by RR Haywood
They push the car over, bouncing it down onto all four wheels, the man inside screaming louder from the movement. Rough hands open doors and drag the man out, his hands clutching the knife buried in his gut.
‘You stupid motherfucker,’ Randall shakes his head with disgust at the man, ‘any fool knows you put your seatbelt on you retarded dumb-ass.’
‘Argh fuck it hurts…’the man gasps, his breath coming hard and fast.
‘You is fucked man, you gonna die now from your own dumb-ass stupidity,’ Randall says.
‘No…no just get me some help…’
‘Help? What fucking help? Ain’t no fucking doctors now you dumb-ass…you are fucked up.’
‘We can’t just leave him,’ one of the inmates says.
‘Fuck that,’ Randall drops down, taking a grip of the knife handle he wrenches it out of the wound. The man screams in agony as fresh blood spurts out. Randall pushes him down, holding him in place with one strong foot. He stabs down, driving the point of the knife deep into the man’s throat, slicing and hacking the windpipe apart. The man thrashes violently which just worsens the action of the knife in his neck, gargling, sputtering he dies slowly, eyes staring as his hands grab out at the inmates who jump back out of reach.
‘Dumb motherfucker,’ Randall steps back, throwing the knife down as he looks down at the fresh corpse.
‘We leaving him?’ Someone asks.
‘Go ahead and bury him…I don’t give a fuck,’ Randall replies, turning towards the lane and walking off. The men shrug at each other and fall into step behind the American.
The death is quickly forgotten as the big house comes into view, low whistles and exclamations sound out at the sight of the palatial building. Huge and sprawling, surrounded by perfectly cut lawns with laser straight lines. Old style gothic fountains dot the grounds, built into the surroundings so well they seem part of the natural gardens, organic almost.
The now fourteen men spread out into a long line, all of them taking care not to step in front of the alpha male Randall. They stare at the high windows, the arched doorways, the turreted architecture but the splendour of the view is only marginal in comparison to the expectation they have of what’s inside.
‘Spotted,’ Harry mutters. Randall follows his outstretched hand pointing at the ground floor patio style doors leading out onto the gardens. Curtains moving, silhouettes of people inside, faces appearing to stare out.
The inmates cut across the lawn, walking a straight line towards the main house and ignoring the many low rise outbuildings dotting the grounds. Crossing the tarmacked road they enter into a gravelled area with a large circular sculpted marble central section and the main house recessed back from the large wings.
Their feet crunch the gravel noisily, the combined steps form a cascading noise the bounces round the enclosure from the high sides of the buildings.
The main doors ahead of them open to reveal an older man dressed in a checked shirt, the sleeves rolled up above the elbow, green corduroy trousers and a ruddy balding head. A long barrelled shotgun rests across the crook of his arm. He stands still, watching the men. The doors close behind him.
Randall keeps his eyes locked on the sentry. His body language and posture portraying his intentions perfectly, stoic and solid. As they get closer, Randall watches his eyes cast along the line, taking in the sight of the hard men walking towards him. Only fourteen of them but their size and appearance gives the effect of there being many more.
‘Help you?’ The man calls out, he closes the shotgun, not an aggressive act, just a subtle motion that resonates with a clear click as the barrels slot into place. Randall comes to a stop, keeping his face plain he stares back at the man, sizing him up.
‘We need food,’ Randall replies.
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Old man, you asked a question and I answered you but do not mother-fucking think for one second I am your bitch to stand here in this mother-fucking heat and be fucking interrogated,’ Randall's voice grows in volume and aggression as he speaks. ‘Now do you have food?’
The man blanches at the unsuppressed aggression of the huge black man stood in front of him, his arms bulging with muscle, thick veins standing proud of the skin, the other men looking every inch as frightening with swollen mouths, bruised eyes. The white men amongst them look oddly pale, like they’ve been away from the summer sun. Exposed arms and necks reveal a plethora of tattoos.
Other than the infected, every survivors worst nightmare just arrived. The old man knows which way this will go. One shotgun with two shots, even his practised hands might get two more shells in before they’re on him. The intent on them is clear, the sick grins and knowing smiles.
‘We got food, if we give it to you will you go?’ He replies in a shaky voice, wishing now he’d let one of the younger men come out who might have portrayed less fear than him.
‘We’ll go when we’re mother-fucking ready to go, stand out the way old man before someone hurts you,’ Randall strides at him with not a flinch as the shotgun lifts. The inmates follow suit, walking straight at the door. The old man’s hands sway as he tracks the men, not one of them flickers. The power is with them, he couldn’t pull the trigger if he tried and they know it.
His shoulders slump, the shotgun lowers to the ground. Breathing a sad sigh he steps to the side, watching as the grinning black man with the black beard walks past him and opens the door. The inmates file past him, each one of them glaring with violence at the old man. The last one to pass makes a quick lunging motion, laughing as the old man wilts back with a start.
‘Look at this,’ Randall stands in the central hall with hands on hips, wearing black jeans with a tight black t-shirt he casts his gaze at the opulence of the interior, ‘now this mother-fucking beats the place we had,’ the men burst out laughing, sniggering as they too look in wonder at the furnishings.
‘Who are you?’ An old woman steps out from a doorway, followed by more scared faces. Young and old, all of them looking pale and drawn. A couple of them still wearing English Heritage uniform from working the night duty the day the world fell.
‘We,’ he stares at the elegant old lady, fixing her with a grin, ‘are convicts just escaped from the local prison, we’re hungry and we’re horny,’ he replies. Something about the grace of the old woman, her grey hair swept up into a tight bun, firm mouth and intelligent eyes stops him from cussing.
‘We can feed you, but as for the other…’
‘For the other ma’am,’ the American drops back into old habits of addressing an older woman, ‘we’ll take what we’re not given.’
‘I see,’ she drops her gaze to the floor, a sadness comes over her, ‘I would offer myself but I rather think I am not what you desire.’
‘You’ll do for me love,’ one of the inmates says quickly, getting a few cheap laughs.
‘Shut your mother fucking mouth,’ Randall explodes, everyone within the hallway jumping at the sound of his voice, ‘if I hear one of you motherfuckers cussing in front of this woman I will fucking slit your fucking throat and drink your fucking blood,’ he turns back to the woman, fighting to bring his temper back under control, ‘I apologise for my associates ma’am.’
‘I implore you, a man of clear morals,’ she pleads with hands clasped together as though in prayer, ‘to take what food you need and leave us.’
‘Oh we’ll take the food…and anything else we want and then maybe…if you’re lucky…we’ll leave. You boy, come here,’ Randall looks directly at a thin built teenage boy, standing in the doorway of a room watching with wide eyes full of fear, ‘I said come here boy,’ Randall growls, ‘come here or I will come and mother-fucking get you,’ he screams when the boy doesn't budge.
‘Leave him alone,’ the old woman pleads.
‘Grandma, my decency towards you has a limit, I may choose not to cuss at you but I will stick this knife in your face.’
‘Why do you want the boy?’ A woman step
s into view, stepping quickly to shield the boy behind her.
‘Who the fuck are you? His mamma?’ Randall takes in her shapely figure, an older woman but well maintained, he nods in approval, the leer evident on his face.
‘Aunt…’I’m his aunt, his mother didn’t make it.’
‘She dead? Hell bitch, just say it…ain't no good hiding it from the boy, hey boy…your mamma is dead you hear that? Get tough and deal with it or curl up and fuck yourself.’ He laughs at himself, a big hearty sound that fills the echoing chamber. Inmates behind him grin sickeningly. ‘How she die?’
The aunt stiffens, holding herself straight with dignity, ‘the things took her.’
‘The mother-fucking things took her, you hear that boys…the mother-fucking things took his mamma and now his sexy ass aunt is taking care of him, man I wish I had an aunt like you when I was a boy.’
‘Just leave the boy alone, please…he’s suffered enough…we all have,’ the aunt says softly.
‘Suffered? You wanna hear what suffering is? Suffering is being cooped up in a mother-fucking English prison with people talking in accents I don’t even know what they are, ain't no one gonna touch a hair on your boys head…I give you my word on that lady, but you…well you gotta make sure my boys are kept busy.’
‘I’ve heard enough, get out, all of you get out now,’ the old man barks, holding the shotgun pointing at Randall. Silence slams in the elegant hallway as everyone turns to look at him. The inmates bursting out laughing at the sight of the old codger trembling with anger.
‘You gonna shoot me old man?’ Randall asks with a grin, ‘go ahead, shoot me,’ he adds spreading his arms out wide, ‘come on now you motherfucker, fire that piece.’
‘I’m not joshing now young man, come on all of you just get out.’
‘Arthur,’ the old woman says in a warning tone.
‘No Mildred, I won’t stand by and listen to this…these men are leaving right now.’
‘Arthur,’ Randall seizes on the name, ‘you gonna shoot that thing or what homeboy? Cos you know don’t you…that you holding a shotgun filled with pellets that will spread and just about put holes in every mother-fucking thing stood here…but you know that don’t you Arthur…hell, even Mildred here can see that, you dumb-ass mother-fucking retard.’
‘Well, I can just as easy shoot one of them,’ Arthur says, swivelling his aim to the inmates stood watching him.
‘Them? Go ahead, I don’t give a fuck about them,’ Randall laughs, ‘hell you got two shots old man, and there’s over a dozen of us, we’ll kill every one of you dumb sons o’ bitches.’
Arthur freezes, panic setting in again. He wants to do something, he should do something. This shouldn’t be happening, men always panic and do what the man holding the gun says, but these men aren’t doing that. They’re mocking him. His finger twitches, an involuntary action caused by fear clenching his muscles, contracting the digit of the finger extended over the trigger. The shotgun booms with a deafening roar. One of the inmates, taken off his feet and slammed into the staircase, loses most of his upper body from the force of the pellets. Women scream, the inmates starburst, diving all directions. Randall stands with a shocked expression, not quite believing what he just saw.
Arthur, panicking at what he just did, drops the shotgun to the floor. It lands with a thud, the vibration triggering the second barrel which fires at the front door, bursting a big hole through the antique door.
Harry is there within two strides, one big hand gripping Arthur by the throat and pushing him back against the now ruined door. Arthur is lifted up, his feet dangling helplessly a few inches of the floor. Harry grips his knife, stares into the old man’s eyes and sticks the blade deep through his stomach. The action is quick, a deep thrust that buries the blade up to the hilt.
Mildred screams, the shock causing her to feint and fall to the floor. Harry twists the knife, jerking the handle to one side. A spume of blood pumps out, coating the thick hair on Harry’s hand and wrist. A reedy gurgle comes from Arthur, his windpipe compressed so much that barely any air escapes.
Harry jerks the knife back and drops Arthur to the floor. Inmates surge in, lashing at the poor man with feet. Kicking and stamping as he wails and cries on the floor. Desperately trying to curl into the foetal position. The aunt grabs the boy, pushing him away and telling him to run, everyone else; the scared survivors of the apocalypse who’ve safely hidden in this luxurious setting, start running.
The inmates beat Arthur to death, his face and body pulverised by their heavy feet. Randall twists round and sees the aunt ushering the boy away, he lunges and grabs the back of her hair, wrenching with a violent twist that sends her hurtling to the floor.
‘Run,’ she screams at the boy, he hesitates and starts back, screaming at Randall to leave his aunt alone. Randall lashes out, a back hand that slams into the boy’s face, breaking his nose. The boy flies back, smashing his head into the wall, he slumps down unconscious as blood pours from his nose.
The aunt screams, fighting valiantly to her feet and lashing out at Randall. He laughs demonically, enjoying the thrill of the violence and not paying any attention as the inmates scatter off chasing the survivors, whooping and crying out with joy as they chase their prey down.
The aunt flails her arms at Randall, smacking him in the chest and head. Her blows go unnoticed as Randall grips the front of her shirt and pulls it down. She backs away from him, her hands desperately trying to push her shirt back up and cover her modesty. He stalks her, an evil grin spreading across his face at the sight of the flesh on display.
She backs into a wall, her eyes flicking to the boy who looks like he’s coming round, a low moaning escaping from his lips and his head slowly lifting.
‘Okay…okay,’ she gasps as Randall turns to look at the lad, ‘okay whatever you want…but please not here…’
He looks back at her, the grin still wide, showing his big white teeth. She staggers a couple of steps to the side, her hands groping the wall to feel for an open door.
‘In here…please,’ she begs. He stays still, staring at her, not speaking. His eyes casually drift back to the boy as he lifts the knife up.
Crying out she lifts her hands away, letting the ripped shirt fall open, ‘here, in here…please,’ she begs, tears stream down her face as her trembling hands scrabble at her bra, pulling it down to reveal a naked breast, ‘look…take what you want…in here…’
Randall’s eyes fix greedily on the breast, the pale skin and light freckles stark against the pink of the nipple. Without a word he walks at her, pushing her roughly into the room and slamming the door closed behind him.
Eighteen
‘You off?’ Chris asks, striding towards us, Meredith trotting happily at his side on a lead.
‘Yes mate,’ I reply as the others load into the back of the Saxon which had been prepped and made ready while Clarence and I were in the meeting.
‘She went off on one when you left.’
‘Who? Debbie?’
‘Yep, went fucking nuts,’ he nods grimly, ‘said the council was wrong and the meeting was void, that you were twisting everything to suit you and shouldn’t be trusted anymore.’
‘Fucking hell,’ I sigh with a feeling of anger building up, ‘what does she want?’
‘Another meeting, but this one chaired properly’ he says making finger quote marks with one hand.
‘Fuck me Chris, I’ve had about as much of this as I can take…’
‘I know, they’re still arguing about it now.’
‘Still? What the fuck Chris! We haven’t got time to deal with that kind of thing, this place needs shit loads doing to it and she’s just causing delay after fucking delay now.’
‘We’ll get it sorted,’ he says, but the tone doesn't match the confidence of the words.
‘Chris you gotta get that gun rigged up the top, get the guards on the gates and the alarm…’ Clarence urges.
‘I’m trying,’ he say
s through gritted teeth.
‘Try harder,’ Clarence snaps.
‘Tell you what Clarence, you stay here and sort this fucking mess out and I’ll go out with Howie, yeah?’
‘Fine by me,’ Clarence retorts, ‘I’ll fucking sort her out.’
‘And how you gonna that?’ Chris demands, glaring at Clarence.
‘I’ll fucking lock her up if she causes anymore trouble for a start.’
‘Yeah that’ll go down well, what kind of message will that send out to everyone?’
‘Message? Who gives a fuck about what message we send out? They’re alive aren’t they? They’ve got food don’t they?’
‘Yeah thanks for the input,’ Chris snaps, ‘have a great fucking day.’ His face goes bright red with anger. He turns, marching back towards the police offices with the dog at his side.
‘My turn,’ I say to Clarence, ‘that was a bit harsh.’
‘Like you said boss, I’m getting pissed off at pussy footing around, he better a grip of that woman.’
We climb into the Saxon, slamming the doors closed and pausing for a second before I fire the massive engines up. The vehicle vibrates to life, the dull roar giving us all a sense of comfort.
‘Soooo,’ Cookey says, ‘bad day to ask for a raise then?’
‘Yep,’ I reply, easing the vehicle forward. We go at a crawling pace for fear of causing any more damage or annoying anyone. Which is a mistake as it gives Sergeant Hopewell plenty of time to see us coming and march out of the office to stand in front of the vehicle.
‘What now?’ I gasp with exasperation.
‘Boss, why don’t you stay here…I’ll go see what she wants,’ Blowers offers.
‘No it’s okay,’ I reply with a sigh, opening the door to drop down.
‘I’m staying here, I can’t handle her anymore,’ Clarence says firmly.
‘Fair enough, Debbie…what’s up?’
‘What’s up? You know perfectly well what’s up after that little performance in there,’ she snarls at me.
‘Debbie, it was done fairly. Yeah I might have taken the piss a bit but everyone voted and we agreed it, sorry if you don’t like it but…’