by RR Haywood
‘GET IN,’ Becky slows to scream from the car.
‘GO,’ Heather turns, lashing out with the machete. ‘GO NOW…’
Becky nods frantically, knowing the children must be protected at any cost. She goes, pushing her foot down to give speed to get them away as Heather slashes and screams to stay by the man who saved her while he kills the last few infected.
Thirty Three
In silence she stands. The machete held low at her side dripping blood from the blade. Her hands sticky, her arms coated, her t shirt covered in gore. Sweat covers her face. Her hair slicked back against her scalp. She spits to the side and snorts to clear her nose.
They won. They remain standing while everyone else lays dead. She looks round with eyes now used to seeing such sights and checks for movement where there is none to be seen. Paco at her back, his arms out from his body, his stance wide. His face glistens wet, his hands drip blood like the blade on her weapon.
She goes to speak but her mouth is too dry. She sighs instead, heavy, deep and weary to the bone. Her bag is in the car. No water bottles. No anti-bac or detergent spray. No matter. Plenty of houses here and the fear of finding something inside is suddenly not so great. This is a new world where you take what you need.
She moves off, threading a careful course through the slain. She looks round to spot the nearest house with a busted in door and heads for that. She pauses at the threshold, head cocked and listening. She steps inside and inhales. No noise. No smell. Her feet leave a trail of bloodied shoeprints down the laminated hallway to the kitchen where the tap gets turned and left to run while she roots through the under sink cupboard to pull out the cleaning materials.
They wash before drinking with hands held under the flow of water while she uses a scouring pad and detergent to scrub the gore away. She takes his top off and throws it to the side. Hers is next, discarded to stand in just her bra to use cold water to rinse the sweat from their skin. His wounds are cleaned and dried but left open from lack of dressings.
Only then do they drink and slake their thirst from rinsed mugs with deep greedy gulps and eyes locked on each other with a bond that grows stronger by the hour. They keep going, refilling to drink and replace lost fluids. The bandage on his neck is filthy and stained with blood. She finds scissors and cuts it away to let it fall and cleans his throat. It still looks awful but it’s meshing back together as though his body is absorbing the folds of skin back into his flesh. They drink again. Filling mugs with water as their body temperatures ease down from hours of gruelling labour in an already blisteringly hot day.
She finds clean tops from the drawers in the bedroom of the house that once belonged to someone else but you take what you can and keep going. A few minutes later and without a word spoken they emerge to walk back into a death filled street of humidity. The machete in her hand gripped and held low at her side. Skin pink and scrubbed. Shoes and trousers sprayed with detergent. On they go.
People died here. Children. Mothers. Fathers. Strangers. They died and turned to come back and be killed again. She knows it but doesn’t feel it. Instead there is something else. An intrinsic knowledge that they did what had to be done. The woman who dropped the machete was alive when Heather brought the blade down into her neck but that woman already had tainted blood and would have come back. That’s the brutality of this world now. If you hesitate they get you. If you fail to react they will get you. Move fast. Be brutal. Be like Paco.
The machete held in her right hand down at her side. Her left hand entwined in his that she lifts to scratch her head, his hand lifts with hers. Organic and natural. His gait adjusts to allow for hers as does she for his longer stride. Done without thought. Without thinking. Without the need to think. She huffs from the heat and glances at him. He smiles. She smiles back and on they go through the world that is changing at a pace unknown in history.
‘Car,’ she nods to the driveway on the side and the big four wheel drive. A Toyota. Nice and sturdy with big wheels and she shows the lessons learnt by ignoring the hatchbacks and executive cars they’ve already passed. She gets to the door of the house and tries the handle. Locked. She knocks and steps back, rolling her shoulders with the machete gripped tight. ‘No one home,’ she says with a look at him. There it is. The understanding in his eyes. She turns to face him fully, her eyes searching his for something she knows is there. He holds still, expressive with a yearning and a confusion that hints of pain and loss and trying, always trying. ‘It’ll come,’ she says softly. She reaches up to kiss his cheek, her hand resting on his shoulder. He lowers to take the kiss in a way that makes her smile warmly. ‘Open the door big guy.’
She steps back and nods at the door. He looks at it then back at her. So close to grasping it. She could tap with her foot or kick it to show what she wants but holds off, knowing he can do it. She nods at it, smiling and urging with expression alone.
He explodes so fast she jumps back. A foot launching up to slam into the lock that blasts the door inwards with a shower of plaster and bricks raining down.
‘You are bloody awesome,’ she chuckles at the absurdity of life as it is now and waits for the sound of running feet or the stench of death to come out. Neither comes. She goes in behind him and finds the keys in a bowl on a small pine unit in the hallway. Smells reach her nose. She stops and listens, sniffing the air that isn’t stale or musty.
‘We need your car,’ she calls out and hears a faint scrape in the room above her. ‘Go south…Fort Spitbank. A man called Mr Howie is fighting back. Go there. You’re not safe here.’
She walks down the hallway as a door creaks open and soft footfalls treading across the landing carpet.
‘Where?’ A man asks, his voice timid and fearful. She looks up to see him standing at the top of the stairs. Pale and drawn, bags under his eyes. His hands tremble as he motions to someone else to stay back.
‘Place called Fort Spitbank. South. Go there…’ she turns to go and stops. ‘Sorry about your car but…it’s a four wheel drive…’ she looks out the door to the Toyota. ‘It’s good for running them over with,’ she adds as though the explanation helps.
‘Who…that name?’
‘Mr Howie,’ she shrugs, ‘never met him…I think I saw him earlier in an army truck but…’ she shrugs and sighs. ‘Maybe…go now though. There’s plenty of others cars to take. Don’t wait. Take what you need and move fast. If you see survivors you tell them the same thing…Fort Spitbank, Mr Howie…got it?’
‘Yeah,’ he whispers and goes to say something else but stops. She smiles at him, at the sadness of it all. ‘You’ll be okay,’ she says softly, ‘people are fighting back now…just move fast.’
The solid clunk of central locking and thankfully this starts with a proper key pushed into a proper ignition and she smiles at the manual gear stick in the middle. She watches Paco hesitate and glance at the passenger door and again holds off. He looks at her, she nods. He moves round as she leans over to open the door. ‘Hey,’ she says as he gets in. ‘Close the door…the door…close it…close it…good.’
She backs out into the street, selects first and moves off to follow the route Becky took in the Volvo that holds Subi, Rajesh and Amna who will reach that fort no matter what it takes.
Thirty Four
Motorways tend to run straight with good signage that tells you where you are and where you are heading. Motorways are, to modern times, what Roman Roads were to old times. The quickest route from point A to point B.
Country roads are not motorways. Country roads follow the contours of the land and have evolved over thousands of years to weave round fields and lakes, up hills and through villages and farms. Country roads are not resplendent with good signage as the general consensus in the highway departments of councils was that drivers were either local or had a satnav. Heather is not local and she doesn’t have a satnav. There is a satnav in the Toyota but seeing as it’s the end of the world and there is no one to press the buttons and turn the
dials in the satnav office then the bloody satnav doesn’t want to work.
Heather is lost. Hopelessly lost and that adds another pressure which translates through her body to her foot pressing harder to drive faster. The hedges are too big. The fields too wide. The lanes too narrow. The junctions feed into other roads that all look the same. The clock in the Toyota says it’s late afternoon. The sun is going in that direction so that must be west as the sun sets in the west. So if that’s west then that way must be south but the road doesn’t go that way. None of the bloody roads go that way. How the hell did anyone ever get anywhere in this world?
‘Seriously, how?’ she asks Paco again who looks back with what she takes to be a sympathetic expression. ‘Oh look…another junction. Are there any signs? Oh yes! Yes we have a sign to a bloody town that means absolutely nothing to anyone unless THEY BLOODY LIVED HERE…sorry for shouting but Brookley? Where the hell is Brookley in relation to everywhere else? Sod it. Looks like we’re going to Brookley then seeing as the other direction is unnamed therefore we can only assume it disappears into a pit of boiling larva or a hedonistic cult of sheepskin wearing farmers.’
She huffs, sighs, grips the wheel and shifts position while leaning closer to the air blower that is turned on to waft more warm air about. ‘And the bloody air con isn’t working,’ she tells him again while jabbing at the air con button that isn’t working. ‘No air con, no road signs, no idea of where the hell we are and I just killed people…’ she blinks at the words being voiced that she didn’t know were coming out until it was too late. ‘We’ll ignore that for now and focus on the air con not working and there being no road signs and…’
She hits Brookley village green at a speed too great to react. A rough jolt from the wheels hitting the kerb. The Toyota powers deep into the churned grass with an instant loss of traction on the tyres. She brakes and steers hard to the left with her view ahead filled by the Volvo wedged in the mud with the doors left open. The anti-lock braking system kicks in, the four wheel drive system tries to give power to spinning wheels but it’s like a stone thrown across an ice rink. The Toyota sliding across the mud while spinning round and round. The back end hits the Volvo with a bone jarring impact. Windows implode. Metal buckles and airbags explode out to meet faces coming in towards the dashboard. The Toyota snatches round from the collision, the driver side wheels hitting a rut that dip the vehicle to down to start the roll. It goes over once. From wheels to roof to wheels then over again, still sliding and spinning. Side impact airbags go next. Noise everywhere.
Four seconds after hitting the green it’s over. The Toyota comes to rest on its roof amidst a sea of churned mud. The engine cuts out. Liquids drip from damaged containers. Fuel and oil. Lubricants and coolants. Lights flicker then die. Clunks sound from things shifting as her mind blacks out.
She wakes. Pain everywhere. In her head, her neck, her legs and arms. Smells seep into her noise. Death and engine liquids. Everything is wrong. Her senses struggle to compute and gain location in time and space. Why is the seat above her? She grips something to pull up and feels it turning in her hand. She gropes in confusion then recognises the feel of the steering wheel but it’s up there instead of being…being where? Where should it be? What just happened? Where’s Paco? She tries to speak to call out but finds her chest constricted by her knees pushing into them. Panic starts building. She’s trapped. She can’t breathe. Her mind races wildly. Someone will call the fire service and an ambulance. Just wait. No. They won’t come. Nobody will come. Got to get out. What about spinal injuries? They say to remain still in case of spinal damage. There is nobody coming. Nausea rises. Her head reacting to the sickening motion of spinning and rolling. She wants to vomit but she can’t draw enough air in. What if she chokes on her sick and dies here. She’ll die in the apocalypse from a car accident and drowning on her own spew. She starts hyperventilating, snatching rapid breaths that aid the panic growing. Adrenalin kicks in. Fight or flight. Stay here and you will die. Get out. Find Paco. Find Subi. Find the children. She’s upside down wedged in the footwell of the car with its crumpled roof just inches from the top of the seats.
She gives strength to her legs to try and move out but she’s trapped on all sides, crumpled in a ball. Get out. She has to get out.
‘Paco?’ she grunts the word and hears a shift of motion within the car that creaks the chassis. ‘Paco?’ she fights the panic, forcing calmness that doesn’t want to come. Motion again. A grunt. He’s in here. He’s alive. She can’t see him. ‘Paco?’ Another grunt but he sounds different. He starts thrashing with hard movements that vibrate the car. His voice grunting with effort. Her heart rate goes back up, hammering hard at listening and feeling him trying to get free. He goes harder. Ramming into something that rocks the car side to side on the roof. A wrench of metal being buckled and torn. Loud impacts. Grunts of his voice straining as she hears things being shorn from fittings then a ping as his seat breaks from the joint. More light floods in. She catches glimpse of his legs and body writhing to kick at the door. Glass smashes. The car bounces and lurches. Mud slides in through her open window that splashes on her face wet and deliciously cool. An arm above her, heavily muscled with veins bulging as he grips the steering wheel and starts straining to pull it free. He twists and writhes again, getting his other arm into the work. A grunt and a dull crack as the steering wheel is snapped off to be flung away. Hands reach to find her. Groping her head and shoulders until they find her face. She sobs at the touch of his calloused hands and her sound makes him shift to push beneath her, his red bloodshot eyes full of worry. His scalp cut, blood on his forehead and down the bridge of his nose.
Still she can’t move. She can’t budge or do anything but the sight of him gives a surge of confidence that make her start trying to thrash and gain motion. She goes side to side but something sharp digs in her back. She feels her skin being cut open, gouged and the feel of hot blood running down her ribs.
She gasps in pain and panic. His fingertips stroke her cheeks, pushing the stray strands of hair away with such tenderness it makes the tears fall down through the space between them to land on his bloodied head. She closes her eyes, knowing she can’t move but knowing it’s okay because he is there. He will always be there. He will never leave her. If the car sets on flame and burns her alive she knows he will stay and hold her head to the last breath. An acceptance of death comes over her. An acceptance of what is. Calmness spreads, relaxing her tensed limbs. She breathes deeply, turning her head to push her cheek into his hand.
‘HEATHER…’
Her eyes snap open. Subi’s voice.
‘GET IN THE HOUSE…MOVE…’ Becky’s voice roaring. A snarl in the air. A howl. She hears a door banging shut in the distance. Screams and shouts.
‘Get me out,’ she growls the words in the confines of being trapped. Finding his eyes, locking on, expressing her will through her look and the tone she brings. ‘GET ME OUT…’ she starts rocking again side to side, ignoring the pain in her back and the blood pissing out. She thrashes, grunting as his hands leave her face. ‘GET ME OUT…LEAVE THEM ALONE…DOWN HERE…COME DOWN HERE…’ she screams to draw them. She heard the snarls and howls. ‘GET ‘EM PACO…PACO GET THEM…’ She draws what air she can muster and screams until her face turns red and her chest hurts. She sucks air in and does it again. She screams to draw them away from Subi and the others. She screams to bring them while thrashing and hammering to free her body.
The sound and the sight do something. The realisation that she is in pain, frightened but angry all at the same time. Paco watches her. The equilibrium swings on the pendulum. Images come back strong and fast. A life lived. He had a life. Concepts and understanding of details and situations. Social awareness comes and goes. Emotions flood with knowledge attached but flee soon after. She screams again. The noise of it, the sight of it, the meaning of it drive into his mind. She isn’t screaming because of the pain. She isn’t screaming because of the fear but it is fear. Not
fear for her. Fear for what? Fear but for something else. She screams to bring them here. Concepts. Visualisations. Neural connections sizzle in his brain. ‘PACO…PACO…PACO…’ she says his name while screaming words he can’t understand. That’s his name. He is Paco. She says other words but he knows that one. He gains self. An awareness of being. He remembers a dog. He remembers being frightened and running. He remembers places and things that mean something that don’t mean anything. He looks down at her. His eyes wide with that struggle to grasp the concept of cognitive thought. To connect single things to form the realisation of the situation. To go beyond instinct and have an idea. She can’t get out. She wants to get out. His eyes flick to the chair that holds in her place. The chair needs to go. He makes the chair go. He explodes out to ram a shoulder into the soft material of the backrest while his feet find purchase to lock his legs out that drive forward to make the chair not be there. It snaps on the fittings and flies back. Space is given and she drops down to land on his body that is already turning to receive her. Strong arms soften her landing, pulling gently to slide her out to guide up and over his body now lying against the inside of the roof. She gasps and sucks air, wincing at the pain while her hands find his face in a frantic moment of life and death. Blood everywhere. Smeared down her face and arms. On his face and on his hands that pull her up. They wriggle and writhe to clamber through the ruined interior to the back windscreen that gives light where everything else is crumpled and squashed.
They struggle together with limbs entwining like lovers, gasping as though the same thing is happening and degrees of emotion that give the tiny separation between the extremes of joy and peril surge through her. Heads touch. Pressure builds. They’re out there. The infected are out there. Subi, Raj and Amna are out there. Got to get out. Got to fight. That instinct makes her stop to search for the machete to grasp the handle that is taken with them. The ripped off front seats get in the way. The space to crawl through becomes tighter. They go closer together to wiggle through. Hard breaths blast each other’s faces. Sweat mixes. Blood mixes. Everything they have and are mixes to be one entity that refuses to take death and instead inches towards life.