“It’s okay.” Quint held his hand up. “Relax.”
He stood near the two, who were gagged with a sock in each mouth, and crouched down so that he was at eye level with the two of them.
“I’m gonna take the sock out of your mouths,” Quint began, “and I want you two to remain quiet. I’ve got a bit of a headache, and I don't want you two cunts adding to my woes, so to speak. Understand?”
Both nodded frantically and Quint took the sock out of the mouth of both prisoners.
“Please!” the woman cried. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said, you silly bint?” Quint puffed out a breath and spoke further, “I told you to remain quiet, didn’t I?” He then looked at the male and shook his head. “What is it with women?”
The woman apologised and Quint told them to listen up.
“Right, motherfuckers,” he began. “Today’s your lucky day. Today I’m going to set you both free.”
The male and female both tried to gaze at one another. Quint could see the confusion on their faces, so he decided to explain. “This is not a fucking joke, brother and sister.”
“How do we know?” the woman spoke up, despite being warned only seconds ago.
“I’ve run into a bit of luck. So I won’t be needing any of you.” Quint crouched down and began to cut the rope that was tied around the two scared individuals. Once the rope was cut and fell, Quint stood up and took a step back as the two prisoners struggled to their feet.
The female licked her lips and asked Quint, “Could we at least have a drink before we go?”
“Don’t push your luck, sugar tits,” snapped Quint with his arms by his side, blade in his right hand. “You, or at least part of you, was going to be on my dinner plate pretty soon. Be grateful to be in the position you’re in now.”
The man that was with her grabbed her arm and told her to move, but she shrugged him off.
“There was no need to do what you did,” the woman bravely spoke up, now that she was free and on her feet.
“And what did I do exactly?”
“You know what? We came to your place for safe refuge a couple of days ago and then you knocked the pair of us out.”
Quint hunched his shoulders. “A man has to eat.”
“But—”
“Are you gonna stand there and whine like a little bitch, or are you gonna fuck off out of my sight?”
The two individuals slowly went for the barn door, both unsure whether this was some kind of sick trick or not, and left the place.
Quint stepped outside and watched as the two young people ran away from the farm and turned right, heading for Fradley.
Quint didn’t want to eat them, but things were getting desperate and the two had suddenly showed up. He had eaten almost everything that he had left in his cupboards; he even ate his own dog in week nine, and initially was pleased when the two of them turned up. It meant that he didn’t need to go out and scavenge, but the two boxes of produce were even better.
Those three people giving him those two boxes of tins had saved the lives of the female and male that he had held captive for two days.
Quint smiled and enjoyed the gentle wind brushing his face. He remained there for a few minutes before going back inside. His belly growled for food and he decided that he was going to try the spaghetti hoops first.
Chapter Thirty Two
It was getting on for 5pm and Karen knocked on the Danson’s door. She could see Pickle poking his head out of his front door, bellowing, “For God’s sake, Karen! Leave them alone, will yer?”
“I just wanna know if they’re okay, that’s all,” she called back. “Just get back inside the house, you old grump.”
“Yer harassing them.”
“No, I’m not.” She shook her head. “I’m letting them know that some of us care. They’ve been hiding in this house for too long, the kids especially.”
“Get back in, yer silly tart.”
She knocked again and said to Pickle, “This is the last time I’m knocking and then I’m turning in for the night.”
She waited with her head lowered and was surprised that the door opened. She looked up and could see the dishevelled Jim Danson standing in front of her.
“What is it?” His query was short and his face was full of annoyance.
“Hi,” Karen giggled. “Just checking if you guys are okay before I turn in.”
“You turned up here weeks ago,” Jim said calmly, but it was clear that there was angst in his tone. “You never bothered us at all, and now you’re banging on my door twice in one week. Has somebody said something?”
“No. I…” Karen scratched at her right earlobe whilst trying to think of a feasible answer. “Just to let you know that my offer to take the kids out still stands.”
“And I’ve told you before—”
“Daddy?”
Karen looked to the left side of Jim Danson to see his sweet seven-year-old daughter approaching the door, standing next to her daddy and clutching onto an old teddy bear.
“Just go upstairs, honey,” Jim said sharply
Ignoring her father, the beautiful girl stared at Karen and said, “Hello. Your name’s Karen, isn’t it?”
Karen produced a broad smile and said, “It sure is. And you must be Kelly.”
The little girl nodded and cuddled the teddy, hugging it tightly.
Karen nodded at the teddy and said, “And what’s his name?”
“It’s a she,” the little girl giggled. “Her name’s Jenny.”
“Look, that’s enough.” Jim turned away from Karen and began to usher his daughter away from the main door. He said to young Kelly, “Go and see your mum, Kelly.”
He then turned around, ready to give Karen a verbal dressing down, but she spoke before he had a chance.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “But having a family in this new world must be one of the hardest things a couple has had to do. Mentally, the last three months or so must have been difficult, especially for the kids who don’t really know what’s going on.”
Jim huffed, “And your point?”
“All I’m saying is that I’m here … we’re here if you need a break, hell … whatever. Just don’t be afraid to ask.”
“Why now?” Danson asked. “Why are you so concerned all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know, but I’m offering now.”
“Thanks, but we’re fine.” Jim then slammed the door in Karen’s face.
“Charming.”
*
For a few hours, Craig Burns had been walking the streets of Milford. He had broken into three houses and had left each building empty handed. Not one soul could be seen. Frustrated, the thirty-one-year-old decided to walk the quarter mile back to the house where he had met Yoler.
He passed a large pub called The Barley Mow and had a quick look over to the place. He had no intentions of going over there on his own. He was unsure what would greet him, whether it was the dead or the living, and didn’t want to take the risk.
He could see a banner across the pub claiming that it had a soft play area inside and that they did a carvery every Sunday.
He continued walking and stopped by the drive of the house where Yoler was staying. He took a quick look around the abandoned street, clocking six crows pecking at an old cadaver from thirty yards away, and then toddled down the drive of the house and went through the kitchen window he had smashed open to get in when he first arrived. He patted his pocket and cussed when he realised he had lost his knife, and quickly shook it off.
Aware that Yoler could still be sleeping, he crept through the house, placed his hockey stick by the side of him, and sat on the couch. He leaned his head back and waited for the sounds of footsteps coming above him, where the bedroom was situated, giving him the sign that Yoler was awake and up on her feet.
For nearly twenty minutes Craig had had his eyes closed, waiting for Yoler to get up, even hoping to have a catnap
himself, but it wasn’t happening. The footsteps weren’t appearing and Craig was growing impatient.
Even if two hours of sleep wasn’t enough for Yoler to function through the rest of the day, it could be enough to take the edge off and allow them to go back to Colwyn, and then Craig could go back out the following day and try again.
He sighed impatiently, “Fuck it.”
He rose to his feet and began to make his way to the first floor. He approached the bedroom door and placed his ear against it. He didn’t want to wake up the young girl, but he didn’t want to waste any more daylight either.
He knocked the door gently and waited for a response.
Nothing.
Just under thirty seconds had passed and he tried again. This time the knocks were a little louder, but there was still no response from behind the door.
This time he banged the door with his fist and yelled, “Yoler! We gotta go! Move it!”
Still no response.
“Shit.”
He tried the door and realised it was probably bolted, maybe even barricaded as well, and used his shoulder to force the door open. Eleven shoulder barges later, the door opened slightly, breaking the lock, and Craig could see that there was a set of drawers placed against the door. Two angry kicks at the door later and there was sufficient space for him to squeeze through and enter the bedroom.
Out of breath, he gazed at the empty bed and could see that the window had been opened. It looked like that the young woman had decided to pass on Craig’s invitation to go back to Colwyn Place with him and try and survive out there on her own.
He was disappointed that she had decided to flee, but why did she do it in such a way?
Was she scared of him?
Why didn’t she just walk out of the house, through the front door, rather than making her leaving so dramatic?
Did she want him to think that she was still in the room, sleeping? Is that why she barricaded the door and went through the window?
His feelings were slightly hurt that she thought so little of him, but then maybe she had bad experiences with men. Since the apocalypse began, some people had turned into monsters, and Craig thought that maybe she had seen the ugly side of what the apocalypse could do to people, especially men.
He sighed and decided that he may as well stay the night and continue with his journey the next day. He then realised something. His head quickly turned to the left and glared at the corner of the room, near the door.
His bag! His bag full of supplies had gone.
“Bitch,” he snapped. “Fuck!”
He ran his fingers over his face and kicked out at the bed in frustration. If he was going to continue with his mission, he was going to have to do it with zero supplies and would have to scrounge on the way there and on the way back.
He turned and punched the wall with his left hand, the stick still in his right, and regretted immediately when his hand began to throb with pain.
With his face still flushed with rage, Craig could see a piece of paper sitting on the side table, to the right of the bed. He walked over and looked down on it. He picked the piece of paper up and could see words had been written on it in blue biro.
It read: Nothing personal, Craigy Boy. Just trying to survive. Good luck. Y.
He screwed the piece of paper up into a tight ball and tossed it across the room. “Silly girl.”
*
Quint walked around his home and smiled when he walked into the kitchen and looked at the two boxes full of tins, still not believing his luck. He opened his cupboard above the sink, and reached up to the highest level and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. His wife hated the smell, so he always had to smoke outside, but now he could do anything he wanted. He never smoked much anyway, but he always kept a couple of hidden packets in case of a stressful day.
He looked inside the packet and could see that there were seven left. It was his last packet. He pulled one out, threw the packet onto the side, and popped the stick of poison inbetween his lips.
He opened his cutlery drawer and pulled out a lighter that his wife used to use to light candles on a night, and sparked up. He took a long drag and sucked the smoke into his lungs. He breathed out the excess smoke and smiled as a small rush could be felt as well as the giddiness that made the room sway as if he was on a ferry on choppy waters, and looked up as the blue smoke snaked and swirled its way up to the kitchen ceiling.
He took another drag and decided to go upstairs, to the bathroom, and trudged his tired legs up to the landing, the ash falling on the carpet as he did this.
He looked around in the dusky area, once he was on the first floor, and could see the three bedroom doors were just how he had left them a couple of months ago. They were shut, and the fifty-seven-year-old had been sleeping on the sofa since he had closed the rooms.
He had no intention of entering the room where he and his wife used to sleep, make love, and sometimes argue. He also had no intention of entering the other two rooms where his son and daughter slept for years before both leaving to go to Keele University.
His daughter had managed to finish her course and went on to become a PT teacher, however, his son, who went to study history, didn’t finish the first year.
Seven years ago, Quint and his wife received the heartbreaking call from their daughter that their son, Ian, who was only two years younger than their daughter, had died.
He had been out drinking with his classmates one night and all six of them, being intoxicated, played about and were play fighting and pushing each other off of the pavement and onto the road. Ian was pushed a little too hard by one of his pals and stumbled onto the road and into the path of an LGV. He never stood a chance and was killed instantly.
Quint shook his head at the thought of it, took another drag from his cigarette, and muttered, “Stupid little bugger.”
When the apocalypse began to snowball, Quint or his wife never heard from their daughter, who stayed in a place called Stone, and assumed the worst.
He opened the bathroom door, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, shut the door behind him and sat on the toilet seat, still puffing on the bad boy. He smoked it down to the butt, lifted the seat and dropped it inside the toilet. He sat back down and puffed out the last of the smoke.
“Well,” Quint began. “I’m still here, darling.”
He lifted his head and looked up to the ceiling, ignoring the buzzing coming from all around him. “Never thought I’d make it this far, did you? Got to admit, I nearly did something incredible, resorting to cannibalism, but gifts from strangers had managed to put a stop to that.”
Quint lowered his head and heard his neck crack as he did this. He added with a reminiscing smile, “I was thinking about our Fiona.” Tears began to fill Quint’s eyes as soon as he began the new sentence. “What would she be now? Six, seven months pregnant?”
Quint wiped his eyes and said with a chuckle, “I don’t know why I’m talking to you. You never listened to me when you were alive, you sure as hell aren’t gonna listen to me now, are you?”
Quint ran his fingers through his heavy grey beard and stood to his feet. He looked over to the bath and said, “Anyway, love. Nice chatting to you. I’m gonna go downstairs and tackle another tin. I shouldn’t really; I should ration them, but fuck it. I think I’ll go for some beans this time.”
Quint wafted away some of the flies that hit his face and decided to leave after his short stay. The vile insects were making his stomach turn.
He was always careful whenever he visited the bathroom, just in case any escaped and were free to fly around his house. Sometimes a couple would escape and he would have to kill them because their constant buzzing drove him nuts. Other times none would escape, despite there being dozens there.
He shook his head. “What is the point of these cunts? Worthless fucking insects. Pointless.”
He placed his hand on the door, ready to go, and took a peep at his wife’s body that lay in the bath. Her head
was obliterated from where he had shot her in the face, but it was for the best.
He gazed and could feel the bile rising in his throat as he could see the white maggots in their dozens wriggling around where his wife’s face used to be.
Quint swallowed hard and said before leaving, “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, sweet cheeks.” He wafted the flies away from his face once more, and said, “Little bastards.”
He opened the door quickly and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
He trudged down the stairs, looking up to the ceiling and sighing. One of the flies had escaped.
He jumped up and tried to swipe at it with his hand, but he knew that he needed something more substantial, like a rolled up newspaper. “Fucking vile cunt.”
Chapter Thirty Three
August 27th
Vince Kindl’s dreams had consisted of things that had happened in the past. His dreams took him back to his childhood.
Vince was outside in the street, playing with childhood friends, and his sister was skipping in the front garden. Vince was playing football in the street with his two pals, occasionally having to stop when a car approached, and could see a man staggering up towards their way. Vince’s two friends began to point and laugh at the man stumbling up the road, but a young Vince never bothered. Vince’s face was sombre and never joined in on the laughter.
How could he? The pathetic figure that was struggling up the road was his father, Wolfgang Kindl. The short dream then finished and another one began, this time involving Pickle and Karen. Both were gardening where the vegetable patches were and then they turned, once they saw Vince, and attacked him with the garden tools they were using. It was all very bizarre.
He woke up, and once his eyes opened and he wiped his wet eyes, Vince sat up and swung his legs to the side. He hunched over, lowered his head, and placed his hands on his forehead.
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