Like Rats

by Adam Watts

  I hear the rats in the distance. The tidal wave.

  I peer down into the hole. Two eyes snap open. Two unblinking eyes amongst the coarse, black earth. Mum is screaming. It’s too late! She’s down there, isn’t she! It’s too late!

  The eyes keep staring up at me. They watch me. They try to tell me something. But then they’re gone, and I’m just a dull-minded little boy up to his elbows in the frigid quaking soil, watching death scream towards him.

  Mum isn’t crying anymore. Because she’s gone too.

  THE DEVIL I ENCOUNTERED WHILST FLEEING THE BEAST.

  Every survivor who arrived at the fence around the village had a story. True or not there was at least a tale to tell, a core narrative to serve the elaborations and exaggerated acts of triumph and heroism. Some, like Eve, even downplayed the severity of what they’d endured. When we first set out through the woods, even though my mind was addled by a jealous rage, I still hoped that when I returned to the village I’d have a decent story to tell; but my account of how we escaped the mouth of hell is little more than sketchy headache; a spooling parade of distorted pictures, disjointed events and fragmented sound bites, all loosely bound with blank space and fading grey. My torn clothes, the blood in my hair, and the thick layer of grease and dirt that swathes my skin are a more reliable snap-shot of the day post-Poundland. My knuckles are skinned and raw and my eyes feel like they’ve been sand-blasted at point-blank range. My teeth ache. In fact, everything aches; but mostly my teeth. It feels like I’ve been pulled apart and cobbled back together with the wrong tools in the wrong order.

  But worse than the physical pain is the guilt; the type that makes it hard to lift your head, and sits around your shoulders like a sodden blanket, heavy and fetid. Because although I don’t remember much, I remember enough to know I enjoyed every moment of it. I didn’t do what I did to survive, I did it because I wanted to. I wanted to kill every single one of them simply for the fun of it. It was all good sport; the ripe crack of skulls, the glistening crimson beads of arterial spray in flight, the wet slurp of thumbs withdrawing from eye-sockets. Stan and Wade were the same, but whether their guilt is as cold and heavy as mine, I can only guess. Maybe they felt that even in their altered states they were still somehow distinct from the horde. But how can that be true when you’re just another lunatic baying for the blood of your enemy? We all had our heads in the same trough, we were all beasts of one type or another.

  Maybe they’ll say we had to fight fire with fire and give as good as we got. Perhaps the only way to survive was to get on their level. But it’s cold comfort to know my lack of humanity was my saving grace. Is this what living in the moment feels like? Because I’m pretty sure this is the least alive I have ever felt. To know that I’ve killed, that I’m no closer to Eve and that I may well bring death to the very place that’s kept me safe. And what if it doesn’t stop here? What if this isn’t an escape?

  There’s a cloud hanging over me, pissing cold stinging rain on anything that resembles hope or optimism.

  The forest seems to sense the change in us, like it knows what we did to get here. All that was bright and verdant is now swamped in a thick and dismal shade, and the cheerful birdsong that rang through the branches is now little more than a nervous chatter from high up in the creaking boughs. It’s like we’re the cancer in this lung, an unwanted presence that needs to be crowded out, never to return.

  I woke about an hour ago. Stan and Wade were already awake and were sat in silence, staring with bemusement into the soil at their feet. Stan and I are sat opposite one another, and though I glance at him, hopeful of catching his attention, he remains uncharacteristically stoic, preferring to chew at his bottom lip rather than engage in an exchange of words. There are things I want to say to him, but it’s Wade who eventually breaks the lengthy silence.

  ‘I think we earned that nap. Had some fucked up dreams, though… no thanks to that shit you slipped in our drinks.’

  Stan continues to chew his lip, his eyes flick up just for a moment, then return to the floor.

  ‘Just a sugar pill, my arse,’ I say to Wade.

  ‘It’s like you said… time and place make a difference.’

  ‘No shit,’ I say, kneading at my forehead with the back of my hand, like it’ll dislodge whatever’s causing the ache. ‘Frida was bang on the money.’

  ‘Anyone got any injuries to speak of?’ Wade asks. ‘Any bites, or did Piglet and his Heffalump do the business?’

  ‘It’s Piglet Meets a Heffalump, you fucking pleb,’ Stan says, breaking his silence. He sounds like shit. ‘And for what it’s worth I’m sorry about spiking your drinks… I just really wanted to get out of Poundland.’

  ‘Lucky for you it paid off,’ Wade says, straightening his back with audible crunch.

  ‘At what cost, though?’ I ask, trying to steady the residual tremor in my hands.

  ‘If I hadn’t done it we’d have probably died before we got out the door. MIDS might be the only reason we’re alive.’ Stan looks up at me. ‘MIDS might be the reason you get to see Eve again.’

  And there’s the thing that worries me. What if I already did see her? What if she was out there, and – blinded by MIDS – I did something to her? What if some of this blood is hers?

  ‘How much do you guys remember?’ Wade says.

  ‘Not a great deal,’ Stan says, clearing his throat but still sounding choked and sore. ‘I remember running out the front door and running back through the shop with them all behind me. I’ve got a vague memory of our wall going up in flames, but then it all starts getting a bit blurry. Just a lot of… killing. I remember thinking I was a lawnmower or something, that seemed to make sense to me; just mow the fuckers down.’

  ‘Looks like one of them caught you in the eye,’ I say, noticing his bruised left socket through the dried blood and filth.

  ‘That was you, Pres. And the split lip. I remember that bit…’

  ‘Oh…’ I should probably apologise but the words catch in my throat.

  ‘I think there was also a point where you had your hands around my neck,’ he says. ‘That was just before you fell asleep.’

  ‘It was me that had to separate you,’ Wade says.

  I smile nervously, waiting for one of them to let me in on the joke.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Wade says. ‘I worried you’d never come back down. You and MIDS are a bad mix.’

  ‘Strikes me that young Preston had a few unresolved issues to work through. Lucky for you I’m an understanding guy.’

  I mutter an apology. I don’t remember doing those things to Stan, but it’s his own fault for spiking my drink.

  ‘Give it another ten minutes or so and we’d best get moving,’ Wade says.

  ‘How do we even know where we are?’

  ‘I know exactly where we are,’ Stan says. ‘Even when I’m off my tits I’ve got the capabilities of a homing pigeon.’

  ‘One of the few times your pigeon brain comes in handy,’ I say.

  ‘You want a black eye to match mine, sunshine?’

  ‘How far away from the village do you reckon we are?’ I ask.

  ‘It’ll take us most of the day to get back,’ Wade says, cutting in on Stan. I forget he’s been out here so long. Which reminds me…

  ‘You going to be staying long when we get back?’ I ask, trying to sound neutral.

  ‘Not even if you paid me.’

  ‘I can get me and Pres home safely if you wanna head off,’ Stan says in a patently hopeful manner. He probably doesn’t want Wade cutting in on his glory.

  ‘I’d feel better if I knew you’d both got back okay. And if shit hits the fan again, three’s probably better than two.’

  ‘You think they’d follow us?’ I ask.

  ‘Probably not,’ Wade says. ‘They’d be on us by now. Besides, there’s probably a good reason you’ve never seen them out your way this whole time.’

  ‘Maybe we’re due.’ Stan says. ‘Statistically… I mean.�
��

  ‘Mate… if they were following us we’d know about it. They’re not exactly the most stealthy and silent of creatures, are they?’

  Stan shifts uncomfortably and begins to gnaw at his bottom lip again. ‘It just doesn’t make sense that they’ve been out there this whole time and they’ve not ventured a few miles up the road.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a conspiracy,’ Wade says, sneering a little. ‘Maybe it’s a Zionist thing or something.’

  Stan furrows his brow and looks to me for support. ‘Do I have a Swastika tattooed on my forehead that I’m not aware of?’

  I smile. Smiling hurts my teeth. ‘Clearly.’

  ‘I must have the air of a racist about me.’

  ‘Your dad was…’ Wade says.

  ‘My dad was a lot of things, Wade. No doubt your Dad was a cunt too but I’m not calling you on it.’

  ‘My dad was a good person.’

  ‘I can imagine. A proper well-intentioned mess who donates to the donkey sanctuary instead of buying his kids something they actually want for Christmas.’ Stan turns to me. ‘Had a mate like that once. I used to charge him two quid an hour to go on my PlayStation. Every week he’d get these updates sent through the post on all the kids and animals his parents had sponsored on his behalf. He was an angry little kid…’

  Wade’s up and ready to go, his tight jaw giving away his irritation at Stan’s no-doubt accurate description of his Dad. I pull myself up too. Whether Eve’s there or not, I can hear my bed calling out to me. Frida’s cooking too. And the fence. Oh how I’ve missed you, sweet confinement.

  My legs scream as I stand, and judging from Stan’s face, so do his. The journey home might take a while longer than we’d anticipated.

  TO THE SHIRE!

  ‘Come on, Pres,’ Stan calls back. ‘Anyone would think you don’t wanna get home.’

  ‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ I yell. And I really am, but the aching limbs and uneven ground make for tough going, especially amongst the canopy’s thickening gloom.

  ‘Looks like somebody shouldn’t have used up all their energy going bat-shit-crazy and attacking their best mate.’

  Too tired to respond and make happy banter, I look to Wade, who’s struggling on between Stan and I. He’s not quite as hobbled as me but it’s clear he’s had his fill of trudging through the woods.

  ‘You sure they’re not going to come after us?’ I ask.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ Wade says, his voice flat and distracted.

  ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, trust me. I’ve been out here all this time and that’s the first trouble I’ve had.’

  He’s probably right, but it doesn’t stop me worrying. I don’t want to be the one responsible for walking the enemy right into our home. Nor do I want to find that the whole place has been ransacked in our absence. I try to banish all thoughts of buildings aflame, the running and screaming and the homelessness; and instead try to focus on the positives, like sitting around the fire, drinking home-brew, talking nonsense and swapping inane stories about our escape from the pound-shop fortress. Because even though it was a nightmare, and even though my body is still in the thick of the painful aftermath, it won’t always be that way. I think of how happy Frida will be to see us, and Harry’s begrudging grimace when he finds out a couple of losers like us managed to beat the unbeatable. And though I almost daren’t, I think of Eve.

  But somehow, the pictures in my mind won’t stay put. It’s like I’m trying to nail them to thin air. Because I worry that from now on, nothing will be the same, simply because I’m not the same. I’ve killed, and not just in the interests of survival, and worse yet I’ve tried to strangle my best friend. Maybe he sees it as his just-desserts for what happened with Eve, but I can’t justify it to myself. The finger marks around Stan’s neck will fade and the dried blood will wash from my skin, but the knowledge of what I did won’t disappear so readily. Eve always thought I was a good guy. I liked that. But what now?

  Wade stops in front of me and scans the woods around us. Stan carries on a while before noticing we’ve stopped.

  ‘What’s up?’ he calls back. Wade continues to look around without saying a word. Stan tries to jog over, winces and settles for a walk. He eyes Wade with a mirthful grin, then looks to me. ‘What’s got Billy so spooked?’ he says in a mock-Arnie accent.

  ‘We need to head through here,’ Wade says, pointing to the left.

  Stan eyes the area in question. ‘That’s the wrong way. Besides, it’s a bit… bushy isn’t it? What do you wanna go through there for with such a serious bloody look on your face?’

  ‘You’ll see when we get there,’ Wade says, heading off into the undergrowth. ‘It’s not far, five minutes… tops.’

  ‘Can’t we just leave him to it?’ I say to Stan. ‘My legs are screaming.’

  ‘Tempting, my friend. Very tempting. But I’m afraid he’s got me curious, and I’ve got zero in the way of sympathy for people who’ve tried to throttle me, tired little leggies or not.’ He too heads off into the dark undergrowth.

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat, you know,’ I say, following on despite the protestations from my legs.

  ‘Boredom killed the cat, Pres.’

  Right now I’d give anything to be bored.

  ‘What do you reckon he’s doing behind there?’

  ‘Probably fucking about with himself,’ Stan says. ‘That’s one big bessy of a tree, though. Bet that made a sound when it fell whether anyone was there to hear it or not.’

  Wade remained tight-lipped about the reason for the sudden diversion. If it weren’t for Stan’s unshakable curiosity I’d have turned back and left him to it. The five-minute walk promised by Wade quickly doubled, and then doubled again.

  ‘Wade?’ Stan calls, but to no answer. ‘Wade! Please don’t tell me The Blair Witch is over there.’ He looks at me and grins. ‘Now there’s a shit film.’

  ‘Only because you lack imagination.’

  ‘Not true.’

  I think about this for a moment. Stan’s right, the one thing he’s never lacked is imagination. ‘Ok, fine…’ I say. ‘But Blair Witch is still a good film.’

  ‘Three twats get lost in the woods, nothing happens. Sounds like a pretty shit film to me. Maniac Cop. Now there’s a quality movie.’

  ‘Sounds like a classic,’ I say.

  ‘There’s nothing not to like about Maniac Cop. It’s a treat, nose to tail.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  Wade pops up from the other side of the fallen tree and strides towards us. ‘Ready to go?’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean, ready to go?’ Stan says, looking genuinely put out. ‘You lead us all the way out here to a big dead tree without a word as to why and then all you can say is, ready to go?’

  ‘Just had to check on something.’ Wade starts walking back the way we came, but Stan’s not having any of it.

  ‘Wait just a chicken-shittin minute,’ he says, jogging after Wade, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him round. Wade looks a little shaken; defensive even. ‘You need to bring us in on your little secret.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Wade says, not convincing either of us. ‘Just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Just…’

  ‘Yeah, I got that bit. Now tell us why we’ve followed you up here, because something tells me you weren’t just looking for a good spot to take a dump.’

  Wade’s eyes flit between Stan and I. ‘It’s nothing… really.’

  ‘You’re hiding something,’ Stan says, and I’m inclined to agree.

  ‘You need to tell us, Wade. Don’t treat us like we’re dumb.’

  ‘Fine…’ he says, an odd smile creeping across his face. He fumbles with something behind his back and produces a small black pistol, which he aims squarely at us.

  Stan jumps back behind me. ‘You’re not fucking serious!’

  ‘This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d shit yoursel
ves.’

  I raise my hands up. ‘What’s that for?’ I ask, even though it’s a dumb question. I’ve never seen a proper gun before, much less had one pointed at me.

  ‘It’s for shooting…’ he says coolly, curling up one side of his mouth. ‘Don’t piss your pants. I haven’t even got any bullets.’ Wade lowers the gun. ‘Honestly… the look on your faces. As if I’d shoot you.’

  ‘Then… what’s it for?’ Stan asks, creeping out from behind me. I can feel him gravitating towards the gun. A proper weapon. Not like his mop handles and catapults.

  ‘Just a precaution.’

  ‘A precaution for what?’ I say.

  ‘Can I hold it?’ Stan says before Wade can answer me.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, handing it over. Stan grins like a kid, looks down the sight and makes a few crude explosive sounds whilst simulating the recoil of the weapon.

  ‘What do we need it for?’ I ask. ‘You reckon they won’t follow us out here but you take us on a mad detour to fetch a gun.’

  ‘They won’t follow us. And I’ve had the gun stashed out here for ages. I just needed to retrieve it before I set off on my travels again. Figure it might come in handy if I run in to trouble again.’

  ‘Sounds like bullshit to me,’ I tell him, throwing a harsh look towards Stan as he tools about with the pistol.

  ‘You can call bullshit all you like, Preston, but what happened back in town has put the shits up me big time, so you’ll forgive me for needing a little reassurance, especially if I haven’t got you burly pair to back me up.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Found it.’

  ‘Found it where?’

  Wade folds his arms. ‘Doesn’t matter where. Now can we please get back to the village before it becomes too dark to see. I don’t wanna end up camping out here.’

  ‘Fine, but that is not coming over the fence with you.’