by Adam Watts
‘Is that a rhetorical question?’ Wade asks.
‘Shut up with the big words and grab a basket,’ Stan says, springing up like a teenage hard-on.
‘I’m not sure we’re going to find any weapons in here,’ I say, pulling myself up regardless.
‘Have no fear, young Preston. If I can kill one of those things with a few sheets of newspaper, I’m pretty sure I can cobble together something lethal out of this lot.’
‘Oh shit,’ says Wade, laboriously getting to his feet. ‘I’d forgotten about his MacGyver complex.’
Stan glances back over his shoulder. ‘Didn’t I tell you to shut up with the big words?’
‘Oh Lord,’ I mumble. ‘This is going to be interesting.’
DEATH’S CHEAP, SO PILE IT HIGH.
‘Holy fuck! A camping mallet!’ Stan yells from some far corner of the shop. ‘And tent pegs!’
‘They’re zombies not vampires, butt-munch,’ I yell back.
‘Not zombies,’ comes Wade’s weak call.
‘Anyone else think we should have some montage music?’ says Stan. ‘This definitely feels like a montage kinda moment.’
I chuckle at the thought and notice a rack of CDs down the aisle. ‘Your choices of awesome montage music are Gary Barlow, Usher or 90’s Super Mix,’ I say, browsing the scant selection.
‘There any Blur on that Super Mix?’ calls Wade.
I check the track list. ‘Parklife.’
‘I’d rather Gary Barlow,’ says Stan.
‘Philistine!’
‘More grab, less blab. I wanna be armed to the teeth when we bust outa this place,’ Stan says. ‘No head left un-caved, no arm un-lopped, no eye un-gouged. It’s gonna be a full-on discount splatter-fest!’
Against all odds I’ve managed to amass a pretty decent basket full. Amongst other things, I’ve got duct tape, lighter fluid, a sprinkler spike (whatever that it is), various screwdrivers and sharp looking tools, a few mugs and tumblers (heavy ones for throwing) and a couple of lengths of rope. I also stuffed a bag of Haribo in my pocket as a post-victory treat, assuming I’m not killed or made a mess of.
Wade sits near the tills at the front of the shop staring into his basket.
‘What did you manage to get?’ I ask.
‘Knives,’ he says. ‘I figure knives are good.’
‘Knives are very good,’ Stan says, waddling towards us with a basket in each hand and a bunch of mops wedged into his armpit, ‘but they lack ingenuity. Holy shit, can you believe the stuff they sell for a pound these days?’ He dumps his haul next to mine and Wade’s.
I shine my torch into his baskets. ‘Why have you got six copies of Piglet Meets a Heffalump in there?’
‘One for each arm.’
‘Of course. And the clothes pegs?’
Stan picks them out of the basket and inspects them. ‘Not sure yet. It’ll come to me, though. Gotta go with your gut on these things.’
‘Does this mean I’m forgiven for bringing you to Poundland?’ Wade says.
‘A B&Q would’ve been better, or a Wilko’s, but at least this place seems secure. Speaking of which, do those front shutters come up?’
‘Probably not, they’ll be electric.’
Stan considers the problem, although how a set of securely fastened shutters constitutes a problem I have no idea. He gets up and heads to the front of the shop.
‘Why does he want to open the shutters?’ Wade asks.
‘No idea. The workings of Stan’s mind are a riddle wrapped in an assumption of lunacy.’
Stan heads back over to us, shining his torch upwards over his grin. ‘The main shutters are jammed, but the ones over the doors are held in by bolts, so I reckon we can flip those up ourselves.’
‘And why would we want to do that?’ Wade says, now kneeling beside Stan’s baskets and casting a sceptical eye over the contents.
‘Reckon I’ve got a plan forming. But first… it’s time to build some weaponry.’
‘Dibs on the mop,’ Wade smirks.
‘Good choice,’ Stan says, not sensing the tone.
We stare in wide-eyed wonder at our absurd creation. Even if it does nothing to halt the horde or actually ends up impeding our escape, such a hare-brained marvel will at least make a funny story should we ever manage to get home. I can already hear Frida’s tongue clucking in an attempt to stifle her laughter.
‘Is that all of it?’ Wade asks as he places the final few ‘bricks’ in place.
‘Reckon so. Let’s douse the fucker,’ Stan says, grasping a bottle of BBQ lighting fluid in each hand and firing it across our wall. He lets out the kind of maniacal laugh that’s reserved exclusively for dousing a six-foot wall of toilet roll with a flammable substance. This is our second line of defence. In front of the wall the floor’s covered with broken glass and crockery with just a narrow path leading from the shuttered front doors. Behind the loo roll wall we’ve shunted the shelving units into as many tight angles and rat runs as possible and littered the floor with piles of pound shop shit. The aim is this: get them into the shop via the front entrance, and whilst they struggle their way through our wall of flaming bog-roll and assortment of obstacles and shelf-mazes, we make a sharp exit out back with our selection of bargain-basement weaponry to deal with a (hopefully) much depleted horde. Then we run like bastards for the safety of the countryside.
‘You sure this is going to work?’ I say to Stan.
‘Should do. Just depends on how many bodies we’re up against.’
‘What if there’s an approximate fuck-load out there?’
‘If there’s an approximate fuck-load there’s not a great deal we can do about it. Just pump those panicky legs and if anything gets close, do ‘em with your mallet.’
I look down at said mallet, which at Stan’s insistence has been made heavier with the addition of superglue and some pound coins. I’ve also got myself a length of broom handle with a bunch of screwdrivers taped to the end of it. Stan and Wade also have a selection of items taped to other items, and Stan’s bag is full of the kind of bizarre oddments that only make sense to brain as special as his.
All this suiting-up is fine, but what I really want is for every last crazy bastard outside the door to be gone. Not simply to prevent my own untimely demise, but also because I’m struggling with the idea of killing any of them. I still don’t know whether I’m capable of it, even if my life is on the line. I try to remind myself that they’re not people, but I know very well that once-upon-a-time, they were.
And then there’s Eve. The closer we get to enacting our ridiculous plan the more conflicted I become about actually leaving. It feels like I’m giving up on her, like I’m failing. But what use would I be to her dead? Staying here would make death a very real prospect. Would I be coward for walking (or running) away? Would a better man stay and fight? What to go with? My gut, my heart, my head… or my lily liver? Staying alive is obviously the sensible option, but it’s curiously difficult to commit to.
‘You still with us?’ Stan says, clearly noticing the vacant terror on my face. ‘That hammer won’t do you any good unless you’re willing to use it.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Besides, the towering inferno’s going to do most of the work for us.’
‘Shouldn’t do our chances any harm… but I was thinking… we both know you’re not much of a fighter.’
‘No shit.’
‘But if we’re going to get out of here, you’re gonna need a little more fire in your belly. Something to get you swinging that hammer like you mean it.’
‘And by fire you mean what?’
Stan digs in his pocket and pulls out a small blister pack.
‘You’re not serious,’ I say, my stomach dropping. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘C’mon, Pres, this could be the difference between life and death, and not just regular death either, I’m talking about death by being eaten! You need a boost, and you said it yourself, MIDS magnifies!’
‘Look on the bright side, mate, at least if you’ve shat yourself they might feel less like eating you.’
‘Look, the rest of your plan is sound enough in a demented sort of way, but throwing MIDS into the mix would be a really bad idea.’
Wade’s face appears over Stan’s shoulder. ‘Is that MIDS?’ he says, cool as cucumber.
‘Stan wants us to take it before the big battle. Thinks it’ll get us pumped up or something.’
‘It’ll give us the edge, that’s all,’ Stan says.
‘Yeah, because you’ve got such a great track-record with that stuff. If you hadn’t taken it in the first place we wouldn’t have ended up out here, and we sure as shit wouldn’t be building a giant wall out of toilet paper in an abandoned pound shop.’
‘You took MIDS? What happened?’ Wade says with a mirthful grin.
Stan looks to the floor.
‘He got a little carried away,’ I say, not wanting to elaborate.
Wade narrows his eyes. ‘Carried away… how?’ He scans both of our reactions. ‘You two didn’t end up… y’know… taking a little hike up Brokeback Mountain, did ya?’
Stan sniggers. ‘Nah. I think Preston’s saving himself for the right fella.’
‘Funny boy,’ I say.
‘So it’s something to do with Eve then?’
Stan and I say nothing.
‘Thought so,’ Wade says. ‘And there was me thinking you only had eyes for Tuesday.’
‘Yeah, thanks for bringing her up,’ Stan says, scratching vigorously at the back of his head.
‘What happened between you two anyway?’ Wade says.
‘Now’s not the time for talk of Tuesday. It’s time we necked a couple of these pills and got gnarly.’
‘I’m not taking MIDS,’ I tell him, tightening my grip on the mallet.
‘Pussy. Don’t come crying to me if you end up dead. Wade, how about you?’
‘Nah…’
‘Why not? Thought you said they’re sugar pills.’
‘Then why bother taking them?’ Wade says. I wonder whether my voodoo story has spooked some sense into him.
‘You’re starting to sound like Preston. Don’t blame me if your lack of rage lets you down on the battlefield.’
‘I’d rather take my chances with a clear head, thanks.’
‘Couple of squares,’ Stan says, pocketing the pills. ‘Guess we’re doing it the old fashioned way.’ He takes a moment to survey our combined efforts to win the day. ‘Tell you what; reckon those crazy fuckers out there don’t stand a chance.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ I say. ‘How many do you reckon there are?’
‘Lots,’ he says. ‘Definitely lots.’
BETTER OUT THAN IN.
‘Ready?’ Stan says, like we’re about to embark on little more than a trip to the park.
‘Absolutely fucking not.’ And I’m really not. How could anyone ever be ready for this? We don’t even know how many there are. Our plan would be a long shot even if its success didn’t depend almost entirely upon items worth a pound or less. Though I try to focus on what needs to be done, my thoughts inevitably drift back to Eve and the hope that she’s not on the other side of that door facing impossible odds of her own. I try to place her back in the village, waiting for my return, glad to see me, and I’ll do my best to squeeze all thoughts of that night by the fire out of my mind and I’ll hold her close to me. There’s a narrative beyond that initial embrace which I daren’t let myself dwell on for fear it may never happen.
‘First things first, Preston,’ announces Stan. ‘Find yourself a corner of the shop to piss in.’
‘Because?’
‘Because you don’t want to be running with a full bladder, and also, these things might have a heightened sense of smell, like dogs or rats or something, so maybe they’ll catch a smell of our piss and chase the scent right into a dead end.’
‘As much as I’d love to prove your theory correct, I’m afraid I don’t really need a wee.’
‘Come on now, Preston… have a try for me.’
‘Sorry, Mum, but I really don’t need one.’
‘And there was me thinking you’d be dying to let go of some giant anxiety wee,’ he says, heading out of the office and onto the shop floor.
I follow behind. The shop reeks of paraffin. I wonder whether death by passive solvent abuse is preferable to being eaten alive. Wade emerges from between some shelving, zipping himself up.
‘Gentlemen. A toast!’ Stan says. He hands a warm can of budget-brand energy drink to Wade, one to me and keeps the last one for himself. ‘A toast to taurine-fuelled carnage and everything going to plan. Down in one now, don’t be a coupla pussies.’
We raise our cans and clunk them together before guzzling the contents down.
‘Jesus Christ, Stan. You sure you didn’t piss in these by mistake?’ Wade says, wincing at the taste of the stuff.
‘Guess that’s why it’s five cans for a quid,’ I say with a shuddering grimace.
After downing the lot, Stan tosses his can across the shop, narrowly missing the carefully stacked rows of loo-roll.
‘Time to don our gauntlets,’ he says, picking up the six copies of Piglet Meets a Heffalump and yet another roll of gaffa-tape.
We take turns bite-proofing our forearms. Stan proves his point by attempting to bite through his makeshift gauntlet and failing. He couldn’t look more pleased with himself. I watch him step carefully through the gap in the wall and pick his way along the narrow path between the shards of broken tableware. He pauses at the shuttered front door and undoes the bolts. He grasps his knife/bat combo-weapon thing tightly in his hand. Good for smashing heads and cutting throats, so I’m informed. My stomach falls, my legs quake, my mouth turns dry and sticky. All of a sudden I could do with that wee.
Stan lifts up the shutter, making a noticeable effort to do so as quietly as possible. He makes a gap of just a foot or so and crouches to peer underneath. After satisfying himself that the coast is clear, he lifts the hatch up another couple of feet and ducks under it to unlock the door. I hear the metallic clunk of the key turning the lock, then a faint whoosh as he shoves the door open; and without hesitation, he’s gone.
My pulse punches at my throat. I hear nothing but the thrum of blood through my veins and Wade’s heavy breath. He flicks a lighter on, watches the flame intently… too intently.
‘You ok?’ I say, struggling to choke out my words.
‘Better than ok,’ he says, his voice ragged. He drops the Guy Fawkes mask over his face. ‘This is going to be good,’ he growls, the flame twitching in his hand.
From out back we hear Stan scream something, and then the horde roars to life. It sounds louder than ever, like they’ve swollen in both number and ferocity. And it’s not just them. From behind the face of Mr. Fawkes, Wade is snarling.
‘You ok?’ I ask again, watching his shoulders heave like beast in battle, that twitching flame quaking in his hand, ready to be tossed at our battlements in the moments prior to our ‘glorious’ reckoning. He has the fractious semblance of a man whose will is bent on breaking some heads open. For the briefest of moments, I wonder what’s got into him. Why the snarling? Why the coiled anger? Why is he feeling better than ok when the odds are solidly stacked against us?
And then I feel it. It takes me too. Something churns in the centre of me, a spiralling hatred that gnarls my hands and hardens my jaw. The things I want are simple; they burn through the doubt, the guilt, the reason. Everything in the room has a pulse, it’s all breathing. Everything is a target…
Stan ducks under the shutter. They’ll not be far behind. The fight is coming, and I welcome it. I want it now.
Wade tosses the lighter at the wall; the flame takes up just as Stan passes through the gap. The whole lot is
burning as the horde starts to pile in under the shutter.
None of us say so, but we all know it… it’s time to run. And better yet, it’s time to get out back and batter some heads.
Stan’s the first in the office, he kicks the door open and we charge out into the burning light; hands gripped tightly around our weapons, minds fixed only on one thing. The edges blur but the goal remains clear.
Dozens of ashen faces, livid eyes rolling into the backs of skulls, clawing hands, bared teeth and curled tongues… screaming and moaning and gnashing. Explosive red… the wet sound of carnage… the hollow tang of blood on my lips… soft bodies cracking under foot… more limbs for the pile… more heads for the heap. I want them all as pulp… I want their blood to saturate the earth, at any cost. Kill them all… kill everything that moves… but make a meal of it… treat yourself… you’ve earned this… kill them all…
LATER THAN YOU THINK.
Mum is crying. She’s sobbing her heart out and I can’t make her stop. She’s inconsolable. She feels she’s lost something. Don’t ask me how I know.
I’m up to my elbows in the cold earth. I want to find some bugs. Mum’s trying to tell me not to. She’s trying to tell me not to go digging around in the dirt. But I’m not listening. The ground is black and coarse, the type the best bugs like. I keep glancing up at Mum. I ask when Dad’s going to be home because I’m going to catch a bug for him. She’s too busy crying to answer.
I dig and I dig and the ground grows colder. There’s something under here. Not a bug, though. I tell my mum I’ve found something but she’s busy dabbing at her eyes. Her sleeves are darkened by tears. She tells me to stop. Please don’t put your hands in there, she tells me.
I pull out handfuls of coarse black soil and cast it across the lawn. I make the hole bigger. I want to see what’s buried. The ground starts to shake. The hole caves in. I look up and see that mushroom cloud rising. Though I try to keep digging, the quaking earth slows my progress. Mum is still crying, but now she’s screaming too. She’s telling me to leave it be, not to dig. She tells me there’s no bugs. But it’s not the bugs I want.