Real Monsters

by Liam Brown

  But still…

  There were definitely holes in the established story. Small questions that had bugged me over the years – or would have, if I’d ever allowed myself to ask them. Like why, in one of the most surveillance-heavy countries on the planet, hadn’t anybody managed to find the Monsters yet? I mean, this was a world where an unpaid credit card bill could follow you across continents and over decades, where every square centimetre of the Earth had been mapped by satellites and drones. How could anyone, or anything, stay hidden for so long? Even when they did catch one – invariably some low-level accomplice – they always seemed to bury the body at sea or in the desert, leaving a solemn faced reporter to deliver the ‘good’ news. But where was the proof? The evidence that Monsters were anything other than a convenient alibi?

  As the hammy actors gave way to a perma-tanned quiz show presenter, I found my head beginning to swim again – not with sickness this time, but with confusion. I didn’t know what to think anymore. And so, swallowing down my reservations, I did what every under-informed twenty-first century citizen does when they need reassurance.

  I turned to the internet.

  It was four in the morning before I put down my laptop. I was exhausted. What shocked me most was not the theories – which ranged from assertions that the government had fudged reports and statistics all the way to JFK-style allegations of a complete and deliberate cover-up – but the sheer number of conspiracies out there. Again I found even the simplest search seemed to throw up an unbelievable number of sites dedicated to finding out the ‘truth’ about Monsters, with forums containing thousands of members all offering their take on frozen frames of footage, or arguing over the official time-line of events. This time however I forced myself to look. It was like disappearing down a rabbit hole, with each page linking to a hundred more, the views becoming more extreme, the ‘evidence’ becoming more persistent. Everybody had their own take on who was responsible and what their motivations might be, but despite the disparate views there was one claim that was repeated over and over again:

  We were being lied to.

  Even after I’d managed to tear myself away from the screen, I still sat there for a long time, unable, or unwilling, to sleep. Eventually the sun started to come up, grey light spilling into the apartment, illuminating the circle of used coffee mugs that surrounded me. A rumble of traffic officially signalled the start of another day, the first rattle of rat-racers clawing their way to the office, middle managers gargling petrol station espressos while cocooned in their luxury child-killing cars. And very soon the whole city would be awake, the young and the old, the rich and the poor, and everyone in between. Churning like the contents of my stomach. And across the sea villages were being flattened and collaborators were being tortured and young men and women were getting their arms and legs blown off. All to keep the wheels a’turning. The people working. The oil flowing.

  Or so the story goes.

  I looked at the clock, amazed to see it was almost eight, the rumble outside now risen to a roar, the light burning so bright through my open blinds that the apartment looked as though it was on fire. And right then I knew what I had to do. I picked up the phone and dialled.

  I waited for Dustin to answer.

  THREE

  We never walk at night. That’s when Monsters attack.

  Or so they say.

  As for me, I’m not too sure. I mean, look at Year Zero. Don’t get much brighter or bluer than that. Nah, I’ve always found the scariest things happen in broad daylight.

  Right under your nose.

  Anyway, we never walked at night. That was Jim’s rule. Now though Jim was dead, and the way I saw it was we weren’t gonna get much more lost than we already were.

  ‘Jesus, with our luck the dark will probably increase our chances of bumpin into somewhere,’ I said once we’d got back and told the others about Jim. Doggie was still too ill to offer much of an opinion, but Jett and Cal agreed straight away. Seems they thought the place was cursed now, what with the berries and all. Jett explained he’d been doin some calculations, and he reckoned there was no point headin north towards the airstrip anymore. By his reckonin we must have covered hundreds of kilometres in the last few days and in all likelihood we’d probably walked straight past without noticin.

  Jett picked up a stick to make his point. Sketchin roughly in the sand, he drew a big circle for the base, a tiny triangle for the airstrip and an even smaller cross for the oasis. He was right. We were nowhere near it. Then he drew a large jagged line in the sand, a sort of bolt of lightnin to the left of the triangle. ‘This is the border,’ he said. ‘You see how close we are to it?’ He was right again. The cross and the lightnin bolt were close. From where I was standin it looked like you could make it in one small hop. ‘Now if I’ve figured it right, we could be at the border in less than three days. Two if we’re lucky. We just need to start movin west and we should plough straight into it. Then we… ’

  A loud, wet cough interrupted Jett and we turned to see Doggie had stumbled over to join us. ‘What… hack-hack… about… hack-hack… our orders?’ I shook my head in disbelief. Doggie looked like shit, his cheeks flushed purple from coughin, his chin shiny with spit. ‘Listen Dog… ’ I started, but Jett leapt in. ‘Orders? You want to talk about orders now, you fucking retard? What orders were you following when you decided to poison Jim? I’ll give you something to cough about… ’ Jett took a step towards Doggie, his fist raised. I reached out and grabbed Jett lightly by the arm. ‘Ok, everybody jus’ calm down. It’s been a bad day. Hell, it’s been a doozy. But that ain’t no reason for people to start losin their heads. Now as it happens, I tend to agree with Jett here. Far as I’m concerned we should head west and head quickly. Unless anyone’s got anythin to say that is?’ Cal and Jett shook their heads. I turned to Doggie. ‘Dog, anythin you want to add?’

  Doggie eyeballed me for a coupla seconds, still doubled over. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and then, very slowly, he shook his head. ‘No,’ he croaked. I took a step towards him. ‘No, what?’ I hissed. Doggie scrunched up his face, genuinely confused. ‘Huh?’ I took another step towards him, close enough so that I could lift up my boot and land it square in his nuts. If I felt like it, that is. ‘No, what?’ I asked again. He shook his head again, unsure of what he was supposed to say. This time I leant forward so that I was only a coupla inches from his ear. ‘No, Sir… ’ I whispered. Doggie’s whole body went stiff. I waited there, so close I could smell the stink of vomit on his breath. Then all of a sudden he let out a long sigh, as if someone’d stuck a hole in his side. Even his body seemed to sag in the middle. ‘No Sir,’ he mumbled. ‘That’s better!’ I said, straightenin up and givin him a playful slap on the back. ‘Right then troops, we’d better get goin if we want to make the border by breakfast!’ Jett shot me a grin.

  ‘Yes Sir!’

  I don’t know what I’d imagined. A couple of dozen Dustins maybe; well-dressed hipsters with a designer beer in one hand and a smartphone in the other, all of them making snarky comments to each other and live-tweeting their frustrations with the establishment. In reality though, it was more like a carnival, a sea of people from all walks of life – school children and OAPs, business men and punks, Muslims and Christians and, well, a few people who looked like Dustin – all of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder, banners held high in the air, fists clenched in solidarity, slowly shuffling forwards, marching.

  Like an army.

  ‘What is all this?’ I’d asked when we arrived. Dustin shook his head. ‘Jesus little miss army wife – where have you been? We do this every year!’

  I’d met Dustin outside Save the Animals about an hour before the shop was due to open. We let ourselves in and sat facing each other over mugs of budget instant coffee. His eye had healed, although there was still a faint shadow underneath from where I’d hit him. I didn’t mention it and neither did he. Instead we focused on the details of the protest. Dustin had a map of
the city and using a biro he traced a line from the shop to the city centre, pointing out places of interest along the route – likely police barricades and gang hotspots and other places we should avoid if we didn’t plan on getting our heads kicked in. ‘A guy I was with last year got a brick chucked at him outside a bar,’ explained Dustin. ‘He was in hospital for a month. Lost a couple of teeth. They got the guy who did it, but they let him off with a fine. Turns out he was an off-duty soldier.’ I thought about Danny, picturing what he’d do if he bumped into an anti-war protestor outside a bar. Secretly I thought the guy was lucky only to lose a couple of teeth.

  I decided not to say anything.

  Dustin ran through the rest of the route, drained his mug, then folded up the map and slipped it into his pocket. We started for the door and then he stopped, remembering something. Tearing a sheet of paper from the pad next to the till, he took the biro and quickly scribbled a couple of lines. ‘Stick this on the door will you,’ he said. I took the note and read:

  Shop closed due to revolution.

  Back at 2 :)

  I don’t know whether it was nerves, but by the time we reached the start of the march I was feeling sick again. People crowded all around, shoving into me, yelling, laughing, pulling me along with them, while the whole time I gripped tightly to Dustin’s arm and held on for dear life. Normally I wouldn’t have minded the rabble – I’d been to enough raves and rock concerts in my life to be able to deal with having someone else’s armpit shoved in my face – but that day I was feeling particularly delicate. For one thing, my sense of smell seemed to have developed an almost super-human sensitivity; the mixture of tobacco smoke, chip fat, exhaust fumes and body odour melding together to form a sickening fug, so thick I felt I could almost see it. I swallowed hard, willing myself not to vomit. I turned to Dustin. ‘You know if I’m going to do this I might have to get a little bit high first.’ Dustin looked at me and nodded seriously.

  ‘That can be arranged.’

  Half an hour later I was shuffling forward with the rest of the herd. The nausea was still present, but it no longer bothered me so much, a thin protective bubble having formed around me. I hadn’t smoked weed since my last year at school, and even though Dustin had only managed to score a tiny amount it was enough to leave me feeling happily disconnected – which considering the personal hygiene of some of my fellow protestors was no bad thing.

  As we bobbed towards the town square, I found myself focusing on small details around me. It was particularly interesting to watch the people standing on the sidelines of the march; the school children playing truant on their bikes, the businessmen barking into their mobile phones as they waited to cross the street, the shopkeepers standing outside their empty stores and cafes. For the most part they looked indifferent, even faintly amused. We were a freak show, a circus come to town – a ragtag assortment of the mad, the bad and the seriously deluded. And yet we outnumbered the onlookers ten-to-one. Maybe even twenty-to-one. Surely that had to mean something?

  ‘Shit, look out!’

  Dustin grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the path of a giant police horse. I reached out as it passed, patting its muscular haunch. ‘Careful,’ Dustin said. ‘I got bit by one of those fuckers last year… Although to be fair I was trying to feed it a space cake.’ I laughed as we edged away, the policeman in the saddle twirling his baton menacingly. There was a squeal of feedback as someone turned on a megaphone, and then the chanting started:

  Not-in-my-name!

  Out-out-troops-get-out!

  And a million other blasphemous lines I’d never heard before. I looked around at the people yelling, hands in the air like football hooligans or eyes closed like church-goers, men, women and children all belting out every syllable, not dropping a beat. And I thought: they’re mad. All of them. Completely mad. Yet it was a madness I recognised – it was the same look I’d seen on the faces of the young soldiers at Danny’s passing out parade. Only where there had been cold hatred in the soldiers’ eyes, the protestors all stared blissfully skywards, glowing with a collective confidence that they were in the right, that they could make a difference, just by being here, together. That not another drop of blood would be spilt. That not another life would be lost.

  At least

  Not-in-my-naaaaaame!!

  The crowd began to surge as we neared the city centre, the chanting growing more intense, the stink rising as people tumbled into one another while the police stood impotently aside, outnumbered, outgunned; a hundred-to-one now. And still the people swarmed, sucking up all of the available oxygen from the atmosphere, exhaling only love and righteousness in return. And for a second I thought I was going to faint. And then a teenage boy barged into me and nearly toppled me over and I grabbed onto Dustin’s arm for support and he turned to me and yelled: ‘Isn’t this great?’ And I started laughing because I realised it was great. And then another joint appeared from nowhere, passed over the heads of the strangers. And I took a hit and passed it on. And the sun was shining, breaking through the clouds. And there were a million of us now, a billion. Hands in the air. Screaming. And then someone handed me a banner and I let go of Dustin and raised it up high in the air. And I started to chant along with everyone else:

  Out, out, out.

  And together we sounded like one voice.

  And we were going to win.

  It took us about an hour to pack up. We decided to dump anythin heavy, leavin most of our spare clothes and beddin behind to make space for the flasks and bottles we’d filled with the gritty, black water from the oasis. Naturally, we kept hold of our guns too. Monsters or not, there were things out there you’d rather not meet unarmed. I’d heard the wogs can be particularly hostile out west. Local militias, gangs of rebels armed to the teeth – the fuckin Wild West, we called it. Landmines, tank busters – I even heard of ’em strappin bombs to animals. Can ya imagine that! Baa-Baa-BOOM! Ha. It sounds like the bad ol’ days all over again. Back before we killed everyone. Anyway, I weren’t plannin on takin any chances. I have a rule out here, son: If it don’t look like you – shoot it. Sure, it might not be politically correct and whatnot, but it’s worked for me so far. Shoot it, and keep shootin until you’re sure that it’s dead.

  We were almost done packin when Cal appeared and called me to one side. Seems he had some stuff he needed to get off his chest. ‘Excuse me Sir, um… Permission to speak freely?’ I nodded. ‘Well no offence, Dan… Sir, but I don’t know how else to say this. I think I’m losin my mind.’ I looked at him and laughed. I had to admit, the kid didn’t look too hot. Unlike Jett, Cal didn’t tan. His face was a red mess of blisters, and he had dark circles around his eyes. ‘I ain’t been feelin too good, Sir,’ he continued. ‘Not good at all. And it’s not jus’ the berries. It’s my head. I jus’ keep thinkin about poor ol’ Jim out on the post, all alone. And then there’re all the others and… I don’t want to die out here, Sir. I got my little sister at home, and you know my mum ain’t been too well. I don’t know how she’d take it. And… and… ’ Cal trailed off, his eyes startin to water.

  ‘That’s enough, soldier!’ I barked. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s self-pity. I know we’re in a tight spot, but we’ll get through it. We’ve got a new plan, remember? Three days and we’ll be at the border.’ Cal rubbed his eyes, tryin to hold his shit together. ‘I know that, Sir. It’s jus’ everytime I think about walkin again I… Christ, I don’t even know if I can bring myself to pick up my pack,’ he pointed down at his faded rucksack, bottles of cloudy grey water spillin out the top of it. Suddenly I had an idea. ‘Hey Dog!’ I yelled. ‘Get over here!’

  Sure enough a coupla minutes later Doggie staggered into view, his own pack strapped to his back. He was still fuckin green. ‘Now listen Dog,’ I said as he reached us. ‘Cal here ain’t feelin too hot and we agreed that it’d probably be for the best if you carried his bag for him. Least for the first day.’ Doggie stared at me, tryna work out if I was messin with h
im or not. When he saw that I wasn’t he started to protest. ‘Hey listen Dan, I’m still not feelin too great myself. Plus I’ve got this on my back already. Where’d ya want me to stick it?’ I shot Doggie a great big smile.

  One of the keys to being an effective leader is empathy. It’s important you put yourself into your subordinates’ shoes, see things from their perspective and whatnot.

  Well son, I got empathy by the bucketload.

  I grabbed Doggie by his fat neck and punched him square in the jaw. ‘IT’S SIR YOU IGNORANT COCKSUCKIN MOTHERFUCKER AND THIS AIN’T A CONVERSATION. I DON’T CARE IF YOU STICK IT UP YOUR FLABBY FAGGOT ASS! NOW UNLESS YOU WANT TO END UP LIKE YOUR FUCKIN CAT YOU BETTER CARRY IT, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ Doggie picked himself up off the floor, nodded once and stumbled off, draggin Cal’s bag behind him.

  I turned back to Cal and smiled. ‘There now, all sorted. Are you ready?’

  We walked for two days straight. I mean it. All night we marched, with only the stars and the faint glow of our torches to guide us, the sand like compacted ice under our boots. Then when the sun came up behind us in the mornin we switched off our flashlights, stripped down to our vests and kept goin. We stuck close together this time, Jett, Cal and me walkin shoulder to shoulder, with Doggie a coupla steps ahead so we could keep an eye on him. Every so often he would slow down or complain that the straps on Cal’s bag were cutting into him and Jett would have to give him a dig with the butt of his rifle. Apart from that we moved in silence, mainly because there was nothing to say. The hunger was bad, ten times worse than before we stopped. I guess it was all the pukin or somethin. We were properly empty now, save for the dirty water we swigged near enough constantly from our flasks in the desperate hope it’d fill us up. Whenever my teeth weren’t chatterin I could hear it swishin in my belly. It made me think of the sea.