by RR Haywood
There’s too many to fight single handed and nowhere to put the boy while he deals with them. So he runs. They follow a wide road that led from the city through litter strewn countryside into another town. This one looks better cared for. The cars on the driveways are newer. Nicer. The gardens are maintained. Rich people who feed off the city but find it beneath them to actually live there.
He hurries now and the motion wakes the boy. It’s an hour until dawn but Gregori does not know the change that will come over them when the sunlight breaks. So he hurries now with the boy held tight.
‘Where’s mummy?’ A small voice, sleepy and unsure but not panicking. Gregori doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent. The boy turns his head and spots the horde rushing after them. Ghastly and gruesome. The silvery moonlight shines on their torn faces. Something from the worst nightmare. Blood everywhere. Limbs hanging by threads. They howl, hiss, growl and groan. Their heads bob side to side, their legs are stiff but they move fast. The boy blinks and watches them for several long minutes before he turns to stare at Gregori who can feel the penetrating and steady gaze boring into the side of his skull.
It makes him uncomfortable. Does he frighten the boy? Is he terrified into silence by the sight of the ugly man?
‘What’s your name?’ The boy asks the question so casually it sends a ripple of shock through Gregori who glances sideways to take in the placid expression on the boy’s face.
‘Gregori,’ he grunts the word out and winces as he turns to see how close the chasers are.
Silence. The quick heavy tread of his boots on the road. His breathing comes harder now and the exertion of the long day and even longer night are just starting to show. He can hear them. He can hear the way they breathe and move but he can also hear the boy and the calm breathing of the child.
‘Like Gregory?’ The boy asks.
‘Gregori,’ Gregori says again, ‘quiet now.’ The questions unnerved him. The casual way they were asked. The lack of fear and panic.
‘Will they kill us?’ Another ripple of discomfort ripples through Gregori at the small voice so innocent and calm. Do children this age have the concept of death and to be killed by another? Can they comprehend what it means? What it actually means?
‘No.’
‘Okay,’ the boy yawns and watches the things with an almost mild detachment, ‘we can go to a house?’
‘House?’
‘We can go into a house and then lock the door…they won’t be allowed to come inside and then they will go away.’
‘Yes. Yes we do this.’
‘Not this one,’ the boy remarks as Gregori runs for the nearest dwelling, a slate roofed semi-detached house with a low garden wall. ‘That one,’ the boy stretches his arm out, pointing further up the street to a much larger house. Detached and with a much higher wall around the front and a solid looking wrought iron gate.
Gregori takes it in. The house is much better. The windows are higher off the ground. The garden wall is tall and looks thick. Defensible. He glances again at the boy, a sideways stare that the boy returns without any notion of flickering. Reaching the gate he pushes it open, turns and pushes it closed, looping a long forgotten but still usable security chain through the bars to prevent it being opened easily.
The front door is ajar but darkness within. No lights on. No sounds or movement but his hearing is impaired by the charge of the horde gaining closer with every passing second.
Inside. Door closed and locked, they stand in darkness. Gregori can hear the boy’s soft breathing and feel with the warm air exhaled onto his ear and neck. He slides one of the pistols from the back of his waistband and holds it down at his side before slowly lowering the boy down to the ground.
‘Stay,’ he orders the boy in a harsh whisper.
‘Don’t leave me,’ the words stop him in his tracks. Not a whimper nor a plead, but so calmly said and in such a casual tone that he cannot help but turn back. He goes to move off again but stops within two paces. That voice. So calm yet…
The boy moves to his side and looks up with an expectant gaze, ‘we can see better if we put the lights on,’ he whispers.
‘No.’
Gregori heads left into a large, open plan front room with the boy close on his heels. The house feels empty but only recently so. Faint traces of warmth linger, the human body passing through and a sense of being.
‘There’s no one here,’ the boy announces this time without the stage whisper.
‘Quiet,’ Gregori hisses with a puzzled look at the child. The search is completed in silence. Only the sounds of the horde gathering at the wrought iron gate start to permeate the thick walls and double glazed windows.
How did the boy know? Are all children like this? Gregori always thought children were screaming, weeping mini beasts. Well, those that he’d gunned down and stabbed were always screaming anyway. This boy was screaming earlier but then he’d run out and stabbed the man attacking his mother, had a sleep and was now wide awake and acting like nothing had happened.
A small light above the cooker illuminates the kitchen in a soft warm glow. Enough to find glasses from cupboards and fill them with fresh water. Gregori drinks one down quickly then fills a second. His eyes constantly scanning the room, senses alert and primed.
‘Drink,’ he grunts at the boy holding the still full glass.
‘I like juice,’ the boy replies.
‘Drink,’ Gregori repeats.
‘Juice,’ the boy replies.
They look at each other. One tall, broad, ugly man and one blonde haired, golden skinned boy with white teeth and looks that promise to be breaking hearts in a few years. The boy places the glass down on the table, holding it with boy hands and taking care not to spill it. Without a word uttered he crosses to the fridge and finds a carton of juice inside.
Gregori watches him. Mesmerised by the confident manner and the sure movements of the kid. The way he checks the label on the carton then sets about finding another glass to use. He fills the new glass up and replaces the juice back into the fridge. He’s a mini adult, then a child again as he holds the glass two handed and takes big, open mouthed gulps while trying to look down the glass at the same time.
‘Are we sleeping here?’ The boy asks mildly and watches Gregori nod once and firm. Seemingly satisfied with the answer he puts the glass down and stares expectantly, ‘they’ll go away soon.’
Gregori finishes his second glass and walks quickly to the front of the house, pulling a curtain back to peer outside. The horde are moving off, something else has attracted their attention and steadily they stagger away out of view. This is isn’t right. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle when he turns to see the boy standing in the doorway to the kitchen quietly watching him.
‘They go,’ Gregori whispers into the gloom. The boy moves into the front room and without hesitation he moves the cushions to one end of the leather sofa and clambers on, rolling onto his side he curls up into a relaxed foetal position. With the shadow so deep, Gregori cannot see if the boy has his eyes closed but his senses tell him the boy is watching him closely. He feels under inspection, a creeping feeling of being examined. He shifts position and checks outside to find the immediate area is now clear of the undead.
A piercing female scream erupts from somewhere in the road outside. Raised voices, loud and angry. Glass smashes, then louder thumps. A shotgun blast so clear and distinct and quickly followed by another.
‘They won’t come here,’ the boy announces as Gregori slides the pistol back out of his waistband, ‘you can sleep if you want to.’ He watches the window despite the confidence of the boy. None of the undead approach them, no survivors either. They all run or stagger past without a second glance at the high wall or the wrought iron gate.
Eventually he takes a soft leather armchair and moves its position so as to face the door and window at the same time. He sits down, cautiously and still very wary with both pistols out and resting on his lap.
<
br /> As the sun starts to show its first tendrils of light on this awful new world, Gregori finds his eyes getting heavier, drooping until they close. But his senses remain acute and ready with his hands resting on the butts of the pistols.
Eighteen
‘How do we communicate? What about the fog? What about the radar? How do we know where to go?’
Questions. So many questions are asked and I field them with the same bluntness as before. We don’t communicate. Fuck the fog. The radar is on the Saxon. We’ll head for Portsmouth and work it from there.
Sharp and blunt but that’s how it has to be now.
Loaded up, I take the lead in the crappy little hatchback. Dave beside me in the front with Blowers and Cookey in the back. Lani chose to go with Clarence in the second car which caused me a few seconds of feeling the sting of rejection but I swallow it down quickly and focus on the task at hand.
Be more Dave. Be more infection. Be ruthless and driven. Do what it takes to get this done.
Driven. I am driving now. Driving too fast for the conditions and I can tell by the silence between Blowers and Cookey that they’re worried. Dave doesn't bat an eyelid. Shit, I could be doing a hundred miles an hour and he’d be as calm as ever.
This is a motorway, a relatively straight road designed using a system invented and evolved by very clever people. The bends are always long and never below a certain angle of turn which means there is no real danger of driving off the road as long as I stay close to the central reservation. Obstacles are the danger. Vehicles broken down or smashed up but I’m sure we’ve driven this road before and didn’t see any obstacles. The twenty miles to Portsmouth are counted down quite quickly. A sustained speed soon eats the distance. The silence oppresses me. The silence between Blowers and Cookey. I want them to talk and make noise but I know the change in my behaviour has sparked a reaction.
A boy racer must have owned this hatchback at some point judging by the Gucci looking stereo in the central console. It fades from blue to red subdued lighting as it constantly searches for a transmission. Without realising I’m doing it I jab my finger on the sideways triangle denoting the symbol to play whatever CD is within the machine. Words in red stream across the front of the display and seconds later the car is filled with a thumping bass line from a rock track that is unfamiliar to me. Electric guitars join in the noise and it goes on until some bloke with a high pitched voice starts screaming about love and living and drinking whiskey.
At least it’s noise. Noise that other humans made and like the engineers that developed the roads system, the musicians worked to a formula already invented by their predecessors. What rhythms work well, what instruments blend together to perform certain sounds along with different styles of voice of varying pitch, tone and volume. Something for everyone. Classical to rock. Latino beats to hardcore trance dance music. Whole lives dedicated to making noise for the pleasure of others. And for what? What was the purpose? Fame, money, prestige or the simple act of just being able to do it.
The ubiquitous song ends and a thrumming beat familiar to me starts pumping out. The Seven Nation Army, who did that? Was it The Kaiser Chiefs?
‘Who did this song?’
‘White Stripes, Mr Howie,’ Blowers replies.
The White Stripes. It has a heavy bass line and tones that lift and fall in a repetitive pattern that probably matches some kind of heart rhythm or the rhythm of life. The pump of pulses that boost the blood supply round the body. The wail of the singers voice. The words are clear, a story being told in a pitch that builds up to a crescendo.
Sublime yet utterly fucking worthless. Music is gone. Art is gone. What’s left is a landscape of memories and broken futures full of pain and misery.
‘Aye, it was all shit anyway.’
‘What was?’ Dave glances across at me.
‘Nothing, forget it.’
Instead I focus on the road ahead and let the fog lure me into the neverland where there is nothing to feel.
I’ll kill them.
One race.
I’ll kill the fucking lot of them. Man, woman and child. I won’t stop until they’re gone. Eradicated. Made extinct and I’ll pour petrol on the last dead body and watch it burn.
‘MR HOWIE!’
‘What?’
Cookey leans forward, ‘we’re here, we’re in Portsmouth.’
‘Are we?’
‘Road sign,’ Cookey says, ‘we just passed it.’
I push the button for my hazard warning lights and start to slow down and check the mirror to see Clarence putting his on in the dark coloured executive car. Coming to a stop we all meet up next to the middle car.
‘We made it then,’ Clarence offers me a smile, warm and friendly.
‘Where is the base? The army base?’
‘Navy,’ Clarence doesn't flicker when I don’t respond to his smile, ‘navy hospital and I don’t know, somewhere on the seafront but this side of Portsmouth.’
Nodding I look about as though expecting to get an idea of where we are, ‘We’ll head for the shoreline and start working in from there. What are the chances a navy hospital will have an armoury?’
‘They’ll have one,’ Clarence replies, ‘whether there is anything left inside is a different matter…but, once we find the hospital we can access their records and find where the other bases are nearby? We might even find one of them is still functioning.’
‘Functioning?’ I ask him.
‘People in it, soldiers…navy personnel….’ he explains, ‘some of the navy bases would have armed guards on the entrances, they might have repelled an attack and got bedded in for the long haul.’
‘I admire your optimism mate, but it’s unlikely.’
‘Why?’
‘We would have heard by now, the amount of people coming through the fort. Someone would have heard something. If they are inside then they’re locked down tight and we won’t be going anywhere near them.’
‘But…’
‘I’ll lead again unless anyone here knows this area particularly well? No? Right, stay in convoy and flash your lights if you see anything.’
You’d think that if you were heading west and needed to find the coast which you know is south then you would turn left. However, what if that stretch of road curved due to the landscape which meant you were facing not west, but another direction? Dave dropped his compass and we have no sun to navigate by. We have no means of discerning our direction unless someone can find a fallen log and remember what side the fucking moss grows on.
In the end, by pure luck, it turns out we were still heading west so by following a south facing exit we ended up almost driving into the water, stopping quickly with the front wheels grinding into the soft sand of a very small beach and a low speed shunt from Clarence and then another one when Roy drives into the back of him and shunts him further forward.
‘Whiplash!’ Cookey yells clutching his neck quickly, ‘where there’s pain there’s a claim!’
‘Good luck with that,’ Blowers grumbles as we wait for the vehicles behind to pull back so we can drive off the beach.
Frustration starts to grow with a feeling that everything is against us. The odds are not only stacked up but are bloody well cemented in place with iron girders propping them up. ‘This fog…’ the seething words tumble out through gritted teeth and brings the car back to silence. Just two words but the tone is enough. We drive back until we find a road heading west. It takes us back into the land of residential streets with houses glimpsed through the fog. People could be inside those houses right now, listening in terrified silence to the rumble of unseen vehicles passing nearby.
We have no choice but to go slower due to so much debris being in the road left by the storm. Household furniture is strewn across the road. Debris and shit everywhere, like the footage of American streets after a typhoon or a giant twister has gone through. Bits of roofs, smashed up chimney stacks, beds, sofa’s, kitchen appliances. Cars on their sides, tru
cks knocked over, vehicles piled up. Getting through is increasingly hard as the devastation gets worse the closer we get to the higher density population areas.
‘Boat,’ Cookey says what he sees when we slow down to stare up at the front of a big, wooden catamaran parked neatly and upright on the road. It looks so huge, the base normally hidden from view in the water but now exposed. The sailing rig is smashed to bits, ropes and sails hang limp down the sides and off trailing into the fog.
‘Either of you two got a smoke?’ I ask quietly while staring up at the boat. A hand soon wavers next to my head offering me a slim, white stick of death which I light and suck the contents deep into my body.
‘The windows in the back are fixed,’ Blowers says, ‘er…’
‘Smash them out if you want to smoke,’ I reply. A few seconds of silence during which I imagine they exchange puzzled glances. Blowers goes first, using the hilt of his knife to smash the safety glass out the car. Cookey follows and soon both of them are lit up and half hanging out the window.
We drive round the obstacle and proceed on, stopping every few metres to drive round something blocking the road. We go through gardens, knocking down what thin wooden fencing remains until we can get back onto the road proper. On and on, relentless, sustained and unstoppable. Refusing to rest, refusing to take a break. The lads fidget but at least they can smoke. Dave stares out seeing things none of us will ever see. To him this landscape is normal. Like Meredith he doesn't waste time in what was, only what is.
Be more Dave. Ruthless and driven.
One race.
The afternoon drifts by with no change to the light around us as the immediate environment stays eerily the same wherever we go. Fog and debris from the storm. Flotsam and jetsam everywhere and the catamaran isn’t the only boat we see that has been served up from the sea onto the land.
The miles count down but without landmarks or being able to constantly check our direction we keep getting hopelessly lost, driving into residential streets and down wider roads bordered with heavily looted shops that are pretty much impassable from the devastations of the apocalypse and the storm.