After The End (Book 1): The Furious Four

by Rendle, Samantha

  Also, road trips appealed to him. David had banned him from driving a few months ago after he’d (purposely) knocked a cyclist off his bike and (accidentally) hit a lamp post, and he was glad to finally be behind a wheel again. Even if the car he was driving was a hideous pink thing, he felt as peaceful as he could without his meds. Despite the insane mood swings he’d forgotten about under the influence of his tablets, he was glad to be off them. He felt wide awake.

  A roadside inn materialised just as Carrie and the other girl were starting to droop with sleep. Preston braked beside the inn’s welcome sign, beneath which Refugees Welcome had been scribbled on a white board. Without indicating he pulled into the small car park and killed the engine.

  Bess stirred and peered out the window. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘We’re stopping for the night,’ Preston announced. ‘Be a dear, Bessie, and wake Carrie up.’

  ‘You just got both our names wrong,’ she snapped, prodding the younger girl awake.

  ‘I don’t see that it matters. Carrie, get the cat.’

  They left the ugly pink car alone in its parking space for the warm shelter of the pub. It was well lit and homely, with quilted armchairs and ornate circular tables, and Preston guessed it had been decorated by old women. He wasn’t far off; the inn was owned by an old couple and their daughter. The man, possibly in his forties, worked the bar with the daughter, a shapely brunette thing in her mid-twenties.

  They approached the bar, each lugging a bag, and Preston shot the barmaid a white, alligator grin. She smiled back and held up a finger, filling a pint glass with a tap. Preston watched her long legs as she moved to serve the pint to a solitary man at the other end of the bar. Her ponytail bounced as she returned.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said pleasantly, flashing big teeth. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Preston, still eyeing her, wondering how easy it’d be to seduce her. ‘We were just wondering about the sign outside, the refugee sign.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, projecting the glow of her smile onto the others. ‘You’ll want to speak with my mum, Joanne.’ She pointed to a door across the room, above which Check In was painted on the wall. ‘She deals with room rental.’

  ‘Joanne,’ Preston repeated, nodding. ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Hayley,’ she replied, and then pointed with her thumb at the barman. ‘That’s my dad Steve, and my cousin Andrea does housekeeping. If you need anything, ask any one of us.’

  ‘Too many names,’ said Preston, and he walked away, leaving Hayley baffled.

  The others trailed behind him, the baby sleeping in his mother’s arms, as he went through the door to the check-in area. It was a hallway, essentially, with a desk squeezed in beside the wooden staircase and a set of keys dangling from hooks on the wall. The theme for the room was cheerful yellow and mahogany, and several house plants were dotted around.

  Behind the desk was a woman – presumably Joanne – in her early fifties, with grey-streaked brown hair in a bun on top of her head. She wore a yellow pinafore dress, probably in an attempt to match the decor. She smiled on their arrival, like a motion-sensing porch light.

  ‘Hello,’ she said brightly. ‘Are you checking in?’

  ‘If you have a room,’ Preston confirmed. ‘We just got here from Bristol.’

  ‘Bristol!’ she exclaimed. ‘You poor things, I hope the road hasn’t been too hard for you. I’m afraid I’ve only got one small twin room, not really big enough for four, but if you need it... Cat-friendly, of course...’ She gave the cat a fleeting look.

  ‘How much is it?’

  ‘We’re doing half the usual rate for refugees,’ she badgered, but Preston didn’t really listen to the price as he slapped one of David’s debit cards onto the desk.

  Glad he didn’t have to spout some silly sob story, Preston and the others followed Joanne up the rickety stairs upon paying. Their room, a poky little thing furnished in mint green and mahogany, was on the second floor, opposite a frilly communal bathroom. The room was tiny and unattractive, but Preston did not intend to stay in it. When the girls and the brat were tucked up in bed and the cat snoozed on a pile of folded towels, he made his way back downstairs to sit at the bar.

  For a while he just sat, adjusting himself on the bar stool, and watched the bar staff at work. Steve, the father, had a neat military haircut, dark grey, and his face was hard yet somehow friendly at the same time. There was a twinkle in his eye that only a man surrounded by a family he loved was able to switch on. He was quiet, letting his daughter take centre stage and charm their customers, which she did with a smile like sunshine and a laugh like tinkling bells. The whole dynamic made Preston want to vomit.

  Nursing a neat double whisky, Preston took out David’s wallet and emptied its contents onto the sticky bar. Several flat, crisp notes, a few coins and countless loyalty cards stared up at him, among a folded up photo, a social services ID card and a few bank cards. He lined them up, these little pieces of his dead boyfriend, and gazed at them. He unfolded the photograph with gentle fingers. A younger version of himself, looking over his shoulder and beaming, smiled at him, searching his soul with dark blue eyes. Disgusted, he folded the thing back up.

  He remembered the day it was taken, but he’d never seen the picture. It was like getting slapped in the face. Preston had found a box of cats in the park that day. Could they keep them, he’d asked David, and David had relented. Preston had marched ahead, hurrying to get back before the cats ran away, and when he looked behind him, grinning with anticipation, David had snapped a photo of him on his phone, eliciting an immediate frown. David had laughed. I’ve never seen you so genuinely excited, he’d told him. I wanted to capture it.

  Looking up at Hayley, he wondered if losing himself in someone else for the night would take away the gaping hole inside him, the hole that his deadbeat parents had carved in him long ago, which David had only made wider in dying. He was like a balloon, made up of shiny foil but completely empty inside. Hayley was what, twenty-four? That was two years younger than David.

  ‘You look troubled.’

  He looked up, into eyes framed by crows’ feet. Steve smiled and pushed a fresh drink towards him, sitting down opposite him.

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ grunted Preston. ‘I just can’t be bothered to go outside.’

  ‘We have a beer garden,’ Steve offered, but Preston shook his head. ‘Suit yourself. You look too young to be smoking, anyway. I gave up the day my Hayley was born.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Preston.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ chuckled Steve, before becoming solemn. ‘Look, Angie told me you came here from Bristol. I can’t imagine what you went through but just so you know, you can stay here as long as you like. Never mind the money.’

  ‘Cheers, Stan.’

  ‘It’s Steve,’ he corrected, ‘but I gather you don’t care about that either.’

  ‘I can barely remember the name of my boyfriend’s sister,’ Preston admitted.

  ‘Can I ask your name?’

  ‘Preston,’ he grunted.

  ‘Well, Preston, forgive me for saying so but you don’t sound so Bristolian to me.’

  Preston considered. ‘If you ask me, that sounds more like a compliment than something to forgive you for.’ He sipped his drink. ‘I’m from London.’

  Steve’s eyebrows shot up, invading his forehead. ‘That’s... I can’t imagine having to evacuate once, let alone twice. One might suggest the virus followed you.’

  ‘I didn’t have to evacuate,’ said Preston with a shrug, ‘I just got bored.’

  ‘You don’t seem entirely fazed by any of the recent goings-on, Preston.’

  ‘Well, Stuart, I’m not.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I suppose you could call me an opportunist. When this virus spreads and the country falls into chaos, I might just feel like I fit in for once. I stand a chance. Hell, people are already looking to me for help. I’m a saviour as oppos
ed to a villain. It’s a nice turn of the tables.’

  ‘That sounds very...’

  ‘Optimistic?’ Preston suggested. ‘I suppose I’m just that kind of guy.’

  ‘Narcissistic,’ Steve finished.

  ‘It’s a dog-eat-dog world in a whole new sense now, Stavros. People like me, we’re going to thrive.’

  ‘What kind of person are you, Preston?’

  Preston knocked back the rest of his drink, grinned and said, ‘Bad.’

  Pouring Preston another drink, Steve observed him. Preston held his gaze, a lazy smile on his face. He knew that this man was wondering how bad he could possibly be. He’d be thinking surely anything this nineteen-year-old kid had done was forgivable. The thought was amusing.

  For once, he’d told Steve the entire truth. Usually when Preston spoke to people he’d spin his stories this way or that, intertwining lies with the truth to mess with them. Maybe this old barkeep was the kind of man who could see straight through bullshit, or maybe Preston was just tired. He felt like he’d had a hangover non-stop for the last week and the effort to lie was just too much. He wondered if he should elaborate on how bad he truly was, how Steve would react, but he just picked up his sweating drink and swirled it around.

  He knew he wasn’t particularly smart, but he was cunning, ruthless, athletic and violent. He was armed, too. Until he could return to David, surviving would be a piece of cake. He was more than willing to throw anyone under the bus and step on toes to stay alive. After all, who better to survive the zombie apocalypse than someone like him: murderer, sociopath, and monster?

  They spoke vaguely about the wall-builds. Work had already begun on boxing in the cities, and Steve was going back and forth about moving his family inside one of these safe zones.

  ‘What did the news call them?’ he asked Hayley, who was reaching over him for the vodka bottle.

  ‘Quarantine Zones,’ she supplied, shooting Preston a small smile.

  ‘That’s them,’ said Steve. ‘Apparently they’re coming up with all new laws and rules, and they’re giving the police firearms. You’ll need paperwork and the like if you want to go anywhere.’

  ‘Sounds like prison to me,’ Preston said.

  ‘And when the walls go up there’ll be a deadline,’ Steve added. ‘Once they’re built, you’ve got four weeks to get inside a Zone before you’re cast out. After then, you’re a risk no one is willing to take.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means being self sufficient,’ he explained, ‘sourcing your own food, water and living quarters. You won’t have access to medical supplies or any kind of professional help. You’ll have the run of a lawless countryside – No Man’s Land, if you will – and you’ll be treated like a criminal by the Inlanders if you come close.’

  Preston shrugged. ‘Sounds like my life already.’

  ‘What have you done that’s so bad, Preston?’

  Preston eyed him. ‘I’m going for a smoke.’

  Ignoring Steve’s gaze, Preston stuffed David’s things back into the wallet and sauntered off, already lighting a cigarette before he’d even stepped outside. The beer garden was dimly lit, surrounded by picket fence and neat hedges. Wooden bench tables were dotted around, topped with umbrellas and dotted with ashtrays. Preston stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the safety of the inn’s light.

  Smoke coiled in his lungs, soothing him, and he couldn’t help picturing David’s disapproving face as he lit a second cigarette. He gave the stars above the finger, as if David would actually be up there, as if he were anywhere but in the ground, next to a set of fucking swings. He could fully picture David’s dumb sister looking up at the stars and talking to him, pathetically believing he could hear her.

  He sighed, and out of the corner of his eye he spied an orange flicker. Someone else was smoking out here. He squinted into the gloom, and the figure waved at him. How long had she been there?

  ‘I saw you swearing at the sky,’ she said, stepping into the dim light of the doorway, ‘if you’re wondering. What’s God done to you?’

  As she moved into the light Preston saw that she was pretty, if you ignored her boxy, oblong nose. She had dark hair tied up in a bun, a centre-parted fringe framing her face, and a small, neat mouth. Although Preston would guess she was his age, she was slight, and only just came up to his shoulder. The jeans, a t shirt and pinafore she wore betrayed her identity: she was what’s-her-face, the housekeeping cousin.

  ‘My quarrel isn’t with a fictional entity,’ grunted Preston.

  ‘Oh.’ She gestured to the lighter in his hand and waved a fresh cigarette. ‘May I?’

  ‘Does Stan know you’re out here?’ he asked, obliging.

  She leaned over his cupped hand, the filter already between her lips, and then straightened up, shaking her head. She exhaled smoke through her nose, which had always reminded Preston of running taps.

  ‘Bet he thinks you’re tucked up in bed like a good girl,’ he guessed, grinning slyly.

  ‘Uncle Steve can’t tell me what to do out of work hours,’ she said, ‘and what he doesn’t know during working hours won’t hurt him.’

  ‘Bad girl,’ he said approvingly. ‘Tell me, is your cousin spoken for?’

  ‘Who,’ she said, ‘Hayley? She’s hopelessly devoted, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Think I could make a dishonest woman out of her?’ He winked.

  ‘Hopelessly devoted to her girlfriend,’ she added, laughing.

  ‘The question still stands.’

  ‘You’re funny,’ she chuckled, holding out her hand to shake. ‘I’m Andrea.’

  ‘Preston,’ he replied, smacking her hand in a sideways high five.

  Crickets sang as they moved to a picnic table, straddling different ends of the same bench and facing each other. He tried to shake the mistaken feeling that David was watching him from a bush somewhere as he leaned forward on his elbows and made casual conversation.

  She told him about things he didn’t care about and he pretended to be interested, barely listening and instead looking at her hair, wondering how long it was when it wasn’t tied in a bun. He spun some lies about a happy childhood and a cheating girlfriend, and she nodded in understanding, though he was unsure how much of it she actually believed.

  Many of the indoor lights had winked off while they chatted, and not long later they retired inside. Andrea’s mouth was on him before they’d even snuck into her room. She tasted like smoke and coffee and she smelled like coconut. Preston had just enough time to acknowledge the faint scent of incense as they entered her room before they found the bed.

  The baby stared at Preston from the high chair, grinning and banging a spoon on the tray. Preston made a face, attempting to frighten the thing, but Gabriel giggled and banged the spoon harder. Sighing tiredly, its mother took the spoon away and discarded it on the table. The baby squealed indignantly.

  They were sitting in the pub area, eating breakfast. Kelly had a bowl of Coco Pops, Becky had a full vegetarian English and Preston nursed a giant mug of coffee. He’d found himself in a foul mood after he’d ditched Andrea, not even waiting for her to fall asleep, and it hadn’t disappeared overnight. His appetite had disappeared; his hangover filled him up like cement. His head throbbed.

  He’d left their twin room in a state on purpose, some destructive part of him wanting Andrea to suffer. As if it had all been her, and he was completely innocent.

  ‘Becky,’ he groaned, his head in his hands, ‘shut the kid up.’

  ‘He’s not doing anything,’ she snapped, ‘and my name is Beth.’

  ‘Well, Becky, it’s loud in here.’

  ‘Why do you do that?’

  ‘Shh,’ he whispered.

  ‘You know my name,’ Beth hissed. ‘In fact, you know both our names. You may not give a crap about us, but you don’t have to piss us off too. Beth and Kerry – three syllables between us. It isn’t hard.’

  ‘You really have no idea how little I care, A
ndrea.’

  ‘Who the hell is Andrea?’ she growled.

  Preston looked up. ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘You called me Andrea, you imbecile.’

  ‘Who’s Andrea?’

  Beth shot him a withering look that soon melted into concern. ‘Seriously, mate, are you okay? You look like crap.’

  Preston scowled. He opened his mouth to mention her rumpled t shirt and the baby’s sticky fingerprints on her glasses, but they were rudely interrupted by Steve, who took up a chair at Preston’s side. He set down his own breakfast before putting a plate in front of Preston, smiling encouragingly. Preston glared from Beth to the toast before him, and then to Steve.

  Steve passed his smile around the table, paying special attention to little Gabriel, and the girls offered polite nods in response. Gabriel babbled some incoherent nonsense and Steve chuckled. It all seemed a bit Neanderthal to Preston but he said nothing. He didn’t know where all this kindness was stored inside that man but he didn’t like or trust it. He had, after all, just slept with the man’s niece.

  Oh, Andrea. How could it feel like this girl had ruined a relationship that no longer existed? He felt tainted, ruined, and in no way rid of the loss David had burdened him with. He hated her. His head felt so full of cotton wool that he could barely remember who he was sitting with: Kelly? No, her name was Kelsey... That wasn’t right either...

  It was all a jumble. Carrie, Cassie, Kelly, Kelsey, Kerry, Karen...

  ‘How are we doing this morning?’ Steve asked, slicing through the silence.

  ‘Swell,’ muttered Preston, pushing the plate away.

  ‘What are your friends’ names, Preston, aren’t you going to introduce me?’

  Preston rolled his eyes. ‘Friends, this is Stan.’

  ‘Steve,’ Steve corrected, stuffing a fried egg into his mouth.

  ‘Don’t take that personally,’ said Bess (Becky?), ‘he “forgets” everyone’s names.’

  ‘I’m Kerry,’ said Kerry. ‘That’s Beth and this is Gabriel.’

  ‘Obliged,’ said Steve. ‘I told Preston yesterday, you can stay here as long as you like. We’ve had a few refugees staying here a night or two, but none so young. I can even take you into a Zone once the walls are built if you like.’