The Undead (Book 23): The Fort

by Haywood, R. R.

  ‘I give up,’ Sunnie says, slamming the ladle down before striding off.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Agatha asks, not hearing the conversation but seeing Sunnie walk off. She grabs the ladle, scooping a portion on Pamela’s plate. ‘Go on, keep moving. We’ve a lot of mouths to feed we have…’

  ‘Where we eating then?’ Karl asks, staring around at the groups spread over the eating area.

  ‘Not fucking down here, that’s for sure. This lot think they can laugh? We’ll fucking show ‘em…’ he struts off, chest puffed up and his plate loaded with food, striding past the building site. ‘And that’s built all wrong too,’ he says, pointing at it as they go by. ‘First bit of wind and that’s coming down, you mark my words.’

  The sight of it offends him. The solid looking joists on the floor. The struts poking up and the roof rafters so thick and plentiful. The speed it’s gone up frightens him too, not that he would ever admit it. He heard people say Lilly has laid a kilometre of containers down as a wall and that all the structures in the bay are now pulled down, and that also offends and frightens him. All of it does. That’s it all moving so fast and he’s not a part of it.

  It wasn’t meant to be like this. He’s English and white and this is the new world, yet everything is already changing around him like it was in the old world. The shelters are being pulled down. They were only up for a day or so. New tents and better order. The rooms being cleared out and the people working hard being moved into them. He wants to pick fault with it all and tell everyone they’re doing everything wrong.

  Too many feelings inside that he can’t process. A sense of panic and worry. Shame too, and insecurity from the realisation of his utter insignificance. The lack of respect that comes from not working and not giving back.

  All of those things make him louder and angrier, and if that wasn’t enough, his pride has taken a hit too from the scrawny crack whore who didn’t care two shits when he couldn’t get hard. Fuck her. Fuck them. Fuck everyone and he plonks down on the ground outside his tent and starts shovelling the food in. Chewing fast and angry as the others drift over.

  ‘I’m fucking telling you,’ he tells them. ‘This is out of control. Literally out of control. Them muzzies started this…they killed everyone by spreading a jihadi fucking disease so they can take over. That’s why they wear them robes. Eh? Never figured that one out did they. What they hiding? Weapons. That’s what. Bottles of nerve agent and more of that…that…that fucking infection. Yeah, that’s what they got. More infection. They’ll kill us all they will. You saw ‘em. Working in all the rooms now. Cooking our food. Carrying our bedding. Greeting new people to infect…we’re fucked. We’re so fucked. If we don’t do something we’ll all be dead…you think your kids are safe? They ain’t fucking safe. That Lilly, she’s made a deal with them. That’s fact that is. That soldier told me. He said this is what they do…’

  A drip-feed of poison. A steady flow of angered words that prey on the fears everyone already has and Tommy chunters on, the vicious righteous humiliated anger bubbling away inside.

  On the other side of the building site, everyone else lies or sits on the ground, sweating in the super-charged hot air. Bellies filled and nearly all of them feeling the buzz that only comes after a day of sheer hard work. The younger children play. Older children sit quietly, some snuggle into the sides of parents or the people who have given them care. Subi lies on her back, her head on Pea’s lap while Pea plays with her hair. A deep bond growing between them. Two gentle souls that don’t need to make noise like others.

  ‘And so we left Afghanistan,’ Damsa explains to a few people sitting nearby. ‘It was so violent and dangerous. My father worked for the American army too which made us targets for others…’ she pauses, sadness in her features. ‘But here we are. Everyone has suffered and lost…’

  ‘Ameer got into a good school did he?’ Sam asks.

  ‘He did yes,’ Damsa replies, smiling at her son. ‘Very prestigious in fact. I know every mother will boast of their children, but yes, he is gifted.’

  ‘What in?’ Ann asks. ‘I’m guessing maths?’ she ventures.

  ‘Music,’ Damsa says.

  ‘Seriously?’ Sam asks. ‘What sort of music? I keep forgetting he speaks English,’ she says with a tut at herself. ‘Ameer, what music are you into?’

  ‘The violin,’ he says shyly, dropping his head from the gazes of so many. ‘I am still learning though.’

  ‘The Royal College of Music arranged our visas,’ Damsa explains. ‘Ameer has to study in a state school but at weekends he was given extra tuition in London…or at least he was,’ she adds.

  ‘You play the violin?’ Mary calls over. ‘I love the sound of that. Have you got it here? You should give us a blast…’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ Ameer says quickly, blushing deeply.

  ‘Ah why not? We’d love to hear it,’ Mary says. ‘Unless it’s awful mind, nothing worse than a screeching fiddle…ah, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything now….is he any good?’ she asks, looking at Damsa.

  ‘He is very good,’ Damsa says as the others laugh at the way Mary speaks. ‘Ameer, maybe you could play a little?’ she switches to her language, speaking softly.

  ‘They want to hear him play?’ Maleek asks.

  ‘Oh no, I cant,’ Ameer says.

  ‘You should,’ Maleek urges. ‘A few minutes and you haven’t practised for weeks now…I will get it. Stay here…’

  ‘Father, no…’

  ‘Ameer, it’s fine. Be brave…’ Maleek says, pushing up to his feet and heading off through the crowds of people relaxing after the meal. He smiles at the building site, his eyes automatically going to the rafters that need doing next. Noise from the big tent where the angry people live. Lots of them all sitting outside talking loudly, drinking from cans and he spots big bottles being passed about. He sticks to the shadows and slips into his tent to find Ameer’s instrument then heads back out, glancing over with a worried expression at an explosion of laughter. Tommy on his knees mimicking prayer again. Others doing it with him. The big woman that was greeting new people. A few others too. Banging their heads and waggling their backsides while wailing noisily.

  He hurries back to the others and his son protesting quietly. ‘There’s so many people,’ Ameer says.

  ‘Ameer, there are people here that hate us,’ Maleek says, opening the case on the floor. ‘And your music gives pleasure…’ he looks at his son, seeing the worry in his eyes. ‘It will be okay, try and play, just a little…’

  Ameer nods, taking the violin and stick in hands that tremble as he brings the chin rest to nestle under his jaw, his heart beating too hard now. Too many people watching him. It’s too hot. He’s too scared. He glances at his mother who smiles and nods him on, showing she has faith in him.

  He brings the stick up, testing the strings, a scratching noise, unpleasant, harsh and brought on by nerves and a quietness spreads out as the people all turn to stare. Another test, another scratch.

  ‘Stay calm, close your eyes and breathe,’ his mother says gently.

  Ameer closes his eyes, inhales slowly and brings the bow into place while his fingertips find the strings. Another beat of his heart. Another surge of panic and Mary winces, wishing she hadn’t egged the boy on and thinking they’ll have to listen to an awful rendition of something terrible and then smile politely after. An awkward glance shared with Sam with a preparatory cringe factor already being projected.

  Ameer starts. Still too nervous. It’s been three weeks since he played, and, in that time, he has seen too much death and destruction. Corpses in the streets and screams in the air at night. He draws the bow over the strings, cursing the awful noise. It’s too slow, he speeds up, but it comes too fast. His centre of mass is off. His being isn’t relaxed. He plays on, trying to find his way in, trying to seek that which takes him from this world, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his mind fills with the images of the horrifying things he has se
en. Over and over. More and more. He tries ridding them, trying to focus, trying to blot them out and play music so people do not hate his family. But still it won’t come. Still the feel evades him. He goes too fast and slows down. Then it’s too slow so he goes faster. He stretches the notes out, long and wailing like the screams of the dying he heard outside while they stayed hidden and silent.

  No. This isn’t right. He must try harder. His father is relying on him. He cannot bring shame to his family. He must play properly. He must give pleasure and not this awful, screeching noise bringing the entire area to silence.

  Everyone turns to watch. Everyone grows still. Watching a boy in turmoil playing music that floats out. Discordant for sure, but yet beautiful at the same time, and heart-achingly sad too. He goes faster then slower, seemingly trying to find a groove but what he produces holds them all rapt and entranced.

  Those closest watch his face. Seeing the utter anguish in his features. Pure sadness. Terror, horror. Fear too. Tears prick his eyes, spilling over his cheeks and his bow moves faster, pushing harder, producing deeper sounds that roll out. Emotive and raw, yet so powerful too.

  He plays on. Delving into the lower notes, making it dark, strong and turbulent. Hearts beat harder. The music striking all of them. Every man and woman thinking of what they have lost, of what they had, of what they saw that has hurt them so and still Ameer plays on, his body starting to move, starting to sway, his face still morphing through stages of pain and heartache.

  Darker, faster, deeper. Harsher. There is only pain in this world. Only heartache. Only suffering. They’re all going to die. They can all feel it. Ameer tells them this is so. Everything they do is in folly, in vain. To live is to suffer. To exist is to hurt. There is only darkness now. Only suffering. His face starts flushes with anger, his lips curling up, his brow dropping. Anger inside. Unfairness and loss that bring forth a rage.

  It becomes too much. Too dark. People close their eyes, feeling themselves falling, feeling the hope dwindling, there is no hope and no reason to keep going.

  Darker still. Rasping and harsh. Faster Ameer. Play faster. He feels the pain in his heart that pours into his arms, into his hands, into his fingers. Faster still. Jerking the bow back and forth. Violent, confused and angry. Consumed with Turmoil. With anguish. Adrenalin starts pumping. On and on but so something else stirs within him. A sense of resisting. Pushing back. Of knowing when to be like a willow tree and take the strong wind and when to start to rise and hold the ground.

  The notes start to lift, light within the dark but so very fast, so very strong. They suffered so much. All of them. They saw so many bad things, but they are trying. By the will of Allah, by the will of God, by the will of the spark inside that drives them to live and survive and rise each day and despite the losses they are trying. To fight back. To say no. To push and resist. Not to be cowed. Not to be beaten down.

  Hearts start stirring. Blood starts pumping. Everyone listens. Everyone reacts. Seeing Ameer’s face and the glimpses of hope and courage seen within the pain, seeing the inner strength coming out. The inner strength they all have. They lift chins, eyes growing wet with moisture. Jaws clenching. Blood thundering as Ameer plays and plays. The music lifting them. Bringing courage and hope, each note fighting the darkness away. Saying no. Saying they will not be beaten. They can survive. Not just survive. They can live. They can rebuild and make it better. They can do this. There is hope. Not just death, and from the destruction so something new will emerge and those notes go higher and come faster. Damsa weeping openly. Pea’s arms wrapped about Subi, both of them crying. So many are unable to stop the tears for the hope it gives, that a young boy from a country brought down by war can do this now in a place so very strange to him.

  Sam thinks of her family. Norman thinks of Robert and the pain is so very bad. So very awful, but bittersweet too. Don’t take just the bad. Remember the good. Remember the warmth and laughter and the love, and in that darkness, hidden by the shadows, Lilly feels a hand brush against hers while her heart thunders in her chest. She feels the warmth of it. The surety of it. The hardness of the knuckles against hers. She doesn’t look at Mary, and Mary does not look at her, but both watch and listen to Ameer while chests heave all about them.

  This is the new world. This is the world for the living. The rules of old do not apply here. The oppressive fears forced on them by whatever causes are no longer valid. Those that held power before and became corrupt and tainted from it now do not have a voice. This is cleaner than it was. Not shaped by greed or desire but by the primal instinct of a young girl that once learnt about the order of needs. Air, water, food, shelter and security. It’s that simple and Lilly drives them on. Lilly makes them work till they pass out, but she does it too, from the front, and she does it for them, for her brother, taking only what everyone else takes. Eating only what they eat. Sleeping after them. Rising before them.

  Thoughts and dreams race and surge as Ameer takes it higher still, bringing hope with every pull of his bow. His face lifting. Subi cannot take her eyes from him. She’s never seen someone look so beautiful as now. So consumed with what’s inside and Ameer’s brow starts to rise, a smile touching his lips and the notes change, sharper, highs and lows together. Mysterious, intriguing, becoming playful and joyous. Smiles start showing. Fingers wiping tears from cheeks. People laughing at the sight of each other. Men whacking other men on the back and arms. Women grinning sheepishly and Ameer starts to smile, to play, to drift into the music. Up and down, high and low, sharp and fast.

  Mary laughs, dropping onto her side to reach over Lilly’s lap, plucking the radio from her belt with a wink. ‘Be five minutes…’ she darts off to a few confused looks that quickly go back to watching Ameer.

  The lad plays on too. Opening his eyes now and then to see people smiling and moving a little. He keeps going, happy to be giving pleasure, hoping this is what his father wants, and the people will accept them.

  He tries to make it lighter still, feeling his way organically, knowing the violin can make fast, happy sounds but this is not what he trained to do. He pokes his tongue out, ad-libbing as he goes, making it up. Spotting Subi watching him and blushing deeply, feeling suddenly self-conscious and wanting to look good. He tries appearing serious and reflective, deep and mysterious and peeks again to see if she’s still watching and misses a chord at seeing her staring past him. Then he spots everyone else looking past him too and pauses mid-play to turn and startles at seeing a group of people walking over from the gate. Two men in the lead. Old as time, grizzled and grey, teeth missing, faces worn, weathered and lined. Solid shoulders but their backs are starting to stoop. Knees not as strong as they once were and each holding a violin in their hands.

  Eggy coughs into the silence, bringing his violin up. Uncle Jack spits to the side and counts to three as they both start playing to a ripple of noise spreading out.

  Ameer grins, his eyes wide with delight at the music coming from them. Fast and lilting. The thing Ameer wanted to play but he didn’t know how. Folk music but fast and strong. They come closer. Two old men leading more with Mary grinning from ear to ear. Peter, Willie, Elvis. Men and women from the camp who heard when Mary used the radio to call for her Uncle Pete to come over with Eggy and Uncle Jack.

  ‘Come on lad,’ Eggy says, dipping his upper body towards Ameer. ‘Play boy…’

  Ameer hesitates. It’s too fast for him. The way they move isn’t how he was taught, and he watches as Eggy and Jack come to either side of him, leaning forward to stare at each other. A nod between them and they slow their play, easing the speed down.

  ‘Play lad,’ Eggy urges.

  ‘Go on, Ameer!’ Kyle shouts.

  ‘Try it,’ someone else calls.

  ‘Have a go!’ another voice adds to more calling out as Ameer looks this way and that, finally spotting Subi staring at him and that’s all the lad needs.

  He brings his violin up, holding his bow ready as the two men slow down even
more to give easy strokes, letting him join in. Simple and sweet. Long notes. A little speed. A little more. Ameer keeps up, tying to watch them both. A bit more speed. The old men start tapping their feet. Drumming a beat. Faster now. The notes not hard, just different and Ameer plays on, his mother laughing with delight at seeing her son tapping his foot as he plays.

  ‘Faster boy,’ Eggy says, speeding up, taking it up through more levels. Ameer loses it now and then, earning laughs from the two men who tell him to jump back in. On they go, louder, higher, faster. ‘Ready lad?’ Eggy calls, grinning with delightful mischief and the burst of energy comes without warning as the two men go faster still with little Ameer between them, doing his best to play and move and tap his feet.

  Kyle rises to his feet, grinning as he rolls his sleeves up and waves his hands and starts tapping his right foot, clapping in time, the foot stamping a little harder. A jig danced, his feet moving. People laughing at the sight of the gun-toting Father dancing to the music. A whoop and Mary swishes in, dancing to Kyle, looping her arm in his, spinning round and round, both of them grinning. They break and turn, coming back to do it again.

  ‘FASTER LADS,’ Mary shouts and the music speeds up. Sam can’t hold back and jumps up to run in, looping her arm with Mary then Kyle and more rise, laughing and silly. People banging on the ground. Clapping hands. A woman who took part in an annual samba band parade grabs a bucket and adds to the beat.

  It’s too hot for this. They’ve all worked too hard. They’re exhausted and should be beaten and cowed. Sam grabs at John’s and Pardip’s hands, pulling them up. Lenski on her feet with Simar and Jaspal, looping with one then the other then off to do the same again with Ann and Anika then over to Damsa and Maleek. The other women up and clapping. Bashir laughing. Tajj sour faced, his manner stricter, his mind less open. Older than the others and not happy to be so gleeful, but everyone else is, because the old ways are gone. The old rules are not here. This is the new world and Mary dances over to Lilly looking plainly terrified at the prospect of dancing and drags her in, looping arms to turn then break and do it with someone else. Stupid. Silly. Infantile even, but bloody glorious all the same.