The Fall Series (Book 3): The Fence Walker

by Cross, Stephen

  “Ok, you get four of these a week,” said Andy passing a pint to Arthur. “So make sure you enjoy it. Same goes for you Harriet,” he said passing a glass of wine to her.

  “I don’t think I’ll get anywhere near four glasses,” said Harriet, eyeing the glass almost nervously. “It’s been so long since I’ve drunk anything.”

  Arthur smiled and raised his glass, “To new beginnings,” he said, “and new friends.”

  Shadows played across his smiling face, the oil lamps on each table one concession to the apocalypse. Andy liked it, the coziness factor was high - he felt he was in a medieval tavern.

  “New friends,” echoed Andy, as the group clinked glasses, including Adam with his coke, although his clink was more half-hearted than the others.

  “I need the toilet,” said Adam as he put his coke down. “Where are they?”

  Andy directed him, and the young boy headed towards them, his feet dragging, his head down, his movement slow as if a wind-up toy running down.

  “Is he ok?” said Ash.

  Harriet and Arthur exchanged glances. Harriet shook her head.

  “He expected to find his Dad here.”

  “And he’s not?” said Andy.

  “No, he’s devastated. He was so excited about coming here; he was the reason we came. He used to come here with his Dad. An army sergeant, Donald Allen. I feel I know him, the number of stories I’ve heard about him from Adam. He never stopped talking about him.”

  “He’s put all his hopes on finding his Dad,” said Arthur.

  “They got separated then? During the Fall?”

  “He was with his Mum when I found him,” said Harriet. “His Mum died, well, murdered in front of him. Some crazy survivalist nut with a knife.” Harriet paused, obviously struggling with painful memories. “I took him on, I guess, looked after him. He’s like my own now.”

  “He thinks his Dad is still alive?” said Ash.

  “He thinks he’ll be with the army somewhere, holed up in some safe place. Like here I guess.”

  “That seems to be the hardest,” said Andy. “Getting past the unknowns. It seems that abandoning hope… Well, a lot of people see that as a betrayal. Until you see the body, you have to keep holding on.”

  Harriet’s faced widened into a smile, “Hey there, big man, you find the toilet ok?”

  Adam shuffled back into his seat, nodding at Harriet. He placed his chin on the table and stared at his glass, turning it mindlessly.

  “Do you like horses?” said Ash to Adam.

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe we can take you to see the horses tomorrow?”

  He shrugged again.

  Harriet was watching the boy, a pained look on her face. She reached an arm around him.

  “We want to say thank you,” said Arthur. “Not just for finding us, but for agreeing to share your chalet with us. It must be difficult after you two had it to yourselves for so long.”

  “It’s the way things are,” said Ash. “It’s not our chalet, it belongs to whoever needs it. There are more people now, we have to make do with what we have. It’s better than being out there.” She glanced at Andy, who nodded. Ash had been in the holiday park since the beginning, she hadn’t experienced the Wilds. Andy had spent three months out there, she seemed to always concede her recognition of this every time it was mentioned, almost guilty she hadn’t had it as hard as him.

  “It’s good fun,” said Andy, “having you guys around. I think Ash was getting bored of me, to be honest.” He winked at her.

  She playfully hit him on the arm, “I’m sure they will too, soon, once they get to know you.”

  They laughed.

  The warmth was broken with the sharp piercing sound of breaking glass and an accompanying shout of pain.

  Ash jumped up. Andy grabbed Ash’s wrist. “Wait,” he said.

  A scuffle in the corner, the sound of breaking furniture and more breaking glass. Under the low light of the bar, Andy saw two figures pushing against each other, hugging like a pair of rabid animals, swinging with their fists when they got the chance. The tangled couple swayed backward and forward, bouncing off tables and walls. People jumped clear as the melee came their way, shouting as their drinks went flying. A loose circle formed around the spectacle, moving and mutating to keep a healthy distance from the struggle.

  The fight landed on the table next to Andy’s. Arthur’s massive frame was holding Adam tight, the boy’s small body disappearing in the man’s bulk. “We’re going,” he shouted to Andy.

  Andy nodded, and Arthur, Harriet, and Adam left quickly.

  “I’ll make sure they get back,” said Ash. “You ok here?”

  Andy nodded. “Go on, before it gets worse.”

  A hand ejected from the ball of limbs and a hard punch separated the figures. The recipient of the punch fell back on a table, banging his head. It was Charlie, he worked in the supply office. A slim guy, not much to him. He had been here since the start - was an actual chalet owner in the world before, used to have a software business. Loaded by all accounts.

  Now he lay on the floor with blood pouring from his nose. He sat up holding it. His wife was leaning beside him.

  “You broke my nose!” she shouted at his assailant - a large man, rough like he had been hewn from the forest itself. It was no contest, as far as Andy could see. The other man Andy didn’t recognize, he must have been one of the new arrivals. Andy stepped forward a little. He noticed that Sam, the head of the Fishers, had also stepped into the circle. Both of them eyed the new arrival carefully.

  “I’ll break your head if you don’t show some respect,” said the big guy.

  “Leave him alone,” shouted Charlie’s wife, Andrea.

  “You lot have no idea what it’s like out there. Stuck in this little holiday park while the world disintegrated around you,” said the man with a strong west country drawl. “You need a good kicking is what you need.”

  Charlie glanced at Sam and, suddenly embolden with his perceived protection, stumbled to his feet, with the help of his wife. “We didn’t have to take you in, you know. You’re the one who should be showing respect. I’m going to get you kicked out. We don’t need oafs like you.”

  “Come on Ethan,” said Sam talking to the big man.”What’s going on?”

  Ethan started, then recognized Sam. Maybe this new guy Ethan was on the fish with Sam.

  “You need to ask this little prick. Thinks I’m not good enough to be part of this little camp you have here.”

  “I think we’ve all had a bit too much to drink,” said Sam. “Remember we’re out tomorrow morning at sun up, eh? Hope you’ll have the head for it.”

  Ethan nodded his head sheepishly. “I’ll be good.”

  Andy stepped towards Charlie, seeing that Sam had Ethan contained. “Come on Charlie,” he said putting his hand on the man’s slim shoulder. “Let’s get that nose looked at.”

  “I want to know what’s going to happen,” said Charlie, shouting, pointing at Ethan. “He can’t get away with breaking my nose, for God’s sake! I’m going to take this to James!”

  Sam grabbed Ethan, then said to Charlie, “You can call it quits, right now, is what you can do.”

  Charlie stared at Sam, his eyes burning for a second. An injured animal, no matter how small, was dangerous. Andy guided Charlie away. “Come on mate, you can sort it out tomorrow. It’ll look better if you just walk away calmly,” said Andy.

  Charlie let himself be guided to the opposite corner of the bar. “You’re right,” he said, his voice muffled. “I’ll have a better case if I was the injured party, right?”

  Where did he think he was? What was he going to do, sue Ethan? But Andy just nodded. “That’s about right. Now sit yourself here. Grab your nose on the bridge, like that, hold your head back.”

  “Are you qualified for this?” said Andrea.

  “I learned basic first aid. All pilots need to know.”

  Andrea didn’t look convince
d. She observed as Andy felt around Charlie’s face for fractures. She was the one who looked out of place, thought Andy, with her badly cut hair gelled into place, her delicately applied make-up over sallow and thin skin.

  “Do you think we can get him kicked out?” said Andrea. “No way he should get away with this.”

  “You bet we will,” said Charlie, coughing, blood spitting out of his mouth.

  “Let’s just get you sorted and back home,” said Andy.

  Andrea spat out in disgust. “Hardly home now, we have to share it with some feral family. Two kids and their rancid dad.”

  “We’ve told James that it isn’t on,” said Charlie. “He’ll look into it, love.”

  “Well, I can’t relax there. That man is always looking at me.”

  Probably wondering if he’s still with the zombies, thought Andy. He helped Charlie up. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  “I don’t know what it is with this new lot,” said Charlie. “I mean, not you, Andy - I know you weren’t here to start with, but you’re not like the others, you know what I mean? Seems like this new lot are, well… They’ve been outside for too long. Violent, they are.”

  Andy helped them past the staring faces out into the balmy summer evening. Sam and Ethan were long gone.

  Chapter 7

  January, 2004

  Dalby looked at the note in his hand. Crumpled and scrawled in light blue pen. The writing seemed like a girl’s with its rounded, gentle letters. He looked around the classroom to see if there was any sniggering in his direction; but nothing out of the ordinary. Two people to each desk, heads mostly down, quiet, everyone working, the sound of pens scratching against paper.

  He had found the note in his workbook - no idea when it had been put there. It was in one of his English textbooks, so maybe they had done it this morning. Wait, that would make sense. He had to go to the toilet half-way through the lesson so they might have done it then. He thought which girls were in the class. Could it have been Stacy? He hoped so. She sat two desks in front of him in English. Could easily have been her.

  His heart started to race. He looked at the note again.

  “Meet me behind the mobile classroom, 4C at lunchtime. Love from an admirer xxx.”

  The mobile classroom was behind the sports hall and backed onto the vast playing fields. No one went there. Isolated. What could they want?

  It must have been Stacy, she was the only girl that talked to him. She didn’t say much, but then she was shy like all good girls should be. Not one of them mouthy ones, always laughing and flirting with anything that moved. Stacy was kind, friendly, and beautiful. It must be her.

  He looked at the note again, so much promise in the words, each letter, each curve of the pen beautiful in itself. It made sense, now he started to think about it. Hadn’t she held his gaze for a few seconds this morning in English, before putting her head down? He had read that when a girl puts her head down it means that she likes you, she is just shy. It was a sign.

  His thumb left a wet patch on the note; he was sweating. He folded it up and put it away in his back pocket, casting a jealous gaze around the class to make sure no one saw him. They would ask him what it was. They would try to steal it from him, They would laugh at him, tear it up.

  And if that happened, all that fuss, then no way Stacy would be there to meet him.

  He looked at the clock. It ticked slowly, towards the top of the hour; still another thirty minutes to go. He didn’t know if he could wait that long. His stomach tumbled in anticipation. His mind raced with the possibilities, the fantasies of what was to happen. Nothing lewd; she would tell him shyly that she had always loved him, that she had admired him for years, but had thought she wasn’t good enough for him. He would tell her she was all he ever wanted and they would embrace and kiss, only gently. Then they would sit and hold hands, or put their arms around each other. Make jokes, laugh, share secrets.

  The bell rang.

  Dalby packed his books into his bag as quickly as he could. He ignored the jostling, some accidental, most on purpose, as other kids pushed past him.

  Stacy was already leaving the classroom. He tried to make eye contact with her, she glanced back at him and quickly looked away, her head down. She wouldn’t want to make it too obvious, she didn’t want other people to see. Dalby watched her as she left the classroom. She was walking more quickly than usual; obviously in a rush to get to their meeting place. Her hair was beautiful. Long, sandy brown. Some people had called her plain, but Dalby saw the beauty in her.

  He hustled out of the classroom. Stacy turned left. That confused him - to get to the back of the mobiles, you had to turn right. She must be going to have one last look in the mirror before their meeting. Maybe he should do the same… Dalby dismissed the thought; she wasn’t the type of girl who cared about materialistic things like hair and looks. She would only be concerned with what was inside.

  Dalby walked quickly but didn’t run. He didn’t want to get pulled up for running in the corridor. That would mean a lunchtime detention and he would miss the meeting. It took all his willpower not to break into a bounding run.

  The full corridors, so usually a source of high anxiety and consternation for him; now merely an annoyance. The other kids almost invisible, just entities near and around him. Their conversations nothing but background blur.

  He pushed open the door to the small playground, the large grey breeze-block sports hall on his right. He rounded the corner of the sports hall, the mobiles in view. He made his way to the mobile classroom in the note, 4C. He took out the letter again, looked at it, still admiring the writing, the delicate swirls of the ‘f’ in ‘from.’ Definitely 4C. He took a deep breath, steadied himself and walked around the back of the classroom.

  She wasn’t there yet, but he knew that. She had gone to the toilets.

  He waited. The back of the mobile classroom, where he stood, backed onto the large playing fields, beyond which were sand dunes, pine trees, and then the beach. He could go for a walk with Stacy there sometime. He could point out the different types of trees and their properties, which wild grasses could be used for food, which ones had medicinal properties. He could point out the animals and the different ways to trap them, and the nutritional value of each.

  “Hey, Dalby,” said a voice. It came from above.

  Dalby looked up. His heart hammered on his rib cage. This wasn’t right.

  Something fell from the roof of the mobile. Before he could move or blink, it landed on him. Wet, cold, slimy. He felt it slide over his head and down his face, down the back of his shirt, down the front of his shirt. He gasped, and bitter wet material entered his mouth. He coughed and fell to his knees. He frantically wiped at his face and head, gagging, spitting until his mouth was dry. His vomit reflex kicked in, and he emptied his stomach onto the floor.

  Somewhere, people were laughing.

  He looked to the floor, to his hands. Innards, guts, red and black and orange and horrible deep pink. Intestines full of whatever animal had been gutted’s shit. His shirt was black, his blonde hair stuck hard to his head. Something thumped through his body; fear, panic, sorrow. Gasping, terrible, bone shattering grief. It was like a pickaxe being driven into his spine; physical pain.

  “Fuckin hell Dalby, you stink!”

  That sounded like Dave. More laughter. Someone pushed him from behind, and he fell forwards onto the floor, his face landing amongst more of the rotten effluent and his fresh warm vomit.

  Something seized his body from the inside, tight and cold. Constricting like a hand, like he was going to burst. He jumped up and ran. He bounded onto the fields and ran, one foot after the other as fast as he could, across the field, towards the dunes and woods.

  Chapter 8

  The pitter-patter of rain on the nylon of the tent. Unordered, chaotic, gentle, beautiful, soothing. Raindrops, singularly nothing, but together a symphony. Sergeant Allen lay still, thinking. It was past midnight; the night had
been still with a gentle wind growing as the hours passed. He thought about his life as a young boy when he had spent long and lazy weeks camping with his Dad in the summers. He thought about his time in the cadets, and then, so soon, the permanent change after seeing duty in the first Iraq war as a young private. No longer young.

  He remembered his wife, the birth of his son, Adam. His incredible and life-defining little boy, so full of joy, of enthusiasm; all the parts of his own life that had withered through experience, lived on in Adam. He remembered taking Adam camping, the family crowded around a barbecue, eating fish caught that day. The memories that never left.

  The break-up. Finding out his wife had hooked up with some call center manager while deployed in Afghanistan. The custody battles, the courts.

  But always Adam: the one certainty throughout his life. The strength, the core of Allen’s existence. He could always rely on Adam’s love, his unwavering acceptance of him and all his flaws. To Adam, he was simply Dad, and always would be. As long as he looked after him, cared for him, taught him, Adam was still there.

  Until the Fall.

  Allen sat up, pushing his sleeping bag down to his waist and took out the map and torch. The small tent glowed orange. He pointed the light over the map. A red cross marked their camp.

  Too many people to keep moving. There were fifty of them now. Three more now they had taken in Sarah, Crowe, and Abdul. How could they keep plowing through the countryside, day after day scrounging for food, grabbing sleep and safety when they could? Like wild animals, nowhere to call home. Having somewhere to call home was an essential requirement of being human. Somewhere to return. It didn’t matter if it was a mansion, a boat, a house, a tent or a hole in the ground. Something was missing in the soul when there was no home.

  He couldn’t do it to them anymore. They had trusted him with their lives, they had followed his leadership through the journey to the South East peninsula on his fool’s errand, and it had to stop.