by Adam Watts
But today, he’s not there. I’d half expected to find him fashioning some sort of owl-mangler, but the workshop is silent and still. I decide to head over to the allotments. Frida’s likely to be over there, so there’s a good chance Stan is too.
‘What brings you to these parts?’ Frida says, beaming. ‘You here to help?’
She asks this every time I visit the allotments, which isn’t very often. I’m ashamed to admit that whilst I’m more than happy to consume what’s produced here, I’m not all that inclined to lend a hand. I was never green-fingered, I’d be terrified of blighting the entire crop and forever being known as The Famine Maker. So I prefer to leave our ongoing survival in the hands of those most adept at preserving it.
‘Looking for Stan,’ I say, scanning the fields. There’re five people working here today, all women.
Frida leans on the handle of her hoe. ‘Haven’t seen him today. Heard him get up early, assumed he was meeting you.’
‘No probs. If he turns up here can you tell him I was looking for him?’
‘Of course, honey-child,’ she says, smiling. ‘You going to fetch me another bird today? My stewing pot is looking a little empty.’
‘I’ll try.’ I look down at the plants which Frida is tending to. ‘What you growing?’
‘Take a little guess,’ she says.
‘I really have no clue. Sweetcorn?’
Frida erupts into laughter. ‘No, sugar, this is not sweetcorn! You think sweetcorn grows under the ground?’
‘Yeah… why?’
‘My dear, these are potatoes.’ She smiles and shakes her head.
‘See, this is why I don’t help out with this stuff.’
‘Aww, don’t you dare put yourself down. You’re a sweet boy, there’s no doubting that. And I’m not the only one who knows it.’
‘Huh?’ I say, noticing a fleeting glimmer in her eye.
Frida chuckles before shaking the thought off. ‘Don’t you worry your handsome head about it. Go find Stan the Man. He’ll be bored without you, no matter where he is.’
Since I’ve been unable to locate Stan I decide to wander around the village until he finds me. And even if he doesn’t, there’s always a chance that I’ll bump into Eve. She’s usually out and about, busying herself, being generally useful. Unlike Stan and I she tends to get involved in the general hubbub of village life and the ongoing survival of its inhabitants. There’s lots of stuff that goes on here to keep us ticking over in the absence of a super-market or internet connection. You’d be surprised how little you actually need to survive and how much you can do for yourself to stay fed, sheltered, warm and clothed. I may not have had much of a hand in any of it – and nor has Stan, unless you count sitting in a tree looking out over the fences with a home-made machete as a valuable contribution to society – but I’ve always been amazed at what can be done by the right people.
When the fences first went up, just about every kitchen in the village was cleared out and all of the produce taken to the village hall where it was sorted into order of when it needed to be eaten by. The same was done in the village shop. The food we amassed took us pretty much through the first year until we had the old allotments up and running as a fully-fledged farm. A couple of people in the village kept chickens so we managed to have some meat and eggs in addition to whatever could be hunted (usually pheasants or the odd rabbit). Without actual jobs to do and without the distractions of modern-day electrified life, it was fairly easy to stay afloat. I often wondered whether we’d eventually get to the point where somebody would need to jump the fences and head to town on a kamikaze supply run; but to this day it’s never happened. This can only be a good thing since a couple of useless layabouts like Stan and I would be the ideal candidates, on account of our doubtless expendability.
So… long may our prosperous self-sufficiency continue.
Reluctantly, I head back to my own house. There’s a chance Stan could be there, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’s let himself in.
As I round the corner onto my street I almost crash right in to Harry and Tuesday.
‘Careful!’ Harry says, clucking his tongue.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him, even though in all good conscience, I couldn’t give a tumbling shit whether I was being careful or not.
‘Not sat idly in that tree with your nearest and dearest?’ Harry says, smirking and then turning towards Tuesday.
‘Is that where he is?’ I say.
‘That’s where he always is when he’s not moochin’ off Frida,’ Tuesday says.
And she’s right, but I figured the lookout post would be the last place he’d be after his run-in with Harry last night.
‘You’d do well to get over there and join him,’ Harry says.
‘Why, are you expecting another owl attack?’ I say, more to Tuesday than Harry. I mean it only in jest, but her sour expression suggests it was taken otherwise.
‘At the very least, you could be up there keeping watch. I’ve got a feeling in my waters that something’s afoot, and two pairs of eyes are better than one, even if they do belong to you couple of clowns.’
‘Whatever, Gumshoe,’ I mutter to myself as I walk off towards the lookout post. I can feel Harry watching me as I go. He’d probably love to cave my head in, it’d be a nice throwback to his days in the police force or army, or whatever the hell it was that he did.
‘And no shirking while you’re up there,’ he calls after me. ‘Slack perimeter control is what nearly cost me my life in that forsaken school.’
Yeah, yeah…
‘Morning,’ Stan says, glancing down at me before returning his gaze to the horizon, or what little of it’s visible through the mist and low cloud.
‘Didn’t think you’d be up here today.’ I decide not to climb up just yet as he’s got that edgy look about him, like an agitated hen.
‘Why not? It’s where I always am.’
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for playing look-out again after our little run-in with Harry last night.’
‘Nah. Screw him. I don’t sit up here to do Harry Cobden any favours, I just like the view.’
‘Room for another?’
‘I’m not the boss of ya,’ he says, shuffling over to make some space.
‘So what’s the plan?’ I ask, pulling myself up.
‘No plan. Same as always, just sitting and watching, waiting for something to happen.’
‘Maybe we could take pot-shots at owls or something,’ I say, receiving little more than a reluctant laugh for my efforts at some gentle comedy. ‘Seriously, I’m sure Frida wouldn’t say no to an owl for her pot.’
‘They’re all feathers, mate. No good for cooking. You should probably know that since you saw the owl show and became an expert on the spooky little bastards.’
‘Yeah well… I’m just trying to make conversation and ease that frown away from your face.’
Stan continues to stare out at beyond the fence. It’s mostly trees, but there’s the odd break where you can see the fields beyond. On a clear day anyway.
‘Aren’t you bored of being here?’ he says.
‘Don’t know really. Maybe sometimes.’
‘You never think about getting out?’
‘And go where? The army said for us to stay put.’
‘That was a long time ago, though. I seem to remember you being desperate to leave when I first got here,’ he says. ‘You were always on about the places you wanted to see and the things you wanted to do and then they put the fences up and it all changed, like you were happy to be trapped.’
‘I’m grateful to be alive and safe and with a few people I like. I’m just trying to make the best of it. It might all be over soon, all the good stuff we have right here could be gone and I’d regret not taking the time to enjoy it. I’m getting a little sick of having so many regrets.’
‘Sorry, mate, but that sounds like bull-shit to me,’ he says, studying his feet as if they were some algebraic riddl
e. He chews the inside of his cheek and pulls at the skin on the backs of his hands.
‘It’s not bull-shit. I never took time to appreciate what I had when I had it, and now I feel like I’ve got a chance to put that right. My hands are off the wheel.’
‘But you’re just accepting that we’re stuck here and we can’t do anything about it. It’s like you think you don’t have a choice.’
‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘You do have a choice, you’re just avoiding it because you’re scared.’
‘Of course I’m scared! At least in here we’re safe. I don’t think the army would’ve put up an eight-foot fence around the whole village for no reason what-so-ever. We’re fortunate, don’t you think? When you hear all these stories… when people leave and never come back.’
Stan balls his hand up and raps his head with his knuckles. ‘So you’re just gonna sit here until some Sergeant Major rolls up in his Jeep and tells you that it’s safe to go out and play again?’
I shake my head in frustration, feeling there’s little I can say that will cut through Stan’s melancholy. We’ve had these conversations before. Many times. But the outcome is always the same: he threatens to go and he never does.
‘Is this about your uncle?’ This is something I immediately regret asking.
‘Prick,’ he says, without the usual jocular undertone.
‘Sorry. That was a dumb thing to say.’
‘Y’know, for an educated man, you can be pretty thick.’
‘Yeah, so I’ve been told.’
‘Like you said, people go and never come back. Like my uncle. And that’s the only thing that scares me enough to stay… the idea that they go out there and it’s like hell on earth or something. But then I keep thinking… maybe it’s all over now, like things are getting back to normal and all the madness has stopped, and the reason they never come back is because they’re happy. And whilst they’re living it up, we’re sat here like mugs, twiddling our tits, slowly being forgotten. There could be whole towns coming back to life for all we know, or even just laying empty. Big playgrounds ready to be explored. We could be living like kings out there. A whole world, just for us.’
‘I think the smart money’s on the whole fire, death and destruction scenario. You’ve heard the stories, and I’m not just talking about the one Harry tells. What about Eve? Everything she went through to get here.’
Stan considers this. I know that he too suspects Harry’s tales of heroism and survival to be a cracked crock of shite, but he knows there’s not a deceptive bone in Eve’s body, and if she says she had to kill and struggle and nearly lose her mind to make it to the village, then that’s exactly what she did. Even Tuesday backs her story up.
‘At the very least, we’re lucky we never had to experience any of that,’ I say. ‘It’s been smooth sailing for us by comparison, and it’s easy to take that for granted.’
‘It’s different for you,’ Stan says, looking pained. ‘This place was always your home, but for me it was a pit-stop. Plus, you’ve got Eve.’
‘Pretty sure I don’t know what you mean by that,’ I say, feigning a dismissive chuckle.
‘You know what I mean. You’re not a retard.’
‘Eve’s a friend, like you.’
‘If I ever catch you looking at me with those mushy eyes you stare at her with, I’ll punch you in the spine, my friend. I’ve never seen a fella so keen to get on a girl’s good side. All those innocent little compliments, all the stolen glances and smiles that go on longer than they should. Correct me if I’m wrong but you’ve never once suggested that I look nice in green.’
‘I don’t see her like that. We’re friends.’ I work hard to stop my head jerking awkwardly. I must look so very guilty and weird right now. It’d probably be easier to fess up.
‘I don’t know what your problem is. She clearly likes you too. Why not say something?’
‘She does not like me… not like that. Probably more like a brother or something,’ I say, fearful that I might jinx the situation if I dare to indulge the possibility that she could, possibly, maybe like me like that.
‘Surely it’s worth a shot. At the very least there’s no real competition. Apart from me that is.’ Stan winks. I hate it when he winks. It’s beyond seedy.
‘Nah…’ I say, feeling eager to move the conversation on. Preferably to a topic that doesn’t culminate in me making a complete fanny out of myself in front of a beautiful woman; because it wouldn’t end there. Beyond that, there’d be the pain of rejection and failure, and the endless shuffling around the steaming great heap of awkward I’ve left on the floor between us, like some puppy yet to be house-trained. There’d be no escape from that… not in this place.
‘So much for living in the moment,’ Stan says.
‘Any chance we could change the subject?’
‘You know, there’s a difference between living in the moment and being stuck in it. And you, my cowardly chum, are wedged right in there. What you need is to wriggle yourself free.’
‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me how?’
‘Y’know, it’s sad that I have to point out the obvious to somebody who’s apparently much cleverer that me. But you need to tell her how you feel, because Eve’s a catch, and there won’t be many of those left in the world. And if you’re stupid enough not to, then you need to get yourself out of this place, preferably under my watchful eye so you don’t die of something tedious or ordinary, because that’d be just like you.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I say, trying to sound injured but not too pathetic.
‘Listen, you’re my mate, but you’re not the hero’s death kinda fella. I can’t see you driving a car packed with explosives into some zombie-infested bunker for Queen and Country.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a hero’s death, it sounds like a moron’s death… it sounds like your death.’
‘There’s worse ways to go. Like boredom, for example. Which is exactly what’s going to happen if you sit around here doing nothing about Eve for too much longer. Or worse yet, I’ll die of boredom waiting for you. And then you’d have to spend all those hours digging my grave. I’m talking back-ache, blisters, mud everywhere; it all equals a bad day for you.’
‘I wouldn’t bury you.’
‘You’d burn me? Sicko…’
‘Nope. I’d upcycle you into something useful, like a wheelbarrow or a nest of tables.’
‘Cheers, fuck-face.’ Stan turns his eyes to the dull white sky, squints. ‘I do want out of this place, though. Will you just think about it? Eve could come.’
‘Don’t be insane, she wouldn’t head out there again. Besides, where would we even go?’
Stan looks hurt, he gazes down at the floor and mulls something over for a moment. ‘Luxemburg,’ he says, like that’s a perfectly normal thing to suggest
‘Luxemburg?’ I don’t need to say anything else, the tone of my voice conveys everything I could possibly feel about the idea of travelling hundreds of miles through a zombie-infested country and across the sea to Luxemburg.
‘Yeah, Luxemburg! And why the fuck not?’
‘You’re suggesting we should leave our home, face untold horrors, potentially die or get eaten or maimed… to go to Luxemburg?’
‘That’s a very pessimistic way of looking at it.’
‘Why Luxemburg, you complete lunatic?’
‘There won’t be any zombies in Luxemburg,’ Stan says, furrowing his brow.
‘Because?’
Stan throws up his hands in frustration, like I’m the unreasonable one. ‘Well, why would the zombies want to go to fucking Luxemburg? Nothing happens there, it’s all nuns and clean streets.’
‘I’m pretty sure that the horde isn’t bothered about whether there’s a nightlife or a decent beach. As long as there’s people to eat and towns to burn I’m sure they’d manage to amuse themselves.’
‘I’m telling ya, there won’t be any zombies in Luxemburg.
It was our government engineering the social unrest.’
‘Wait…’ I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. ‘I thought it was the careers advisers or the energy drinks or the Stone Masons or something. Honestly, it’s like being best mates with Agent Mulder’s hyperactive twin.’
‘Nothing wrong with keeping an open mind.’
‘Open minds are all well and good, but so’s a little quality control.’
‘Nothing happens by accident, my friend, even the nonsense is significant. It all joins up in the end.’
‘Don’t tell me… like a puzzle,’
‘Exactly. One of those really mental ones like old people do when they’ve lost the will to live.’
‘Oh Jesus…’ I mutter to myself. And now I’m the one staring out over the fence, dreaming of running away, just to avoid another of Stan’s apocalyptic narratives. I’m not really listening any more, but he’s saying something about the whole country getting swept up by vanity and assuming that the best people to make decisions were the general public, and something else about how our desire to have a say in everything was our eventually downfall and about how the politicians engineered a state of mistrust to pave the way for the PCP to trick us into handing over our freedoms and unleashing the scourge of MIDS on the population at large.
It’s nothing he hasn’t said a hundred times before. And it’s all true… depending on who you ask. I never took much notice of politics. Never voted for a thing in my life.
Just as Stan starts to consider the possibility that MIDS was a government initiative to neuter certain portions of the population and whether the tabloids deliberately exposed the plan to fan the flames of dissent, he does something he so rarely does. He stops.
‘You see that?’ he says, his voice quiet but urgent, his finger pointing towards the trees.
‘It’s a forest,’ I say, wondering whether he’s playing a trick.