New Title 1

by Millard, Adam

  The sun was unbearable, hanging over Oilhaven like a giant ball of ejaculating fire (which was, according to various encyclopaedias and reference books, pretty much what it was). People didn’t so much walk through the streets as ooze. Sand and dirt covered everything. El Oscuro and his boys (and girl) had only been outside for five minutes and already they were plastered in grime.

  They were used to it, though. It was part and parcel of living in a post-apocalyptic world. If you ventured outside in your best white clothes…well then you were an idiot. Those days were gone forever. The Goths had found the transition a lot easier than most.

  “So what’s the plan?” Blink asked, surveying the street intently. “Knock off a few establishments? Couple of home invasions? One or two wallet-swipes, then back to The Barrel for a cheeky cocktail?” Sand and grit had affixed itself to his eyeballs, covering the whites completely. It was quite unnerving to look at.

  El Oscuro, sitting atop Mordecai, sipped from an opaque water bottle. The reason for its opaqueness was twofold. Firstly, it kept the liquid contained within just that little bit cooler, and secondly, you couldn’t see the liquid contained within, or its unnatural colour, which tended to put a lot of people off.

  “We’re going to keep a low profile,” El Oscuro said. “Try to fit in. You’re all familiar with the chameleon? Adapt to your surroundings; make yourself less noticeable.”

  “Says the man sitting on the only horse in town,” said Red, shaking her head. “Do you honestly think there is anything here for us? These people are worse off than we are. I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel really guilty. It comes to something when one of your town’s most prominent figures is a naked alleyway dweller.”

  “Don’t feel guilty,” El Oscuro said. “There is more to this place than meets the eye.”

  “Like what?” Samuel said, sidling up to the horse. “It’s pitiful. I think we should go back, dig up the bikes, and be on our way.”

  El Oscuro shook his head. “You really think this is it. That this place is just full of oily bodies and worthless mineshafts?” He grinned. “Why do you think these people put themselves down those mines every day? Huh? It’s because there is somebody in charge, somebody powerful, somebody that likes all the trappings of a luxury lifestyle and knows how to maintain it. When The Event hit, do you remember what people were saying? That they would never have to work again for as long as they managed to survive? Then what happened? People came in and took over. Before you had a chance to say ‘momentary respite’, everyone was back to work. Granted, money was useless and people were working for scraps of food and accommodation, but the same rules applied. These places – places like Oilhaven and the countless other backwoods towns we’ve stumbled across – are governed by one man. The fattest cat of all; and that’s the fucker we’re going to focus on.”

  Blink, Samuel, Thumbs, and Red all stopped walking at the same time, and it was a few seconds before El Oscuro realised he was talking to himself. He turned Mordecai around and cantered back to the flabbergasted bandits.

  “You’re going after the leader of this shithole?” Red said. “The guy at the top, the one in charge, the head honcho, and other things to that effect?”

  El Oscuro nodded. “It’s the only way to make this pit-stop worth our while,” he said. “Or would you rather start pickpocketing these defenceless poor bastards, stealing their buttons and clothes, leaving them worse off than they already are?”

  Red considered this for a moment, and came to the conclusion that they already had more buttons than they would ever spend. “Okay, so suppose we find out who’s in charge here. We’re just going to attack, take everything they own, and leave them dying in a pool of their own blood and vomit.”

  El Oscuro smiled. “It gives me an erection when you put it like that.”

  “I’m in,” Samuel said.

  “Me too,” said Thumbs. “Be nice to get a good haul for a change.”

  “Count me in,” Blink said. “But can we get some eye-drops first? I can’t see a fucking thing.”

  Red shrugged. “What the hell,” she said. “Let’s make this one a good one.”

  “That’s my girl,” El Oscuro said. “Now if one of you wouldn’t mind holding Blink’s hand until we get to the store, that would be fantastic.”

  *

  The last customer left empty-handed and extremely angry. That was the trouble with being at the back of the queue; there was always a small chance that by the time you were at the front of the queue, there would be nothing left to buy. Lou had been called every name under the sun by that disappointed customer, but it was nothing he hadn’t been called before. Except Cunty-Bollocks – that was a new one.

  Piled up behind the counter, various gems and valuables sat atop a tray. It was a sight to behold; more currency than the store had seen in years. And yet there was something inherently wrong with it. Lou felt terrible, that he was somehow deceiving the ‘haveners by selling them milk from his own teats, that in a week or so, there would be a knock on the door and he would be hauled off to Oilhaven Gaol – which wasn’t really a jail, but a rock with an axe leaning against it.

  “Well, that was intense,” his mother said as she set about locking the door. “You did well, son. Really well. I thought you were going to lose it there for a while, but you managed to keep it together. Pity the invisible milk-well lie never really got off the ground, but hey-ho…we sold the effing lot.”

  Lou stroked his fat breasts, for they were sore and it was only a matter of time before they started leaking again. “Why do I feel so bad?” he said. “Why do I feel like I’ve just sold the whole town a clapped-out Ford?”

  Freda Decker walked the length of the store and placed her son’s face between her sweaty, wrinkly palms. “You cancel that shit right now,” she said, smooshing his face together as if it were made of dough. “You have just gifted them something remarkable, and they are going to thank you for every ounce that they swallow.”

  “Couldyouletgoofmyfashe?” Lou said, and she did. His mother was right; he had done nothing wrong. They were getting exactly what they paid for: Lou’s Milk. There was no false advertising; he wasn’t bottling up the well-water, slapping a picture of a spring on it, and selling it as fucking Volvic.

  It really was Lou’s Milk, straight from the nipple. This was no worse than selling dead rats as squashed squirrels, or cheese-graters as backscratchers. This was real milk, and he was making it.

  “You’re right,” he told his mother, who was frantically counting out buttons and brooches, occasionally stopping to whoop and applaud. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to love it. It does taste good, doesn’t it?”

  “Good?” his mother said, still counting. “If God had a penis, I’m pretty sure that’s what it would taste like.”

  Lou frowned at that analogy. His mother always had an odd way with words, which was why he preferred her when she was silent and dying.

  Just then there came a loud and desperate knock on the door. “Mr Decker?” said a frenzied, deep voice. “Lou?”

  It was the local, and only, priest, Reverend Schmidt. Nice fella, if not a little tactile.

  Lou walked across the room and, after turning the key in the lock, opened the door. A pair of filthy hands latched onto him almost immediately, bunching up his shirt. “You have to give me another bottle!” said the reverend. “I have to have more.”

  Lou couldn’t help but notice the white stain around the clergyman’s lips, and the way his eyes protruded from their sockets, all bloodshot and manic. “Reverend, there is no more,” Lou said, easing the grotty, trembling hands from his collar. “I will be taking delivery of another batch tomorrow, but until then—”

  “Tomorrow!?” The reverend looked apt to explode. “I can’t wait until tomorrow! You have to get more now. It’s the most delightful thing I’ve ever had on my tongue, and I’m a clergyman, if you get my drift?”

  Unfortunately, Lou got his drift just fine.
“That’s all well and good,” he said, “but there will be no more Lou’s Milk until tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” said the reverend. “Sorry that you tease us with this miraculous elixir? Sorry that you dangled such a tasty carrot in front of us and then snatched it away?” He took a step back and regarded Lou with what looked like pure hatred. “I’ll pray for you, Lou Decker. I’ll ask the Lord to forgive you, and in the meantime, if you could put a bottle aside for me when your delivery comes in…”

  “Will do,” Lou said, easing the door shut on the clergyman, who was still banging on about carrots and potions.

  “You see?” Freda said from across the room, where she was drinking Lou’s Milk from her own personal stash. “They can’t get enough of it.”

  Lou sighed deeply. Getting people hooked was not what he’d intended. All he had wanted was to provide a service, a product that they would enjoy. When the local Catholics started having withdrawals, something was very wrong…

  A knock on the door stopped Lou in his tracks, not that he was going anywhere.

  “I told you, Rev,” Lou called through the door. “There will be no more milk until tomorrow.” Honestly, he thought. The nerve of some peop—

  “Hello?” a voice that didn’t belong to Reverend Schmidt said. “Is there anyone in there?”

  Lou sighed again. It was becoming quite a habit. “We’re closed for the rest of the day,” he said, stroking at his tender nipples, which were showing fresh signs of leakage. “Come back tomorrow.”

  There was a slight pause, and then Lou heard whisperings, which meant there was more than one person out there – or one incredibly crazy one.

  “I believe you are the only store in Oilhaven,” said the voice. There was a slight accent there that Lou couldn’t quite put his finger on; it sounded Spanish, by way of Hawaii. “Is that correct?”

  “That is bang on correct,” Lou said.

  “Then it is imperative that you open up,” said the voice. “You see, our friend, he suffers from a rather odd defect called lagopthalmos and we’re in dire need of lubrication.”

  Lou frowned, as did his mother. “That sounds nasty,” he said, pressing his head against the locked door. “What, if I may ask, is in need of lubricating?” The body was made up of many parts, but there were only a couple which required such treatment. Lou wasn’t about to let a bunch of people in so that they might lubricate their friend right there in the middle of the store. Not only would it be embarrassing (for all parties) but there was the small matter of hygiene to consider. Yes, the place was dusty as hell, and yes, the post-apocalyptic winds were forever bringing in disease and radiation from the streets, but there was no sense in adding to it.

  “It’s his eyes,” said the voice. “He doesn’t blink.”

  “Tell him how sore it gets,” added another voice.

  “Oh, it gets very sore,” said the first voice. “Like rolling a hedgehog around in his irises.”

  Lou caught a glimpse of the callers through the tiny gap in the door. There was at least three of them; maybe more off to the side, and they were all unfamiliar to him. One of them was female, blonde, pretty – if you liked that sort of thing. The one with the wide-eyes (and presumably the one in need of…lubricating) gawped toward the door. It was as if he believed the door was in fact the one doing the talking, and not the person standing on the other side of it.

  “I will open the door on one condition,” Lou said, placing a hand on the key. “You are to wait right where you are until I have located suitable lubrication for your goggle-eyed friend, and you are to pay me in advance. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “Sounds fine,” the lead speaker said. “Do you accept silver cutlery, only we’ve got an odd spoon here?”

  Silver cutlery? That was one of Lou’s favourite things in the world, after his vast array of claytex vaginas. “That will do just fine,” he said, turning the key in its lock and easing the door open just a crack. The silver spoon was thrust upon him almost immediately, and so he took it with eagerness. “Wait here. I’ve got some motorcycle chain lube here somewhere.” And off he went, in search of something that would either relieve that poor man of his discomfort, or melt his eyes in their sockets. He didn’t care much which.

  Upon returning to the door, chain lube in hand, Lou said, “It does say to avoid contact with the eyes, but I think that’s just the standard warning they put on these things. You should be alright, so long as you don’t get any on your skin.” He handed the can over. “Now, if you would all kindly piss off, I’ve got lots to do and…heeeeeeey, do I know you from somewhere?” He was talking, of course, to Samuel, who had been doing everything in his power not to make eye-contact with the proprietor. “You look awfully familiar.”

  “No, sir,” Samuel said, still avoiding the storekeeper’s gaze. “We’re not from around here, and we only arrived this morning.” He was sweating like Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah, but that could have been the sun’s doing, and nothing at all to do with his nerves, or the fact that he’d lost them all.

  Lou squinted. “Yeah, you look just like a guy that tried to rob me yesterday. A little thinner, maybe, and not as cocky. You look a lot more haunted than he did, but apart from that, it’s uncanny.”

  Samuel shook his head and giggled anxiously.

  “Some people say he has one of those faces,” interrupted the lead speaker.

  “What? A face that looks like other people’s faces?” Lou was confused, at both what was being said and his apparent willingness to persist with the conversation at all.

  “No, one of those faces you could just slap over and over,” the blonde girl added. Something told Lou that, for a little thing, she had quite a nasty bite.

  “What’s this sign mean?” asked one of the group. “Milk? Why would you be telling people that you’ve got milk for sale?”

  “Because I have,” Lou said, somewhat defensively. “I mean, I did have. Now I just have empty bottles and dependent customers, at least until tomorrow.”

  “Wait a gosh-darn minute,” said the one at the front, the one with the Hawaiian-Spanish inflection. “You’re telling us you’ve got milk. That you had milk here earlier today.”

  Lou nodded. How many times did he have to go through all this? “Yes, gen-u-ine milk, as fresh as the day it was bottled.”

  The group did various glancings amongst themselves, before the one without any thumbs (Lou couldn’t help but notice) said, “That must have been what that fucking priest was babbling on about.”

  “Yes,” Lou said. “Now, if you really don’t mind, I’ve got thousands of things to—”

  “Okay,” said the leader. “One more question and we’ll leave you in peace.”

  Lou dry-swallowed. “Shoot.”

  “Where can we find the person in charge of this godforsaken town?”

  And so Lou told them, quite gladly, of Kellerman’s whereabouts before slamming the door shut in their faces.

  He turned to find his mother, slurping voraciously from a saucer. “You ready to make another batch?” she asked, her mouth thick and gloopy with her son’s milk.

  Lou glanced down at his sodden shirt. “You know what?” he said, flicking one nipple and then the other. “I think I am.”

  17

  On the outskirts of town, in a small cave that only she knew about, Zee Fox settled down with a thick book and a glass of murky water. According to her mother, it was best to keep her distance from Oilhaven until Kellerman had stopped looking for her, and this quiet, secluded cave on the edge of town afforded her the sanctuary she needed, at least for the time being.

  The book she was about to plunge into was by legendary homemaker and amateur cook, Mrs Beeton. Between its pages were recipes for homemade remedies, broths, tips and cheats on how to fold sheets, and various other guidelines that, should she follow them to the letter, would make her the most knowledgeable girl in Oilhaven, and the most sought after. Come to think of it, that was the exact
opposite to what she wanted, but it didn’t hurt to learn a little every now and then, so long as you didn’t go around flaunting it.

  “An hour and forty-five minutes to boil pasta?” Zee said, reading what was quite obviously a mistake. In fact, it wasn’t the first mistake she had come across. There was a very good chance that Mrs Beeton had spent a lot of her earnings from previous books on crack cocaine, and had written this one whilst under the influence.

  Still, Zee persisted. Where else was she going to learn about level teaspoons and ounce-to-kilo conversions?

  The cave was well-shaded, protected from the overwhelming heat and inexorable sunshine, and sitting there upon a rounded rock – she had avoided the jagged rocks ever since one had almost impregnated her – it was quite easy to forget where she was, or that she was in hiding and that the rest of the town was going about its business somewhere behind her.

  That was until somewhere between the chapter on starch and the chapter on middle-class etiquette, when something caught the corner of Zee’s eye. Just a flicker, a light shape as something shifted in her peripheral vision, but it was enough to cause her to lower the book.

  There, walking naked across the mouth of the cave, was an old lady. In her hand, an umbrella went over and over, as if she was trying to take off and just couldn’t quite get the momentum up to do so.

  Zee froze, the way people do when faced with something creepy and incongruous. Even if she wanted to move, she wasn’t sure that she could. Paralysis had set in, rendered her limbs ineffectual. What made things worse was the fact that her machete – her chosen weapon of survival to use on bandits, rapists, coyotes, and anyone that looked like they might be trouble – was leaning against the cave wall a few feet to her left. She hadn’t anticipated an altercation, and hopefully there wouldn’t be one, but all of a sudden she wished the machete was in her hand. Now all she could do was watch, and hope that the old lady went away.