘Yeah,’ he nods, voice deep and slow, ‘on the coast, few miles from Portsmouth.’
‘What is it?’
‘Some old fort,’ the man replies, ‘used to fight the French or Spanish years ago.’
‘How long ago?’ Randall asks.
‘Hundred and fifty years or somethin’.’
‘Shit motherfucker, you been there?’
‘Years back,’ the ex-biker nods.
‘This ain’t no interrogation motherfucker, quit giving short answers.’
‘What?’ The bearded man shrugs.
‘Holy fucking shit you must be the dumbest motherfucker I ever met, what’s your name?’
‘Harry.’
‘Harry, you look more like grizzly mother-fucking Adams, what’s this fort like?’
‘Big.’
‘Quit doing that, motherfucker! I swear I’ll kill you, you hear me? I will fucking kill you…’
‘It’s big, got big walls, sea on one side…old buildings inside.’
‘Do the military use it?’
‘No.’
‘Harry…I swear to almighty I will…’
‘Open to the public, visitors go there, old cannons…’
‘Well thank mother-fucking you,’ Randall glares, ‘if this shit is on the mainland then this shit is everywhere, that bitch Marcy said this motherfucker Howie killed tens of thousands…We go to this fort…’
‘They ain’t gonna let a bunch of inmates in Randy.’
‘We ain’t gonna be inmates, we gonna be normal Joe’s coming to warn them about this bitch Marcy planning to attack them…we mention Howie and Darren and they let us right in.’
‘But that Marcy said she weren’t gonna attack ‘em, she said she wanted to talk to ‘em.’
‘They don’t know that motherfucker, all we gotta do is get in then we see what the fuck is going down…’
‘There’ll be loads of pussy in there and booze…but armed men too.’
Randall stares
at the men throwing comments at him, a desperate bunch that look exactly what they are; hardened criminals, ‘fuck that, them motherfuckers don’t know who the fuck we are, they think they’re tough motherfuckers? Try spending ten fucking years in that fucking place and then say you’re a tough motherfucker, we get inside and see how the mother-fucking ground lies…how the fuck do we get there Harry?’
He shrugs, huge shoulders lifting up a few inches to drop back down, ‘don’t know.’
‘Dumb motherfucker,’ Randall sighs, ‘which one of you bitches knows how to get there?’
Another inmate steps forward, lifting his hand as though in a classroom, ‘North Randy, we go north and get boats across to the mainland.’
‘Come on then motherfuckers, we going north…’ He threatens the men to stay quiet, leading them out the back door and across the gardens, moving steadily away from the prisons. With the new plan in place Randall keeps them away from the town, skirting the edge and keeping to the side streets. The short journey into the urbanisation brings home the devastation they had suspected. Bodies litter the streets, decomposing corpses left in the scorching sun and crawling with flies and maggots. Dark scabbed, dried pools of blood smeared across the pavement and road, cars abandoned with doors open, windows of houses smashed in and doors hanging off.
At the roundabout they pause, looking over the flat ground to the end of the barricade at the base of the High Street and the wide gap smashed through it. Not a sign of a living person, no vehicles moving about, no army or soldiers. The quietness both oppresses and provides some comfort. The comfort from the knowledge that they’ve done something very bad. Broken out of a prison and killed other men in doing so but no one is chasing them, no helicopters or police with dogs.
Randall pushes them on, determined to be away from the centre and the huge crowd of people following Marcy and that little guy with the glasses. He keeps replaying the conversation he heard, the words they used, infected, zombies, not feeling pain, battle, fights, cures, forts.
Now, street by street and seeing the reality of it for himself makes him understand this is happening, this is real. A sense of excitement grows in his stomach, a sense that suddenly the power has shifted. Dangerous men that can fight and kill were locked away, now though, they’ll be a valued resource, warriors that can protect the rich. People will be vulnerable and frightened. This is a situation they can use to their advantage. Only fifteen men but these fifteen are worth fifty normal pussies and had already proved they’re willing to kill to survive.
The heat becomes almost unbearable, the men strip their upper clothing off, defined black bodies, pale white muscular torsos, tattoos everywhere. Randall realises the sight of them would scare anyone, the prison blues too distinctive, the dried blood and dirt still clinging to their skin.
In a quiet street he stops the men, sending them into the houses two by two to find clothes and get washed up. Staring with a huge grin as they come back out, skin scrubbed and raw, hair wetted down and dressed in a variety of clothing. After seeing them all in prison clothing for so long, not one of them looks comfortable wearing normal garments.
Jeans, trousers, vests, t shirts, shirts, shoes, trainers, sandals, they all look and feel self-conscious. Harry wearing a pair of baggy shorts with a Hawaiian tropical coloured short sleeve shirt contrasting against his long grey beard and tied back greying hair.
Randall, along with some of the other bigger men, have to search several houses to find suitable clothes that fit them, unwilling to settle for the shorts and tropical clothing of Harry.
Prison clothes ditched, skin washed, the smell of stale sweat now gone, bellies filled with food from cupboards and thirst quenched from cold water taps, and each of them with a sharp kitchen knife stuffed into their waistbands, they move on. Street by street they see the signs of devastation, not realising they’re tracking the reverse route of Marcy and seeing the signs of her passage everywhere.
After an hour of trudging the tiredness starts to take effect, the new clothes now sodden with sweat and clinging to skin. Randall again calls them to a stop, spying vehicles parked on driveways he send the men into the houses to find keys, it takes several houses but three cars are found and started. Fifteen men cramming into them, with Randall in the lead vehicle sat in the leather passenger seat of a new Mercedes, the air-con on full blast. Harry crammed in the back with another two inmates, shoulders digging into each other but feeling the relief of the icy cool air.
‘Which way is it?’ Colin asks, seeing two main roads branching off from the roundabout a few miles out of the main town.
‘Any of you fuckers know?’ Randall twists round, looking at Harry and the other two shaking their heads, ‘dumb motherfuckers,’ he mutters, ‘they both go North, choose one and for your sake you better pray it’s the right one.’
‘Okay Randy,’ Colin grins, navigating the roundabout and taking the left road. The other vehicles follow behind them, the speed recklessly high as the sense of freedom permeates into the men from the years of containment.
The vehicle immediately behind the Mercedes pulls out to the left, accelerating harshly as it prepares for the overtake, the inmate driver grinning like crazy behind the wheel.
‘Don’t let that motherfucker own you,’ Randall shouts, ‘put your foot down.’ The third car comes into the play, pushing the two in front faster through the wide road, curving gently through the fields and meadows. The roar of the engines splitting the peace apart as the three cars power along. The Mercedes holding lead from Colin drifting into the middle of the road, jigging the wheel left and right to block the path of the two behind.
The men scream in competition, sticking fingers up at each other and opening windows to shout abuse. Randall bellows at Colin, shouting threats of instant death if he lets either of the other two cars get past them. The speed increases as the driving becomes erratic, the pressure to win builds with each passing second. None of them knowing where they’re going but lost in the moment of watching the bushes and trees fly past the windows.
The fields end abruptly as they race into tree lined streets with wide pavements and big Victorian houses set back behind large front gardens.
‘Hey hold up, what the fuck is that place?’ Randall shouts as they negotiate a long corner, flashing past a set of high metal gates. Colin slams the brakes on, the car fishtailing down the road, the men in the back slamming into the seats as the momentum propels them forward. The following vehicles narrowly avoid collision as they anchor on the brakes, swerving round the Mercedes. All three vehicles come to rest, engines ticking over noisily as they look back at the long black skid marks scored onto the surface of the road.
‘Turn round and go back,’ Randall orders. Colin complies, slowly turning in a wide arc to start going back up the road. The other two vehicles move in, forming a lane between them. The Mercedes slows to a stop with the front drivers and passenger windows all level.
‘What are those big fucking gates for?’ Randall shouts to the other vehicles. They shake heads, answering they didn’t even see the gates. He tells them to follow as Colin pulls away, taking it easy and giving them time to catch up.
Back up the road they head towards the long corner, the gates coming into view ahead of them. Huge wrought iron things, well over ten feet high and painted high gloss black and gold with a strange motif across the front. A solid high wooden fence runs off both sides of the gate, bordering grounds seen through the gate bars.
Randall gets out the vehicle which stops just a few yards in front of the gates, sauntering over to look through. Wide grounds with big manicured lawns, square cut hedges, flowers beds and orchards.
‘What the fuck is this place?’ He asks the men gathering behind him.
‘Osborne House,’ one of them reads from a sign set into the fence further along.
‘Queen Victoria’s old house,’ another says from memory.
‘The Queen lived here?’ Randall asks in surprise, ‘I thought she
was in Buckingham Palace.’
‘Old queen,’ Harry explains bluntly, ‘years ago.’
‘Who lives here now?’ He asks.
‘Says here English Heritage own it,’ an inmate reads from the sign, ‘says its open to the public.’
‘Public? Hell we’re the mother-fucking public now my bitches,’ Randall grins, ‘they gonna have some fine food in a queens house, some fine mother-fucking food.’
‘Closed,’ Harry says staring at the high gates.
‘Fuck that shit,’ Randall walks to the gates, examining the thick chain and padlock. ‘Any of you motherfuckers done a ram raid before?’ He gets grinning nods from several men, one of them running back to get behind the wheel of the Mercedes, backing it up while motioning the others to move out the way.
They scatter quickly, jogging from the gates as the Mercedes roars to life. The powerful engine screaming as the driver surges towards the gates.
‘Holy shit,’ Randall laughs as the vehicle rams into the solid metal gates. An ear splitting boom, coupled with a mighty wrenching sound fills the air as the gates burst open. The front of the Mercedes crumples, airbags deploy whacking the driver in the face, he loses control, his foot still pressed down on the accelerator as the car propels down the driveway, slamming into a wooden guard building next to a single arm barrier. The ages old guard hut bursts apart, wooden timbers flying in all directions, the uneven ground causes the Mercedes to flip onto one side, still ploughing forward onto the lawn, gouging the perfect turf with deep trenches.
‘Holy motherfucker,’ Randall laughs maniacally as the men pour through the now open gates and see the Mercedes coming to rest on one side. They jog forward, laughing and smiling as the sound of screaming reaches them.
Getting to the car they look through the smashed windows at the driver slumped over to the passenger side, a long bladed knife blade buried deep into his stomach, blood pumping out, his nose freshly broken from the airbag and streaming blood down his face.