Apocalypse Cow

by Logan, Michael

  These thoughts, and the vibration of the taxi, helped maintain the erection that had sprung up like the centrepiece of a pop-up book the moment his face made contact with Mary’s chest. Lying in the warm darkness in the back of the cab, with Lesley and Terry nodding off beside him, Geldof turned his body and pressed his crotch into Mary’s thigh. She didn’t seem to notice, either too buried in her grief or thinking the rubbing of his groin against her leg was simply a function of the horrendous bouncing they were all experiencing from the rail tracks. He was just getting to the tickly bit when something wet landed on his forehead, trickled down his nose and into his mouth. It was salty. Another fat tear hit his cheek. Then he realized Mary was calling out the names of her boys, low and repeatedly. His penis wilted and he moved his groin away from the grieving mother.

  He tried to wriggle free of Mary’s suddenly cloying embrace. The touch of her skin brought a different kind of heat, this one shameful. But Mary was not to be denied. She maintained a firm grip on his neck, whimpering every time he managed to gain some distance. Eventually he gave up, returning his face to its perch. Before too long another tear dripped from her chin. He reached up a hand, passed her breasts without pausing, and wiped her wet cheeks with his thumb.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  She sighed. ‘It’s not your fault, Tony.’

  Geldof pushed himself up until their faces were level. Her eyes were dark pools of shadow, but he could sense her looking at him. He put his arm around her and pulled her head down onto his shoulder. Soon her breathing changed, from the shallow hiccups of grief to a smoother, deeper rhythm. In the darkness, with only the top of her head visible, she could have been Fanny. Geldof stroked her hair.

  ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get on any more, Mum. I know you did your best,’ he whispered.

  He kept stroking even after Mary was fast asleep.

  When Geldof awoke, his bladder full, a faint grey light was seeping into the cab, which was parked in the middle of the tracks underneath a road bridge. A chorus of snores came from all around. Geldof gently lifted Mary’s head off his shoulder and let her slide down the seat behind him. All seemed still, so he opened the door as quietly as possible and stepped down. He skipped along the sleepers, looking for somewhere to pee out of sight of the taxi. It was a relief to get out into the fresh air, which helped shake off the traces of the nausea that had built in him during the bumpy journey.

  He ducked behind a graffiti-covered concrete pillar and let loose, stretching out his back and looking down at his wrists. The scabby crust was beginning to fade, even though it had been less than twenty-four hours since he swapped his hemp-tainted organic cotton T-shirt and trousers for a pair of denims, leather shoes and a thick jumper in the station. The itching was backing off too, and the relief was indescribable.

  Yet the physical changes were secondary to what was going on inside. His feelings for Mary were confused: shame for letting his libido lead him to take advantage of her grief and continued lust vying for supremacy. Equally, his victory over the twins was tainted by their death. Yet the years of torment he had suffered at their hands ensured that the memory of his fists and feet thudding into their bodies sparked a savage thrill.

  When it came to Fanny, his feelings were even more muddled. He should be grieving her loss, but it felt as if he had gained a mother, someone he could love without her personality getting in the way. As the itch faded, so did his hatred, leaving sadness that he couldn’t tell Fanny how he felt. He knew it would take months, maybe even years, to assimilate the thoughts and feelings swirling around inside his mind. Yet the confusion was exhilarating. He felt he was standing on the cusp of manhood, ready to stride forward and take his place in the adult world. Where he would hopefully get a shag at long last.

  Once he had shaken off, Geldof took a look around. The occupants of the taxi were still comatose, and there didn’t seem to be any animals in the vicinity. He walked out from under the bridge into an area flanked by loose shrubbery rising above head height. Glancing up, he could just about see the roofs of abandoned cars lined up along the bridge. A lone pigeon flapped down and landed on the railing. Something rustled in the bushes, and Geldof turned, expecting to see another bird.

  The rustling came again, too loud to be made by a small creature. Geldof was grateful he had just been to the toilet. He kept his gaze on the section of the shrubbery that was now shaking and backed away. It was maybe two hundred metres back to the taxi: no problem for an Olympic sprinting demi-god like Usain Bolt but a bit of a challenge for a fifteen-year-old with spindly legs who normally only sprinted with the aid of the shift button on his computer.

  A long, angry moo emanated from the bush. Geldof squawked and turned to run, his legs and arms flapping spasmodically. His foot snagged on the tracks, ending his flight before it had begun. Behind him, something stepped onto the railway line. Geldof scrambled to his feet for a second stab at the 200-metre cowardly dash. Something grabbed his hand and arrested his progress in mid-step.

  ‘Dad!’ he yelled. ‘Help!’

  ‘Moooooooooooo!’ a voice said behind him, strangely muffled.

  Geldof whirled round. Behind him stood six soldiers in camouflage, arranged in a loose arrow formation with the leader, who was holding Geldof’s wrist, at the tip. They were all wearing disposable masks over their noses and mouths.

  ‘Moooooooooooo!’ the short, stocky man exclaimed again, throwing his head back and bending his knees for extra gusto. His mates, each of them holding a stubby automatic weapon at an angle across his chest, chuckled behind their masks.

  The lead soldier released Geldof’s wrist.

  ‘Got you there, my son,’ he brayed in a southern English accent. ‘You were shitting it.’

  Geldof’s adrenalin was still pumping, and he felt a sudden desire to turn his flight reaction into fight and kick the soldier – Johnson, according to the name tag on his lapel – on the shin. He managed to keep himself in check, helped by the fearsome aspect of the squad before him.

  ‘What you doing out here then, sunshine?’ Johnson asked. ‘Having a morning stroll?’

  Geldof glanced at the taxi, half-hidden in the shadow of the bridge, and searched for a story that would convince the soldiers he was alone and they should let him continue on his way.

  The soldier registered his glance. ‘Ah, you’ve got company. Let’s go get them, shall we?’

  He motioned Geldof forward with his gun. One of his squad stopped him. ‘Hold on a minute. What’s that on his neck?’

  He pointed to the fading scabs around Geldof’s collar line. Suddenly the guns were up.

  ‘Have you been bitten by an animal?’ Johnson asked, backing away.

  ‘No,’ Geldof replied, also backing away and trying to work out the acceleration of a bullet fired from an automatic weapon and his chances of avoiding the same. He didn’t need a calculator to know they were minuscule.

  ‘You’re not sneezing? You don’t have an urge to eat or fuck anyone?’

  Geldof clicked, remembering the sores on the cows. The soldiers were afraid he had the virus. They looked jumpy, their fingers way too tight on their triggers. He had to defuse the situation and fast.

  ‘I’m a teenager. Of course I have an urge to fuck everything.’

  Johnson laughed. The muzzle of his gun dropped slightly.

  ‘Look, it’s an allergy,’ Geldof said, pulling down the neck of his jumper. ‘I’ve had it for years.’

  Johnson stepped in and peered at the rash.

  ‘Maybe we should shoot him, just to be sure,’ the soldier who had pointed out the scabs said.

  Johnson lowered his gun. ‘Nah, he’s fine.’

  The soldiers flanked Geldof and marched up the track, making no attempt at stealth. Geldof’s heart was still hammering in his chest. They had been afraid he had the virus, which meant people had been infected or there was a chance they could be. The crunch of boots as they approached the taxi roused James, who sat up and peer
ed sleepily over the steering wheel. He turned around, said something, and then got out. Lesley and Terry joined him a few seconds later. The trio stood close together and silently watched the soldiers advance.

  ‘Morning,’ Johnson called. ‘Mind if I ask where you’re headed?’

  Terry and Lesley exchanged a look. It was something they had been doing a lot of recently, Geldof had noticed.

  ‘Just trying to get out of the city and find somewhere to hole up,’ Terry said. ‘Our house was attacked.’

  Johnson walked up to the cab and peered in the window. ‘I hope you haven’t left the meter running.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I don’t think your passenger would be too happy,’ he said, nodding in to the still sleeping Mary. ‘Anyway, you’re going to have to come with us.’

  ‘We’re not looters,’ Terry said in a shrill voice. ‘The taxi was lying open, we just took it to get out of town.’

  Johnson grinned. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, mate. I can see you’re not looters. You still have to come to the rest and reception area. Civilians aren’t supposed to be wandering around out here. The clean-up isn’t finished yet.’

  Terry and Lesley roused Mary, then they all grabbed their rucksacks and followed the soldiers up the line towards the bushes.

  ‘So where is this place?’ Geldof asked.

  ‘Strathclyde Park. Just the other side of the trees.’ Johnson nodded his head in the direction of a wood at the far end of an open field.

  Once through the bushes, they crossed the field. It had been cut up into muddy clumps by hooves, making progress difficult. The soldiers had their guns up and at the ready. Once they had gained the tree-line, the soldiers relaxed a little, although Geldof remained on full alert. While the trees were sufficiently close together to discourage large animals from entering, Geldof had been on enough forest walks, or rather forced marches, with Fanny and her nature buddies to know terrain such as this was usually crawling with smaller wildlife, much of it sporting rows of sharp little teeth.

  Occasionally there was the crackle of leaves, or a soft thump deep in the trees, and the soldiers would tense up, pointing their weapons in the direction of the noise. After five minutes of tramping, they came to a copse littered with chunks of flesh and grey fur. Floppy ears, paws and heads were scattered amongst the carnage.

  ‘Did you do this?’ Lesley asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Johnson replied. ‘Vicious little bastards, these fluffy bunnies.’

  His men snickered. One of them bent over to pick up a severed head, but the squad leader snapped at him, ‘Cut that out! You’re not supposed to touch that shit.’

  Soon the trees thinned out and gave way to a grassy plain that led into Strathclyde Park, which was essentially a lake surrounded by a wide, oval strip of grass. The last time Geldof had been here was when he was six. He had wet himself out on the boating lake.

  The transformation of the once tranquil park to what looked like a permanent refugee camp in the two weeks since the virus had broken out was remarkable. About ten metres away lay a makeshift fence constructed from sandbags and barbed wire. Towers were dotted along the perimeter every fifty metres or so, each one sporting a machine gun and a bored soldier. They were allowed entry through a manned gate and meandered through the complex, which presented a scene normally reserved for the evening news beaming in images from a conflict-hit country overseas.

  White tents grubby from the rain and mud were pitched in rows along the length of the lake. Smoke from cooking fires spiralled up from numerous spots within the camp. Children ran between the tents, bare feet plastered with mud. Their parents stood, or sat on upturned buckets outside their tents, their faces drawn and defeated. Down by the lake, rows of women – one of them still dressed in a business suit – scrubbed their clothes on the rocks.

  ‘Holy crap,’ Lesley said.

  ‘Not quite what the government had in mind when they dreamed up these camps,’ Johnson said. ‘Too many people to handle. Ah, here we are. Registration.’ He shouldered his gun. ‘We’ll leave you here. Enjoy your stay at Butlins.’

  He took off his mask and sauntered off into the maze of tents with his squad.

  Geldof’s group turned to face the woman who had come bustling out of the tent. She was ruddy-faced with wide eyes and a smile that almost split her face in two, making her look remarkably like a cartoon character. She radiated a cheerful-at-all-costs vibe. No doubt she was busy totting up all the positives of the horrendous situation they were in, such as the chance to meet new and interesting people, lots of fresh air and plenty of overtime.

  ‘Morning all!’ she trumpeted, rubbing her hands together. ‘It’s a bit chilly today, isn’t it!’

  ‘It’s Scotland,’ Geldof said. ‘It’s always chilly.’

  ‘Very true, young man. I’m so glad you could join us. My name is Karen Allen. If you would like to just follow me, we can get started.’

  She turned to lead them into the tent. Terry cleared his throat. It was lost in the bass hum coming from the diesel generator behind the tent.

  ‘Excuse me!’ he called.

  Karen turned round.

  ‘If you don’t mind we’d rather just be on our way. We have other plans.’

  Karen laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. You can’t leave.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’ll get killed by all those nasty animals. Once you’re in, you’re in. Policy, I’m afraid.’

  Karen entered the tent. After a pause, the others followed, Terry in the lead. He sat down where Karen indicated, in a plastic chair in front of a folding table. A computer sat on the table with a camera and what looked like a mini scanner attached to it. At least a dozen identical stations were ranged along the room, all of them unattended.

  ‘Business slow today?’ Terry asked.

  ‘Oh, we’re not getting so many people now, but let me tell you, the first week was chaos. We had tens of thousands. Now it’s tailed off. I suppose we’ve managed to get most people from the area.’

  ‘Or maybe they’re dead,’ Geldof muttered.

  Either Karen didn’t hear him or she was applying a selective filter to block out anything that might cloud her sunny disposition. ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we? Do you have any ID?’

  ‘No,’ Terry replied. ‘We had to leave in a hurry. We were attacked by rats.’

  ‘Oh, what a pain,’ Karen said. ‘That must have been awful. Name?’

  ‘Pepi O’Flanagan,’ Terry answered.

  A tiny frown crossed Karen’s face. ‘Is that Spanish?’

  ‘Spanish-slash-Irish,’ Terry deadpanned.

  He looked significantly at the others as she typed. Karen asked him a string of other questions about his date of birth, town of residence and family connections. Terry lied through his teeth in response to them all. Then Karen popped her head up over the monitor and unleashed a cheesy grin that displayed every one of her perfect teeth.

  ‘Watch the birdie!’

  The flashbulb popped.

  ‘Now put your thumb into the scanner.’

  ‘You want my fingerprints?’ Terry asked, looking worried.

  ‘Standard procedure. We need it for your ID card, to make sure you don’t register twice and try to get more food.’

  ‘Who would do that?’

  ‘I’ve worked in refugee camps all over the world and believe me, they all tried it on.’

  ‘This isn’t a refugee camp. It’s a “rest and reception” area.’

  Karen giggled again. ‘Absolutely correct. But rules are rules, and I must insist you put your thumb in. If you don’t, no pudding for you!’

  ‘Just put your thumb in before I strangle her,’ Geldof said under his breath.

  Terry acquiesced and pressed his thumb, then each finger in turn, onto the scanner.

  They each took their turn to register, taking Terry’s lead to conceal their true identities. Lesley became Anthea Carruthers. James became Gavin McManus
. Geldof awarded himself the title of Grant Baron McManus, a slight modification from his original idea of Grant Baron DeStewart the Third, which he thought might be laying it on a bit too thick. Mary became Trisha Thomson. Finally they were all issued ID cards and taken outside. Karen led them through a labyrinth of identical tents.

  ‘Where did you get Pepi O’Flanagan from?’ Lesley asked Terry, her voice low, as Karen forged ahead. ‘It sounds totally fake.’

  ‘It was the first thing that came into my head,’ Terry said in response.

  ‘If that’s the first thing that popped into your head, I’m worried about your mental health,’ Lesley said.

  ‘It’s my porn name.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘You take the name of your first pet, then your mother’s maiden name. Voilà, you have the name you would use if you were a porn star.’

  Lesley smiled. ‘You had a pet called Pepi?’

  ‘Yes. A poodle.’

  Geldof stifled a laugh. ‘Pepi the poodle?’

  ‘It was my gran’s!’ Terry snapped. ‘We had to look after it when she died.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s cute,’ Lesley said. ‘You should use it more often.’

  Karen stopped abruptly.

  ‘You’re here.’ She indicated a tent that had absolutely no distinguishing features whatsoever. ‘We don’t have much room, so you’ll all have to squeeze in. There will be a food distribution this afternoon at one p.m. You are registered as a five-person group, and you, Mr O’Flanagan, are designated head of the group.’

  ‘Please, call him Pepi,’ Lesley butted in. ‘Everybody else does.’

  Terry stood on her toes as Karen beamed. ‘OK, Pepi. This means you are responsible for picking up rations for everyone. You can get your non-food items – blankets, cooking utensils, water container – at the same time.’