by Rich Hawkins
Guppy only emerged from his hiding place when the infected were far down the road. He looked around for any stragglers before continuing.
*
He sat on a wooden stile and placed the map on his lap. He took off his helmet and wiped sweat from his face and balding head then readjusted his body armour and wiped specks of grime from his rifle. Then he sipped water while trying to work out his position in relation to the road. The distance to Lowestoft troubled him, weighing heavy on his shoulders. He exhaled, drank more water, and winced at the aching of his limbs. A low pain pulsed in his back. He’d have to cross the M20 motorway, which could be teeming with infected and abandoned vehicles. With thumb and forefinger he pinched the bridge of his nose and considered his options. Maybe it was time to find a car. But that brought different risks. However, he reckoned his luck would run out if he continued on foot, and having to check every blind corner and hidden pitfall was slowing him down to the point where he was worried that by the time he reached Lowestoft the whole country might have fallen to the infected.
He took his old wedding ring from a pouch on his webbing and stared at it in his hand. The world went away for a while as he trawled through memories, both good and bad.
Then he put it away.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and spat on the ground.
CHAPTER FOUR
On a back road exposed to the waning sky, Guppy was passing a tumbledown cottage when a man ran out of the front door, ragged breaths steaming from his mouth, his face bloodless and slack. Bloodshot eyes rimmed with dark patches of skin. He appeared hungry, dehydrated and exhausted all at once.
Thinking that the man was infected, Guppy had been about to shoot him when he spoke and asked for help in a weak voice. Then he slowed to a halt several yards away, as though he was afraid to move beyond the gateway at the end of the front garden. He wiped his hands on his sweater and offered a feeble smile that soon faded to an expression of panicked anxiety.
“Please help us,” he said. A woman holding a baby appeared in the window behind him. She looked at Guppy with apprehension and a little bit of hope. The baby was red-faced and pudgy, blissfully unaware of everything.
Guppy kept his rifle raised at the man and took a step back. “What do you want?”
“Protection,” the man replied, fidgeting with his hands. “You’re a soldier. You can protect us from the infected. I can’t protect my family on my own.”
“I can’t help you,” said Guppy. “I have somewhere to go.”
The man stepped forward, frowning, blinking rapidly. A muscle twitched under his left eye. He scratched at one side of his mouth. “Why can’t you help us? You’re a soldier; you have to protect the public. You have to protect us. You can’t leave us!”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here and protect you.”
The man edged forward again. “Where are the other soldiers? Why aren’t you off fighting the infected? Are you running away?”
Guppy didn’t answer. He glanced towards the man’s wife and child. Concern washed across the woman’s face.
“You’re running away, aren’t you?” the man asked.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re running away to save yourself!”
“It’s not like that, I promise.”
“You should be protecting us!” Spittle flew from the man’s mouth as he stepped within two yards of Guppy, and his arms had tensed, as though he was considering grabbing the rifle. Guppy noted the desperation in the man’s eyes. Desperation made people do stupid things.
“Stay back,” Guppy said.
“I’ve got a family. My little Kira is only four months old. The infected will kill us all.”
Guppy made sure the man noticed him flick off safety on his rifle. “Get back in your house. Barricade the doors and close your curtains. Stay quiet. You’ll have a chance of survival.”
“Why won’t you help us?”
“Because I have to find my family. I have a son, and I need to find him, no matter what.”
The man retreated to the garden gate. His mouth trembled as he fixed Guppy with an unforgiving stare. “You’re leaving us to die.”
“I’m sorry,” said Guppy. “I truly am.”
“You fucking coward. I hope your family are already dead, you tosser. Motherfucker.”
Guppy glared at the man. “If you don’t want your family to see you get shot, I suggest you go back inside pretty sharpish.”
The man returned to the front door and turned back to Guppy. He said nothing.
Guppy lowered his rifle and wished the man and his family well before leaving them behind.
*
With daylight dimming at the edges of the sky, he approached a barn building set back from the side of the road and ensconced within a grove of tall trees. He shouldered his rifle and swept the area for threats then entered the barn with all the care and anxiety of someone sneaking into a bear’s cave. Luckily nothing waited for him in the darkness, and as dusk fell he made a spot for himself in a corner of the hayloft and set out his equipment, keeping his rifle at hand in case of nasty surprises.
Eventually he settled down for the night and listened to mice scurrying in the hay. The air smelled of old fields and soil. He savoured the respite and the peace as the world beyond the barn’s walls fell silent, but he couldn’t slow the thudding of his heart. His limbs ached with lactic acid, pulsing with exhaustion. He drank water and ate from his supplies until his stomach was full then lay down to snatch a few hours’ sleep before first light.
CHAPTER FIVE
Guppy was glad for a dreamless sleep as he woke in the morning. The first embers of dawn reached through the cracks and thin gaps in the east-facing wall and revealed the hayloft around him. He brushed his teeth while taking a piss in the far corner then scoffed a quick breakfast of two protein bars before gathering his kit and leaving the barn.
He walked in the grey light, the countryside revealing itself around him, all ashen shades in the rising of the glimmering sun. Clouds mottled the sky. Birds chirped in trees and hedgerows. A man’s corpse was rotting in a ditch of nettles and weeds. Rolex watches covered his left arm from wrist to elbow. Jewellery and ten pound notes spilled from his trouser pockets. A briefcase lay opened at the lip of the ditch, full of insurance documents and other pieces of paper now useless and obsolete. His stomach had been ripped open to expose grey intestines and dripping slop. Part of his face was gone, torn away by teeth, his left eye exposed in its broken socket.
A single gunshot – from a hunting rifle, perhaps – rang out from somewhere to the north.
Farther on, while walking along a gravel pathway, he saw a small campsite of tents at the edge of a field three hundred yards to his right. He stopped and took out his binoculars. People milled about amongst the tents, cooking breakfast, gathering firewood, or engaging in conversation. A few children played with a football in the shade of broad trees. It could have been a scene from the world before the outbreak if not for the men standing guard at the perimeter of the campsite with makeshift weapons of axes, bludgeons and cricket bats, keeping watch for the infected. A woman walked over with a tray of mugs filled with tea or coffee and handed one to each of the men, who nodded their thanks; a stocky man with white mutton chops, carrying a sledgehammer, kissed her on the cheek then watched her leave. The woman looked back at the man and smiled.
Guppy moved on.
*
He stayed parallel to the dual carriageway as he waded through flourishing fields. Tiredness and the stress of being on constant alert wore him down until he was breathing hard, and rubbing his eyes to clear his vision.
He stopped for a moment to fill his lungs and sip water. The blisters on the soles of his feet pained him and made him forget about the strained muscles of his legs.
Something crashed and trampled through the dense thickets on the slope above the bridleway he walked. Cries of the infected rang out then faded into silence. He checked his watch then th
e map he took from one pocket. It was difficult not to lose all hope when he saw the distance ahead of him. His shoulders sagged. The inside of throat prickled. He’d been careful not to use the main roads in order to avoid army units, but it was costing him time. Too much time.
His heart quickened within his tightening chest. He struggled to calm himself.
Shouldering his rifle, he emerged onto the dual carriageway, checking for hostiles up and down the road. Abandoned cars stretched for several hundred yards along the tarmac either side of the central reservation, which was merely a two yard-wide strip of grass with intermittent metal crash barriers. Several of the vehicles had crashed into each other, causing a pile up. The dried blood on the road and the mutilated corpses in several of the vehicles suggested an attack by the infected. It must have been chaos, the infected streaming out from the roadsides to attack the passing cars. Either most of the people involved had escaped or been infected and absorbed into the pack. There were a few dead infected crumpled and bloodied on the road, their limbs twisted and broken by impact with the vehicles. Their faces were even more horrific in death. He avoided stepping close to their sprawling corpses.
He climbed over one of the crash barriers then stopped, before moving again. Then hesitated as he passed a headless body sitting upright in the passenger seat of a camper van.
The dual carriageway was silent and devoid of movement except for the chattering and flapping of crows and magpies. He shooed the birds away and looked for a suitable car amongst the wrecks. Smashed bumpers and bonnets, punctured tyres and buckled wheels. Smoking engines. Blood on the insides of windscreens. Shattered glass cubes on the road and across the central reservation, gleaming in the daylight. A woman’s open-toed shoe. A holdall full of baby clothes. Wreckage and abandonment.
After searching for several minutes Guppy found a grey Ford Mondeo on the northward side of the dual carriageway. The driver’s door had been left open, the keys in the ignition. The shattered body of an infected man thirty yards up the road explained the car’s cracked headlight and broken bumper. But it appeared roadworthy, more so than the other vehicles in the pile up. He made sure he was alone then sat in the driver’s seat and tried the ignition. When the engine started first time he allowed himself a small smile of relief, despite the low reading on the fuel gauge.
He closed the door and stowed his gear and rifle. Clipped in the seatbelt and gripped the steering wheel. He was revving the engine, enjoying the sound as his foot dipped on the accelerator, when an infected woman in a torn hospital gown emerged from the thick bushes beyond the left side of the road and bolted towards the car, stained hands held outward. Her eyes were bulging and mad.
The tyres sprayed grit as he got the car moving and put his foot down, leaving the woman behind.
She screamed and gave chase, but soon receded in the car’s rear-view mirror as she gave up the chase and wailed towards the sky.
Guppy shook his head. “Stupid bitch.”
CHAPTER SIX
He drove on for a while, late into the afternoon, passing many sights that troubled him. A pile of bodies at the roadside. An infected police officer chewing on his raw hands. Vague shapes of writhing flesh within a crashed school bus. And no matter what he saw, he kept driving, keeping at a steady speed to avoid hitting the abandoned vehicles and wreckage on the road.
A few miles on, the road cleared on both sides and the way ahead opened. He clicked on the radio, but there was only static and voices that remained faint and unintelligible no matter how much he turned the dial. He soon gave up and turned on the CD player.
The first notes of Radiohead’s No Surprises seeped out from the speakers. At least the car’s previous owner had good taste in music. Then something occurred to him and caused a wince in his heart. What if the last songs had already been recorded? No lyrics to be sung or music to be made. No more art, just life and death and the struggle to survive.
No more songs for anyone.
*
A few minutes after Guppy turned the car onto the M20 motorway, he sighted a lone woman walking along the grass verge on his side, carrying something like a box in her hands. She stared straight ahead, her broad body sagging under some invisible weight. She didn’t appear infected, but made no indication she had seen him as he drove past and onwards down the road. He thought she might have lost her mind.
The silhouettes of infected people flitted between the trees beyond the roadside, heading towards her. Guppy slowed to a stop and let the car idle on the road. He looked back at the woman in the rear-view mirror, a pang of shame niggling in his gut. He ground his teeth and sighed, then reversed the car and stopped a few yards ahead of the woman. She halted and turned her face towards him as he climbed out of the car and shouldered his rifle. He left the engine running.
The first infected, a man in a garish yellow tracksuit, his face contorted with hunger and weeping cysts, broke through the brush and foliage, and was only a dozen yards from the woman when Guppy felled him with a three round burst to the chest.
Five more infected people emerged from the trees. Wretched, twitching things, bloodstained and screaming, their mouths snapping at the air as they saw the woman, who sunk to a crouch, put down the wooden box, and placed her hands over her ears as she closed her eyes. The infected wore ragged and dirty clothes. A woman ran on bare feet raw and red with sores. A man flailed and shuddered in a t-shirt, boxer shorts and tennis trainers. Another of them had been a priest before infection, his holy garments streaked with mud and serous fluids.
Guppy sighted the infected and put them down one by one with rapid gunfire. One of them, a man wearing a cycling helmet, kept crawling towards the road despite the bullet wounds in his chest and stomach, so Guppy stepped closer and put him down permanently with one shot to the forehead.
His ears were ringing as he stood over the bodies to make sure they stayed down, and when he was done, he turned back to the woman, checking his surroundings for more infected.
The woman opened her eyes and looked up at him. Her dark skin was beaded with sweat. Her black hair was streaked with grey and tied into a messy clump at the back of her head. She laid her hands on the wooden box, which Guppy realised was a casket for ashes once he saw the engraved metal plaque on its cover.
He lowered his rifle. The woman was trembling, her eyes damp and blotchy.
“Where are you going?” Guppy asked her.
Her voice was little more than a murmur from her slack mouth. “Clacton-on-Sea.”
“That’s a long walk.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“I could give you a lift, if you want. Clacton-on-Sea is sort of on my way.”
Her eyes swept over the dead infected nearby. She seemed to be in shock. Her face held a dazed expression, as though she had just woken from a dream. She said nothing.
The shrieks of infected rose from past the trees beyond the roadside. Guppy glimpsed movement, getting closer. Awful forms making inhuman sounds. More infected approached from other directions.
The woman nodded and followed Guppy to the car.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“It’s my husband,” Delores said, holding the casket on her lap. She had a soft, Caribbean tilt to her voice. “He died a few months ago. We used to go on holiday to Clacton-on-Sea. We loved going there. Neville always said he wanted his ashes scattered into the sea. I should have done it earlier, and I’d been meaning to go next week. Then this…whatever it is, happened, and there was nothing else for me to do.”
Guppy steered the car around a truck tipped over on its side. A few infected were feeding on the dead driver lying upon the tarmac. They snarled at the car but did not give chase. “I’m sorry about your husband.”
“Thank you.”
“You wouldn’t have made it to Clacton-on-Sea on foot. The infected would have killed you back there.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know what else to do. Back there at the roadside, I thought you were going t
o shoot me.”
“I wasn’t going to shoot you.”
She sniffed, glanced at him then his rifle and gear on the back seat. “You’re a real soldier, then?”
Guppy grunted. “Well, this isn’t a fancy dress costume.”
“The army has been getting its arse kicked, I’ve heard.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Why are you alone?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where are the other soldiers? Your platoon or regiment, or whatever…”
“They’re all dead or infected.” He tried to suppress the images of Gawen, Pike and Sibbick. He tried to forget what had happened to his friends.
“So, you’re making a run for it?”
He side-eyed her with a glare, and began to regret picking her up. “What’s with the questions?”
Delores dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “I was just making conversation.”
“Ease off a little, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
“Thanks.”
“So, where are you heading?”
“What did I say about the questions?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to have a go at you. I’m going to Lowestoft.”
“And I thought I had a long journey ahead. Do you have family there?”
He hesitated before answering. “My ex-wife and son. She moved there to make a fresh start, after our divorce.”
“Do you see your son much?”
“Not as much as I’d like.”
“It’s admirable, what you’re doing.”