Starers

by Nathan Robinson

  A Carson Ryder novel he never finished.

  An empty condom box.

  A half-squeezed tube of Bonjela.

  Long dead batteries.

  A murky stolen/liberated pint glass.

  A pair of military green binoculars.

  Dylan ignored everything else, grabbed the binoculars, and headed back for the landing. Raising the eyepiece to his eyes he looked out across the crowd.

  Scanning across the sea of faces staring up at him, he soon fixated his gaze on the crater in the middle of the playing field and the crowd that remained gathered there.

  What he saw chilled him.

  Fingers breaking against aged rocks in the soil.

  What Lucy had said earlier was now coming true. The crowd they could see gathered outside by the crater were digging into the ground at their feet with bare hands, scrambling into the baked and burnt earth using fingernails as shovels. Some scraped dirt back towards them, whilst others pushed it along with the side of their hands. A plume of dirty brown dust had started to rise above the prone crowd as they moved earth to and fro. There must’ve been more at the bottom of the crater.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘They’re digging.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re digging, with bare hands.’

  ‘Like my dream?’ Lucy added, followed by an audible dry swallow.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘What are they digging for?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘That would be the obvious question,’ Dylan replied with an annoyed rasp, ‘I can’t see for the crowd!’

  ‘What comes next sweetie? In your dream I mean.’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘Fire I think, I see lots of fire.’

  ‘Ahh, screw this!’ Dylan rasped and moved down the other end of the landing. Reaching up he grabbed the cord for the loft hatch and pulled it down. With the flick of a catch, the metal ladders descended down. Taking the binoculars with him, Dylan barged up the steps and into the attic.

  ‘Dylan, where are you going?’

  ‘Assessing the damned situation!’

  The attic lights flicked on, and an instant later came a crashing sound.

  ‘Christ, Dyl what are you doing up there?’

  He didn’t respond. More noise, the tearing of fabric and heavy tiles sliding off the roof. One smashed on the driveway outside. Lucy looked out. It had missed one of the Starers by mere inches.

  Kirsty headed for the loft space. Climbing the ladder, she poked her head over the opening to see Dylan bracing himself on the roof trusses, kicking the roof tiles off from the inside.

  ‘Have you lost it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said between kicks.

  ‘You’re fucking up our roof, how much is this going to cost to repair?’

  Dylan paused from kicking in the felt, his eyebrows rose, widening his eyes incredulously. ‘You really think money matters anymore? It doesn’t; we’ve long left behind tax codes, overdrafts and futile wishes for lottery wins. Life has changed. Things have fucking changed!’

  ‘Has Dad lost his marbles?’ Lucy asked from the bottom of the ladder.

  ‘He’s lost something.’ Kirsty bit her lip and turned, giving her daughter a wry, trying smile. Then she turned back to Dylan. Daylight poured in through the roof.

  ‘So what’s life about now?’ Kirsty asked her husband, now questioning his sanity.

  ‘Survival,’ came his one word answer; then he vanished through the gap in the roof.

  ‘Wait!’ Kirsty called, but his legs slithered through like frightened snakes and she was left alone in the attic with boxes of junk and the dried up corpses of spider shells.

  With shaking fingers, Dylan pulled his way up to the ridge of the roof. Straddling the rooftop, he had a better vantage point from there. He could see for miles. He raised the binoculars to his face again. The digging crowd remained focused on their work, the rest of them kept clear of the centre as if they‘d become drone sentinels of a sacred place. Mounds of dirt had started to build up at the edges of the burnt circle where mindless hands had pushed soil out of the way of progress. A few, but not many, had used some base primal initiative and started using scraps of wreckage as makeshift shovels.

  What the hell were they digging for? Dylan thought. Something on the plane, a black box maybe?

  He moved the binoculars round, following a new horizon that he couldn’t have seen before. It pretty much told the same story. People everywhere. From this vantage point, he could see over the roof of the bus, the Old Man who had been waiting in the rain was still standing, staring at the house. His face was ghostly white, cheeks drawn down as if he were a melting candle. Behind the Old Man, Dylan recognized the Ladlow kid from down the road, the only time he’d ever seen the Ladlow kid out and about was in his wheelchair, crippled up and bent within himself, arms and fingers locked with some grim representation of a clawing tree branch. Now he was standing up across the road, still a little bent over, but dribble-free regardless.

  Up the entire length of Westfield Road, bodies were pressed in against each other. At one point, he thought he had seen his best mate Harry Price amongst the collage of faces, but when he scanned back to find his ginger bearded friend, he had become lost along with the rest of them. The next street was much the same, as was Manton Drive behind them. People’s gardens, fishponds, a few individuals on shed roofs, all the same. In a few bedroom windows, Dylan would see a figure standing eerily behind the glass, looking out towards him, trapped by the strange purpose that pushed people towards his house and their own four walls. Even the fields that surrounded the town looked to be crammed with people. There seemed to be no letting up in finding a break in the crowd.

  It was endless.

  It was hopeless.

  . . .

  No . . .

  Everything has to end sometimes.

  Hope always resides somewhere, even in the dark pits of despair, you’ll find diamonds in the mire, doom wasn’t always certain when you were staring death in the face. Jews escaped the concentration camp at Auschwitz; passengers sometimes survived even the most horrific plane crashes. Didn’t a stewardess survive falling out of a plane sometime in the seventies? People survived the Titanic, the Twin Towers, tsunamis and earthquakes, but this was different.

  Hope was there; he just couldn’t see it yet.

  It was out there somewhere in the ether, beyond the touch of his fingertips. Hope was waiting for an opportunity. Dylan prayed that it didn’t wait too long to show its head.

  Dylan removed the binoculars from his eyes and gave a fateful sigh, dropping his head down to his chest. He picked at a piece of dry moss on the next ridge tile, compacted it between his fingers and flicked it off the roof. He didn’t see where it landed. The field of faces gazed back, their heads fixed in a position that looked upon a point a few feet below him.

  Lucy.

  It was all about her.

  But why?

  Nothing made sense.

  Not the crowd, not Lennon’s death. It seemed that whatever happened next could either provide answers or encourage more questions that are endless. Dylan shook his head and flicked some more moss off the roof and into the crowd, longing for a machine gun and a helicopter.

  And a pilot.

  And a million quid.

  And a beer.

  And Lennon.

  Dylan looked across to the Loughery’s home. He thought about the need for more supplies should things get dire, but the distance was too far to jump. The Mercers’ on the other side was easily reachable. They’d gone abroad, their third holiday this year, so at least the house would be secure should he have to smash his way in through the roof to get in for supplies. He giggled at the thought of discovering his neighbours’ secrets. What things did they hide away in drawers and stuffed at the back of cupboards.

  Old love letters?

  Compromising photos?
r />   Illegal pharmaceuticals?

  Ill-gotten gains?

  He could get into the Mercers, should things start to get dire and they needed more food. Maybe from the Mercer’s he could jump to the next house. This comforted him somewhat. His house was an island, but at least he could hop to the next isle.

  Dylan sighed again, closed his eyes tight and enjoyed the silence and the sun on the side of his face, trying not to cry at the futility of it all. He imagined a faraway beach, palm trees, Mai Tai’s, the dreamer’s tropical paradise. A sunset burned through far skies; a fading, shimmering glow that just screamed the end of a perfect day. Kirsty was with him, slimmer, like when he first met her. Lucy is always smiling, she reads now, thinking of becoming an artist just like her old man wanted to be before the real world demanded that he pay bills by working a shite twelve hour a day job. Lennon’s there as well, he’s with Jessica Wrent, an old girlfriend that broke up with him because he got too wasted all of the time. They only went out for a month, but at the time, Dylan and Kirsty thought they made a cute couple, as they liked most of the same things.

  His mind wandered over to potential band names Lennon, Harry and he had considered briefly in the past.

  The Caution Horses.

  The Gallivants.

  Thirteen Miles to Nowhere.

  Sunshine Sitdown.

  Attempted Murder of Krows, (AMOK for short.)

  They all disagreed on one or another. It seemed that they would go on being the great nameless and un-gigged.

  ‘You came up here to sunbathe?’

  Dylan opened his eyes, and the faraway sunset died. Kirsty’s severed head was sat on the rooftop staring at him. She looked paler than in the dream, a pasted ghost of her former bright and cheerful self.

  Worn was the word.

  ‘Eh?’ he asked the disembodied head.

  ‘You look like you’re sunbathing. You ruined our roof to sunbathe?’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘Can I join you?’

  ‘Sure, just be careful.’

  The severed head grew shoulders and arms, followed by a full body as his wife was carefully born out of the hole in the roof. Kirsty scrambled up towards him. He grabbed her hand to steady her and she sat down next him.

  ‘Just needed to get some fresh air and sunshine y’know?’

  Kirsty looked around the rooftop, seemingly admiring the view. He doubted it.

  ‘Yeah. It’s nice up here. I see why you came up.’

  ‘Just looking for a way out of all this.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about Lennon?’

  ‘No, not yet. No need to try and comprehend it. No point. It’s too bizarre to even get my head round.’

  ‘You guys better not be doing anything gross up there!’

  Lucy’s severed head appeared from the roof hole. Without asking or caring for permission, she climbed out and up the tiles, sitting in-between them.

  ‘Nice view. If you like crowds,’ Lucy commented dryly.

  ‘Lucy, be quiet,’ her mother urged. ‘Let’s just sit and be together.’

  Lucy sighed but didn’t protest. Although none of them wanted to admit it, time was running out for them to spend as a family. Whether they died of starvation, dehydration or just plain old stabbed each other to death in a furious fit, only the coming days would tell.

  Lucy put both her arms around her parents’ shoulders. Despite the numbness they felt in their minds and their bodies, they sat like precarious birds upon the roof for what seemed like hours, watching as one by one the streetlights flicked on an angry red, the only people they knew of watching the sun fall through the fading calm of a darkening purple evening sky. Fifty miles away, just beyond where the curvature of the great earth stole the horizon away from the sight of the common man, a black cloud raged and rolled into itself, a brimming, swollen sack of soaked cotton, edging towards them, faster than usual storms, but not uncommon. Rain, thunder and lightning were by-products of this undulating mass. It was bringing it all to them, softening the ground, making it easier for bare but eager fingers to dig.

  The three rooftop dwellers spared no thoughts on this coming weather pattern, for their minds were set on hope, whether it be helicopters with high calibre machine guns or a rescue party bringing respite from over the crowd filled horizon. They all wished, yearned and prayed to whatever god was listening that somebody was coming.

  Unbeknownst to them, somebody was.

  Hole ‘lotta Trouble Going On

  They watched the sunset, then afterwards climbed down off the roof in a haze. Content would be a strange way to describe their subdued nature, considering the circumstances, but they all appeared calm and collected, seemingly resigned to whatever fate awaited them.

  Kirsty started making an evening meal, cooking the last of the meat they had and the few remaining vegetables. She threw a tin of tomatoes on top and the meal was ready. It was food. If they were to give it a name, it would probably be called apocalypse stew or some other ironic moniker.

  Halfway through dishing it up, the lights went out with a click, as the fuse box was denied its flow of electricity. Dylan sat down at the table and started to eat with the last gleam of twilight for illumination.

  ‘We knew it was coming. No point getting worked up about it.’ Dylan shrugged.

  ‘But what if . . .’ Kirsty said peering at her husband in the fading light.

  ‘But what if nothing, we can’t stop the inevitable.’ Dylan shovelled a forkful of broccoli into his mouth and chewed knowingly. ‘The water will be next. After tea we’ll make sure every container is brimming.’

  Kirsty sat down dutifully and ate in silence. Lucy played with her food, eating as slowly as she could, if at all. Eventually, long after her parents had finished theirs, Lucy devoured every morsel. Despite not feeling hungry, she knew there was a good chance that food would soon become scarce over the next few days. The time to eat was now.

  After they all had finished eating, Dylan checked to make sure every single container was filled with water, drinking down as much as his already full stomach would allow. He had what would probably be his final shower, and enjoyed it, even if it was cold. He encouraged his family to do the same, as soon their house would be a desert as well as a prison. Lucy washed up once the water supplies were replenished and Kirsty dug out some tea light candles while they prepared for bed.

  Dylan posted no sentry tonight, he was too tired and he didn’t feel like leaving the security work up to the girls. He’d chance it, telling himself if they wanted to get in, they’d be in by now. There wasn’t much point in trying to fight them. They could, but the end would come, when the end would come.

  Lucy dragged her mattress into the master bedroom and dropped it at the foot of their bed.

  ‘I’m sleeping in here tonight. No arguments,’ Lucy stated, dumping her duvet on top of her new bed.

  ‘I’m not arguing with that,’ Dylan reasoned as he opened the window. The clouds above rolled slowly with turbulence as a storm brewed in the high darkness of the sky. A silent hum echoed in the air, as if the oxygen was caught in a film, or a fine gauze that stopped the molecules moving about freely. Even though he couldn’t see this pressure, he could feel it pressing down on him from above.

  It hurt his bruise.

  Summer storms were the best. He decided to leave the curtains open so he could see the show from the comfort of his bed.

  Kirsty came back from the bathroom, having completed her nightly ablutions, her hair tied up in a ponytail. Her breasts hung free beneath one of his old Simpsons t-shirts; Homer appeared lumpier than usual.

  ‘We all need sleep,’ Dylan said, stripping down to his jogging pants.

  Lucy and Kirsty both nodded in agreement.

  ‘If we all get a good eight hours, we’ll be able to think straight in the morning, maybe think of a way out, or . . .’ his voice trailed off a
s he even doubted himself. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as the words became lost. There was no way out, only the figment of time ticking away until they all met their end. Starvation or a suicide pact? These were Dylan’s grim reckonings. He felt no reason to admit his predictions to his family.

  ‘Let’s just get some sleep,’ he said and climbed into bed. Kirsty climbed in next to him. Lucy dropped down at the foot of the bed. Nobody said goodnight, as it wasn’t going to be, they all knew that.

  ***

  It wasn’t the tumultuous rolls of thunder that woke Dylan up in the depths of the midnight hour, nor was it an arm of hot lightning punching ferociously down from the skies, splitting the branch of a tree about a mile away.

  It was the rain.

  When the plop-plop-plop started to puddle on the ceiling above his head, this quietly destroying noise eventually found its way into his head and his dreams. An image flashed through his sleep-drenched mind.

  The roof.

  Dylan sprung bolt upright, his back and shoulders awash with sweat, his forehead felt particularly wet. He wondered where Lennon was and his mind toiled as to where he’d last seen him. More often than not, Dylan had lost his brother on many nights out as Lennon went off on his own tangents and stumbling, clumsy missions. It pained to admit to himself that his brother was laid headless on the front driveway, the Starers using him as a welcome doormat.

  A drop of moisture balled by gravity beat down on top of his crown. Dylan felt his hair. It was sodden. He looked up, a small dark puddle had formed on the ceiling above his head, shivering and glistening, taking in all the light it could. Again, an image flashed through his mind.

  The roof. He’d left a hole in the damned roof!

  Dylan reached for the torch that he’d lain prepared on the bedside drawers and jumped off the sodden mattress, narrowly avoiding crushing Lucy as she lay at the foot of the bed. He hopped over her head and danced sideward into the hall. The attic was still open; he could feel the chill of the rain swept wind rushing in and across the landing. Dylan shivered, shrugged, then moved up the ladder to inspect the damage he’d caused.