by RR Haywood
Another turn of the wheel and another road of hell. A man running into the front of the taxi and bouncing off with wild utterances coming from his throat as the woman slams into him and sinks her teeth into his neck. A priest resplendent in black suit and white dog collar pushing a nun back into three infected chasing them and running on while the woman of god gives herself to save him. He gets five steps before another lunges from a doorway and slams him to the ground. A flurry of arms and legs and the priest gains his feet and slams a foot down on the face of the devil, but that devil feels no pain and bites into his ankle. A yelled curse as ungodly as any heard and the priest wrenches his leg away to try to run, not realising the poisoned blood is now pumping through his body. Henrietta runs him over. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t balk and doesn’t hesitate but drives the heavy front end into his legs that crunch as he goes under the wheels, snapping and severing his mortal body.
As the taxi glides by she turns nonchalant, casual, untouched to see the nun dying a death of pain with a hand reaching out towards the heavens.
Silence in the back. Brian stares aghast at the sights. Bennie blinks, drunken and lost, while Dolan cowers on the floor.
Another turn of the wheel in the ongoing search for a way out of the city, but she gives no thought to direction and doesn’t glance at road signs or markings. Just drive. Drive away. She is immune in here. They are not part of this but mere observers sent to watch and see and feel nothing.
A main road, filled with the light of shops, being looted and smashed by hooded men and women running with arms full of televisions, phones, clothes, shoes. This is a riot. London is rioting again. The populace are rising up against the tyranny of a government that gives them free education, free healthcare, free housing and free money. They are oppressed and disenfranchised. They are the underdogs that deserve the best, and with authority crumbling and the feds busy protecting the wealthy they will take their gains and covet the gleaming new merchandise without glance at the corpses that lie dead amongst them.
White youths, black youths, Asian youths, Arabic, Chinese, European and of every race, culture, religion and creed. Young men and women that jeer and whistle with faces hidden as the massed movement increases their sense of propriety while diminishing the individual responsibility of actions. Lighters lit. Matches flicked. Fires started. A police car surrounded with two officers inside screaming into their radio for help while the hooded thugs rock the vehicle on the suspension. The siren activates but only seems to feed the need for blood from the pack animals that have no idea they should be fleeing and hiding. A step taken and a brick sails through the driver’s window, hitting the female officer in the eye. She screams out and tries to drive, to flee, to get away, but another brick is thrown and blood has been spilt to be tasted and more is needed. The door is wrenched open. The female officer is dragged screaming and kicking to be beaten along the road until she drops to curl up into a ball.
Her colleague would help. He would run to her aid, but the knife stabbing him in the neck over and over prevents him from doing so. The tip of the knife nicks an artery, which pumps from the release of pressure to spray the blood out and through the broken window of the passenger door. The hooded attacker leans back to avoid the jet of crimson that splatters over the windscreen of the taxi driven by Henrietta who flinches from the sudden, thick droplets obscuring her view.
The youth turns to watch the distance of the spray and like a confused dog he tilts his head at the sight of the female driver. Someone he knows. Someone he recognises. He starts jogging to get level with the cab, snaking through the dense crowds. All thoughts of the policeman he just killed have gone and like a true psychopath he shows no emotion on his face.
She keeps eyes front. Staring ahead in the typical response of anyone faced with a threat that is yet to explode in their direction. Henrietta saw the knife plunging into the officer’s neck and is only too aware of the hooded figure now keeping pace at the side of the vehicle. Options run through her mind. She could floor the accelerator but the crowds are so thick she wouldn’t get through. She could sound the horn to try and get them to move, but that would draw more attention, and reversing is no good, either. The crowds are just as thick behind as they are in front. So she does nothing. She drives gently, easily, carefully and avoids looking left.
He knows what she is doing. This happens to him a lot. The way people avoid looking at him when he glares at their faces. The way they look left, right, over, round and through him and do everything except look at him. He doesn’t like it when people do that. It makes him feel like he doesn’t exist, but he does exist. He is here. Right next to the taxi. He drops back a step and stares at the two men on the rear seat and another one huddled on the floor. He recognises one of the men on the back seat but like with the woman driving he can’t place where from.
He taps the window with the knuckle of his index finger. The one he recognises looks out and smiles while swaying with the motion of the drunk. The other man copies the woman and refuses to look. He taps again. The drunk smiles. The other man still refuses to look. He taps harder and keeps tapping.
‘Henrietta…get us out of here,’ the man who ignores him shouts out, and that’s all it takes. A name given to a face and the connection is made. He looks through the window and through the Perspex safety shield to the profile of the woman driving. Henrietta Swallow. His eyes flick back to the drunk and his neural pathways sizzle as the second recognition is made. Bennie from Bennie and The Boys. An instant loss of interest and he stops running to turn back to the police car with a voice in his head telling him that killing famous people will get him in trouble.
‘Oh my fucking god,’ Brian whispers the words out with an almost explosive exhalation of air. ‘What the fuck? Go faster…’
‘There’s too many,’ Henrietta says, feeling the immediacy of one potential catastrophe abate.
‘I lost my bottle,’ Bennie announces, looking round the taxi. ‘Henrietta, can we stop at a shop?’
‘HENRIETTA SWALLOW!’
‘Fuck.’ Henrietta grimaces at hearing her name booming out.
‘Where?’
‘There…in the taxi…that’s Henrietta Swallow.’
‘Is it fuck!’
‘It is…HENRIETTA? HENRIETTA?’
‘Keep going,’ Brian mutters.
‘Trying,’ she says, staring ahead as the next potential catastrophe looms.
‘OI…HENRIETTA!’
A hand slams into the window next to Brian. He slews away, barging Bennie along the seat as Dolan whimpers out from the sudden noise.
‘Alright, mate…’ A face presses against the glass. ‘Is that Henrietta Swallow, issit?’ the young man asks.
‘Nah.’ Brian shakes his head. ‘Er…just, er…’
‘Ere, is that Bennie? Fuck me…BENNIE! HEY, BENNIE…’
‘HENRIETTA?’ A girl slams into the driver’s door bending over to stare inside. ‘It is! It’s Henrietta Swallow.’
‘Lemme see.’ Another hooded head pushes next to the driver’s window. More join in, pushing and crowding as word spreads of the celebrities inside the taxi.
‘BENNIE’S IN THE BACK,’ the man shouts, pointing past Brian to Bennie still searching for his bottle of whiskey.
‘OH MY GOD. I LOVE YOU, HENRIETTA,’ a girl with large hooped earrings shouts inches from Henrietta’s ear. She taps on the window with a desperate desire to be seen. ‘HENRIETTA…HENRIETTA…’
‘WHERE’S THE BOYS?’ a voice shouts from the passenger side. ‘OI, BENNIE…’
‘Fuck,’ Brian mutters, blinking rapidly.
‘You’s hench, Henrietta.’
‘Why you drivin’ Bennie?’
‘How much can you squat, Henrietta?’
‘Henrietta…can I get a selfie with you?’
‘HENRIETTA…HENRIETTA…WHY YOU IGNORING US?’ the girl with the hooped earrings asks, banging hard on the glass.
‘She’s being all stuck-up.’
‘It’s getting ugly,’ Brian says in alarm at the feral faces blocking the windows. ‘Do something…’
‘Like what?’ Henrietta says, trying to speak without moving her lips.
‘I don’t know! You’re the famous person…’ Brian wails.
‘WHY YOU BEING A STUCK-UP BITCH?’
Taps on the windows. Hands slapping and hitting the metal frame. Thuds and shouts growing by the second of youths carrying televisions, laptops, tablets, phones, clothes and goods still with their security tags attached.
‘Bennie…sing us a song, yeah?’
‘He’s pissed up, innit.’
‘Who’s the guy on the floor?’
‘Oi, Henrietta, where you going?’
‘Gis a lift.’
‘Stuck-up fucking bitch.’
The slaps get harder, the hits louder. The voices jeer, heckle and call out, rising in volume and pitch with the excitement brought on by the wild abandon of law and order.
‘Henrietta,’ Brian mutters desperately.
Think. Come on, think. Switch on. It’s just a crowd. The mortals that cling to the barrier.
‘OI, BITCH.’ A screaming voice snaps her head round to the snarling face of the young woman with the hooped earrings. ‘Why you ignoring us?’ A demand shouted and one that will either be answered with words or with deeds done that cannot be undone.
Henrietta grins ruefully, shakes her head and rolls her eyes with a perfect expression of humoured frustration. The snarling girl pulls back an inch, showing confusion that still teeters on the edge of violence. An electric motor hums and the window powers down as yet another quandary presents itself. To crack the window a few inches shows fear and distrust and might be the single action that pushes the situation over, but to go all the way down opens a portal through which they can reach.
Trust your instincts and hope for the best.
The window winds down fully as Henrietta leans round to face Brian in the back. ‘How is he? He still bad?’ she asks with a nod at Dolan on the floor and a message conveyed from her eyes.
Brian falters for the briefest of seconds before rallying, ‘Yeah…yeah he’s, er…sick?’
‘Hey,’ Henrietta says, turning to the girl leaning in the window, ‘where’s the hospital?’
‘Hospital?’ the girl asks in a rasping tone.
‘Our producer is sick.’ She motions her head backwards. ‘We’re filming down the road…a special documentary showing why young people feel so angry at being let down by the government…’
‘Yous look like shit,’ the girl sneers, screwing her face up at the state of Henrietta.
‘Accident,’ Henrietta says with another roll of her eyes that bat the heavy lashes against her cheeks. ‘Some rigging collapsed, hit the producer…’
‘You said he was sick.’ Another girl leans in closer to the window.
‘Yeah, sick…something hit him in the stomach,’ Henrietta says and with a rush of instinct she lets go with a beaming smile. ‘I like your earrings.’
‘Really?’ The snarling girl switches to a mere mortal clinging to the barrier. ‘I just nicked ’em from…’
‘Don’t tell her that!’ another one shouts.
‘I’m on your side,’ Henrietta calls out, leaning lower to see up and out the window as though trying to address everyone.
‘Is that Bennie?’
‘BENNIE!’
Another roll of the eyes and air blown out through puffed cheeks. ‘Drunk,’ she mouths at the girls with a wink. ‘Hey, you going to be here in about fifteen minutes?’
‘Dunno, why?’
‘If the pigs ain’t come, maybe.’
‘I’ll come back and interview you, yeah?’ Henrietta asks nodding enthusiastically. ‘Brian? Can we come back and interview these girls? They’re very pretty. They’ll look great on camera.’
‘Er, sure,’ Brian shouts and scoots forward on the seat to push Dolan down as he tries to rise. ‘Stay down, mate. He’s not looking good, Henrietta.’
‘BENNIE!’ The tapping on the window continues and shouts still ring out round the taxi.
‘Turn the taxi over,’ someone shouts, rushing in to ram against the front wing.
‘Get off, you fuckin’ twat,’ the girl closest to Henrietta shouts angrily, switching back to the snarling demon. ‘S’Henrietta Swallow, innit, you get me? She’s comin’ back to interviewed us.’
‘Interview,’ Henrietta mutters.
‘Eh?’ The girl drops down again to lean into the window.
‘Nothing,’ Henrietta says. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tricia. That’s Chelsea, Alanna…’
‘Alright, Henrietta?’ Another girls pushes in past Tricia who fights to regain her position of closest to the window.
‘FUCK OFF,’ Tricia shouts, going back to the snarling beast. ‘She’s talking to me, innit.’
Henrietta watches the other girls back down from Tricia and fixes the girl with an earnest look. ‘Listen…do me a favour, yeah? Our film crew are back down the road. We’ll meet you there, but…’ She pauses with a worrying bite of her bottom lip and a concerned glance at the front of the taxi, ‘but we can’t get through…’
‘You’s coming back, though, yeah?’ Tricia asks and the desperation showing in her eyes plucks the heartstrings in Henrietta.
‘Listen,’ Henrietta says, lowering her voice, ‘get off the streets…go home…all of you.’
‘BENNIE!’
‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU DUMB CUNTS,’ Tricia screams, twisting to face the back of the taxi and the youths banging on the frame. ‘Soz, Henrietta…what d’you say?’
‘I said go home,’ Henrietta urges, locking eyes on the young girl. ‘It’s not safe here…go home…’
‘Ain’t no feds here,’ the girl snorts.
‘Police?’ Henrietta asks. ‘One just got killed…like, a minute ago…’
‘Yeah, I saw it,’ Tricia says, showing no reaction. ‘Fucking pigs…’
‘Right.’ Henrietta nods and glances ahead with a rapid reassessment. ‘Yeah, stay here, Tricia. We’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘Yeah?’ Tricia asks, showing delight in her face.
‘Sure, you want to be on telly?’
‘Fuck yes, I do. I so do…can Alanna be wiv me?’
‘Course,’ Henrietta says. ‘But we got to get our producer to the hospital first. Can you help us get out?’
‘Yeah,’ Tricia says, grinning with a mouthful of even white teeth framed by olive skin of a flawless complexion and topped with raven-black hair spilling down past the hooped earrings. The observation of physical beauty against the hard, rasping voice and the utter disregard for life causes a moment’s confusion as Henrietta blinks and feels the sadness of it all crushing down. Rose’s scream rolls round her head again. The bleeding hand and the way the girl was stumbling on legs growing weaker by the loss of blood. ‘You’s coming back?’ Tricia asks again.
‘Yeah,’ Henrietta says softly, sadly.
‘Yous lot…move out the way…they’s got a sick producing man…Henrietta’s comin’ back to interviewed us…’
‘BENNIE!’
‘Henrietta, you’s bringing Bennie back?’ Tricia asks, stepping up to the role of spokesperson and fielding the questions flying in.
‘Yes,’ Henrietta says. ‘We’ll get some coffee down him.’
The Red Sea of hooded city youths parts from the screaming tones of Tricia, Alanna and Chelsea barging them back. The three girls are joined by the rest of their gang pumped up on self-importance as word spreads that they’ll be on telly with Henrietta Swallow and Bennie. Gradually they ease away from the densest crowds as Henrietta pushes the button to seal the window. Movement ahead catches her eye. A stiff-legged run. A woman. Old and frail. Grey hair hanging limp to her shoulders. A hunch on her back and the billowing nightdress covered in blood. The noise in the street is immense. Alarms pierce the air. Flashing lights strobe against the buildings and the flickering flames
grow larger to bathe the street in an almost carnival atmosphere.
A twelve-year-old boy is the first taken down and his mates roar with laughter at seeing him bested by an old lady, but while they cackle, she bites. They start laying the boot in and she keeps biting. They shout angrily and kick harder but she bites more. They punch and stab but she bites hard with saliva going into blood that becomes foul and tainted. Tricia, Alanna and Chelsea run into the new game that draws the crowd and suddenly the road is clear for Henrietta to accelerate away in a black London taxi cab chugging along.
Chapter Fourteen
In times of peril, look forward and never back
Roads and streets merge into a never-ending vista of carnage and death viewed through windows that give the occupants of the taxi a sense of detachment. Images seared into Henrietta’s mind play over and over. Rose screaming. Rose limping and being dragged along. The exquisitely beautiful face of Tricia expressing delight at speaking to a celebrity while denouncing the life of a human being she watched being stabbed to death just seconds before. Conflicting, contrasting, emotive and confusing. The priest who pushed the nun into the infected to save himself. The mother reaching for her baby. The two she killed in the elevator. Images and memories that each hold an emotion.
‘Where are we?’
‘What?’ She blinks in response, pulling out of her reverie of dark thoughts.
‘Where are we?’ Dolan asks again, finally lifting his head up after a few minutes of relative quiet during which time nothing has threatened to kill him.
‘Er…’ Henrietta looks round at the street with another flood of guilt at the realisation she zoned out and hasn’t been checking road signs.
‘You’re driving,’ Dolan says. ‘Where are we?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re meant to be taking us out of the city,’ he says with a voice rising back to panicked aggression.