by Hatchett
“Mad as hatters,” Mamba replied.
“Yeah, but there can’t be hundreds of nutters,” Ahmed argued.
“True. That Ernie was all there,” Mamba said, and proceeded to tell Ahmed what they’d talked about.
“They probably will cut yer tongue out then, if ya keep fuckin’ swearin’,” Ahmed supposed.
“They can fuckin’ try,” Mamba retorted and they both started laughing.
Neither noticed that they were being watched from one of the nearby houses.
They made quick work of the now-familiar route back to the field and quickly updated Basir and the rest of their larger group.
As everyone started packing up the equipment, Ahmed beckoned Mamba aside.
“Are ya sure we wanna stay in that town instead of stayin’ here where we can see ‘em comin’?”
“A bit scared are ya, Ahmed? ’Em big forks they had did look very, very scary.”
“Fuck off!” Ahmed retorted, as if offended.
“Don’t swear!” Mamba said, grinning. “I wanna be among ‘em ‘n figure ‘em out afore I decide whether ta kill ‘em or not. Anyway, I tol’ ya I ain’t sleepin’ in a field ever again.”
“Where we gonna stay then?”
“We gonna camp at their sports ground,” Mamba said.
“I thought ya jus’ said ya ain’t gonna sleep in a field again.”
“It ain’t a field, it’s a sports ground with a clubhouse,” Mamba pointed out.
“Same diff’rence,” Ahmed said.
“No, it ain’t. I’m gonna be in the clubhouse, ‘n if it’s shit, we’ll go back ta the Hunter’s Arms.”
Once they were ready to move out, Mamba took half a dozen of the Turks to one side and told them what he wanted. They quickly spread out and headed towards different parts of the field, their MP5s at the ready.
“What ya doin’, bro?” Ahmed asked.
“The boys’re gonna see if they can spot the spotters,” Mamba explained.
“Yeah? N’ what if they do?”
Mamba drew his hand across his throat.
“Do ya think that’s wise?” Ahmed asked.
“Shouldn’t be fuckin’ spyin’ on us,” Mamba said, heatedly.
When it was clear Ahmed had nothing further to say, Mamba gave the signal and started heading back towards the road, the rest following and carrying the equipment.
When they got back to the sports ground, the football match was in full swing, although some of the players looked across to see what was going on. While the men made their way across to the clubhouse, Mamba headed for the pitch with Ahmed struggling to keep up.
“Oi!,” Mamba shouted, waving his hands around. “Game’s over.”
Everyone stopped and turned to look in Mamba’s direction as he continued walking towards them.
The referee, an older guy in his late fifties with short grey hair and a florid round face, was standing and trying to get his breath in the centre circle.
“Do you mind?” he said loudly, “we’re in the middle of a game.”
Mamba turned towards him and marched straight up to him, invading his personal space.
“Shut up, Grandad, ‘n fuck off!” Mamba shouted in his face, as the other players headed in their direction.
“You can’t just come in here and start giving orders!” the referee spat. “This is our ground.”
Mamba grabbed him around the throat with his right hand and started squeezing. Hard.
“Mamba, don’t,” Ahmed said, trying to release Mamba’s grip on the old man’s neck. “Yer’ll fuckin’ kill him.”
“Yeah, Mamba,” said one of the footballers, who was still coming towards him with anger blazing in his eyes. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size rather than an innocent old man?”
Mamba turned to face the man who had spoken and smiled, releasing his grip on the referee’s neck.
As Mamba walked towards the footballer, he could hear the referee coughing and spluttering behind him, trying to get his breath back.
The footballer stopped and glared towards Mamba, setting his feet apart for balance and raising his arms in anticipation of a fight. The rest of the footballers gathered around but stayed well behind their champion.
Mamba continued walking towards him without breaking stride, the smile on his face growing with each step. The footballer’s bravado began to wane a little; he wasn’t expecting a smaller guy to keep coming at him, especially as he was a big bloke and well known for his short fuse and brawling at the least provocation.
When Mamba was a couple of metres away, the footballer took a short step forward and sent a kick towards Mamba’s groin, but Mamba was ready for it and easily stepped aside, grabbing the footballer’s leg and thrusting it into the air, causing the man to fall and land painfully on his back, knocking the wind out of him.
Mamba then stepped forward and delivered a vicious kick to the man’s ribs, the kick landing with a satisfying thump and a muffled crack as a bone or two broke. The man grunted in pain and tried to draw breath.
Mamba stepped back a couple of paces, watching with interest as the man slowly controlled his breathing and struggled back to his feet, bruised but not beaten. The man’s eyes were watering, and his face was bright red from a combination of pain and rage.
The rest of the footballers were looking at each other, wondering if they should pile in, but many of them had been on the receiving end of the guy’s brutality in the past and were secretly enjoying him getting some payback.
The footballer faced Mamba once again and planted his feet.
Mamba was a little surprised. Most men stayed down if they knew what was good for them. Obviously this one didn’t.
“No need ta cry,” Mamba bated, “I didn’t kick ya that hard. Jus’ a little tickle,” he added with a grin.
The footballer tried to smile back, although it came out more of a grimace.
“Fuck you,” he grunted, drawing a gasp from the other footballers for swearing. And him being an Enforcer too!
“Ya betta fuck off afore ya really get hurt,” Mamba cautioned.
The footballer just stared back at him, gritting his teeth. Mamba couldn’t tell if it was from anger or pain. He took a step forward and, as expected, the footballer swung a haymaker of a punch towards Mamba’s face, the exertion causing him to wince as the punch was delivered.
Mamba knew that the right-hander was coming. The guy had tried a kick and that hadn’t worked, so it was obvious he’d try a punch next. It was also obvious that the man was right-handed from the way he had held his ribs and the way he stood, although Mamba admitted to himself that he had got it wrong on occasion in the past, much to his cost, so part of his focus was still on the left hand just in case.
Mamba’s left arm parried the punch and his body turned slightly to follow it. The man’s momentum brought him closer to Mamba, who grabbed the man’s right arm with his left hand and in the same motion delivered a fast-moving elbow straight into the man’s face.
The man’s nose shattered, and blood sprayed from the injury as Mamba felt the man’s legs buckle. He let go of the man’s arm and stepped back, watching him slump to the ground.
By this stage, Mamba’s group were hollering and cheering, and the rest of the footballers had decided to stay out of it rather than trying to stop the fight. Not that it was really a fight.
“I think that’s enough,” came from Mamba’s right.
Mamba turned to see the referee had got his breath back and was appealing for him to stop.
“Keep out of it, Colin!” the bleeding footballer on the ground shouted. “It’s not over until I say so!”
Mamba shrugged at the referee and turned back to look at the footballer.
“You’re dead,” the footballer threatened, looking up at Mamba with hate in his eyes.
“Maybe ya should stop,” Ahmed suggested from nearby. “It ain’t doin’ much fer public relations.”
Mamba snorted, his eyes
never leaving the footballer. Then he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if suggesting to the footballer that the decision was his.
The footballer slowly got back to his feet, blood still flowing down his face and covering the top of his football shirt.
“Ya got some balls, I’ll give yer that,” Mamba commented with a little respect. For bravery rather than stupidity.
Mamba then launched himself forward and delivered a hard kick straight to the footballer’s groin. The man slumped to the floor, struggling to breathe and cupping his genitals.
“Maybe not anymore,” Mamba said with a smile.
Mamba knew the guy would never stop; he’d met the sort before. So, he stepped forward and brought the heel of his combat boot down on the footballer’s head. Then did it again…and again. There was a cracking sound and the man on the floor relaxed and stopped breathing. Mamba withdrew his Bowie knife and, leaning over the body, stabbed it in the head.
There was complete silence, except for a few birds chirruping in the background. The footballers and referee looked on, totally shocked, whereas the Turks looked unconcerned and were soon chatting amongst themselves again.
“Nice one, Bro,” Ahmed said sarcastically, his hands near his weapons in case the other footballers decided to attack.
Instead, they all turned as one and headed for the clubhouse. The referee lingered.
“You realise what you’ve done?” the referee asked.
“I think I’ve got a fair idea,” Mamba replied.
“He was right,” the referee said, pointing to the dead man on the ground. “Thou shalt not kill. You have just killed yourself as easily as you killed him.”
“I thought ya said ‘thou shalt not kill’ so who’s goin’ ta kill me, Colin?” Mamba said with a smile. “That’s a…a…what is it Ahmed?”
“Contradiction,” Ahmed said.
“Yeah, a contradiction,” Mamba reiterated.
“The Reverend will decide the punishment,” the referee explained, looking at Mamba and shaking his head, “and usually it’s an eye for an eye. Good luck.”
With that, Colin headed for the clubhouse to gather his belongings. Some of the footballers were already trooping off in the direction of the ground’s entrance, sports bags slung over their shoulders and talking animatedly amongst themselves. They kept a wary eye on Mamba and his group as they left.
“What now?” Ahmed asked.
Mamba looked around and saw that Ernie hadn’t moved from his bench.
“I don’t like this place. Get ta the Hunter’s Arms ‘n make it safe. Oh, ‘n get rid of this dead idiot. I’m goin’ ta have a word with ol’ Ernie.”
Ahmed glanced over towards the old man was still sitting on the bench and staring straight ahead.
“I’m comin’ with ya. Basir can sort it all out. Basir!” he shouted.
8
Day 20 – 13:30
New Eden
“I knew you were trouble the moment I first laid eyes on you,” old Ernie stated, as Mamba and Ahmed approached.
Mamba and Ahmed took a seat either side of him on the wooden bench.
“Oh yeah? How’d ya figure that then, ol’ man?” Mamba asked.
“You’re a black man, aren’t you?” Ernie replied, as if it was obvious.
Mamba stared at him in shock, and nothing shocked him! Living in London he’d experienced all sorts of racism and bigotry since his very first memory, but for some reason, he thought it might be different here, out in the country. He was momentarily lost for words.
“Didn’t get many negroes or other ethnics around here before this all started,” Ernie was saying. “And there’s none now. Until you arrived, of course.”
“Yer jokin’, right?” Mamba asked heatedly, annoyed about the stereotyping. “What? All black men are trouble?”
“No son, but you are, I can tell. Anger and violence radiates off you,” Ernie said. “Plus, the fact you’re carrying knives and guns, nearly choked the referee to death and killed one of the Reverend’s Enforcers. All within a few minutes. Bit of a giveaway, really.”
“Enforcer? Oh, fuck!” Ahmed muttered.
Ernie started cackling, said ‘don’t swear’ and started cackling even more.
“Funny,” Mamba retorted, although he wasn’t laughing.
“You don’t need to worry about an old fart like me, son. But you’d best worry about what the Reverend is going to do when he gets his hands on you. Now, there’s a man who really doesn’t like black or ethnic people. In fact, he doesn’t like many people at all. To him, we’re all Devils one way or another, some more devilish than others. And yet he’s the worst of the lot! You killing one of his Enforcers isn’t going to lighten his mood any, I can tell you that for nothing.”
Ernie paused.
“Couldn’t you have let them carry on the game? I was enjoying it.”
“What? Watchin’ that shite? Like watchin’ paint dry.”
“When you get to my age, son, eighty-eight I am, football is quick and exciting. Now that I think about it, everything seems quick and exciting. Except when I walk.”
Again, Ernie cackled, and Mamba began to wonder if he didn’t have a screw loose after all.
“Ya seen any fairies recently?” Mamba asked.
Ernie laughed harder.
“That was a good one. Quick thinking,” Ernie said, still laughing.
“So, who’s this Reverend?”
Ernie abruptly stopped laughing.
“If I was you, son, I’d turn around and go back where you came from. Quickly.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not until I get what I came fer.”
“It’s ‘anywhere’,” Ernie pointed out. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“What are ya, me Mum?” Mamba asked. “Ya sound like her…’n Ahmed.”
“Well, it’s your choice. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Ernie paused. Mamba was about to nudge him, thinking he might have fallen asleep, when he started talking again.
“The Reverend rules this town with an iron fist. He’s a nasty, vengeful, tyrant. A fire and brimstone sort of preacher.”
“Where did he come from?”
“He was here all the time, masquerading as a normal man of the cloth until a couple of weeks ago. Then it all changed.”
“How?” Mamba asked, although he was beginning to see where this was going.
“It started with the zombie warnings. People got scared and turned to God…or the vicar in this case. They looked to him for help and forgiveness. To tell them what they should do. Stupid bastards.”
“Don’t swear!” Mamba said, and Ernie laughed again at the rebuke.
“Touché!” he said
“So, what happened?” Mamba prompted.
“The town has always had its faithful, like any town I suppose, but the news and warnings were cleverly spun by the vicar and his followers. It became a sign from God. A new plague. Except this time, it was a plague of zombies. A pre-cursor to Judgement Day and the Beast arriving and all that tripe. People were scared and were easily taken in by him, believing that they were bound for Hell unless they changed their ways. The Reverend explained that the only possible redemption was to go back to the old ways and the ten commandments…with a few extra thrown in by himself for his own purposes, of course. No cars, no electricity, no alcohol, no smoking and so on. And they all fell for it. Lapped it up like he was the second coming.”
Mamba wanted to point out there was electricity in the supermarket but didn’t want to break the old man’s flow. But it didn’t stop Ahmed butting in.
“Not all,” Ahmed pointed out.
“What do you mean?” Ernie asked.
“Well, ya ain’t fallen fer it.”
“True,” Ernie agreed. “But what can one old man do? There’s others who don’t believe it either, but we’re sorely outnumbered and have to hide our scepticism very well.”
“Like ya ‘n all that droolin’ shit,” Mamba
pointed out.
Ernie laughed again and nodded slowly.
“I still don’t see how he could get away with summat like that. It’s mad,” Ahmed said. “Is everyone ‘round here stupid? How can one man convince so many?”
“He’s God’s right hand, isn’t he? They’re frightened, and frightened people do stupid things…or just follow the herd.”
“What happened ta the ones not frightened? Surely most normal people wouldn’t believe this shite?”
“They didn’t,” Ernie agreed, and proceeded to tell them the story of the past couple of weeks.
The townspeople simply couldn’t believe the Reverend and his true believers were as dangerous as they were, and by the time they realised what was happening, it was too late.
In the first few days, people who dissented went missing without trace. Those that saw what was happening quickly converted and became part of the problem. It wasn’t long before the believers far outnumbered the non-believers.
People were encouraged to spy on each other and were rewarded for reporting anything suspicious. The accused then disappeared. People were reporting their enemies, just to get rid of them. It even got so bad that some were reporting their own family. Mollie had got rid of her long-suffering husband by accusing him of something he hadn’t done, but as she was a true believer, her word carried more weight than his. There wasn’t any innocent until proven guilty. The Reverend was judge, jury and executioner.
Within a week, the non-believers were in the small minority and many had already left the town. The Reverend then held a large meeting which everyone was forced to attend. Those that didn’t attend had disappeared. It was at this meeting he delivered his new laws and gave people a choice; stay and conform or leave. To show that he was serious, his newly appointed Enforcers meted out some punishments. This included beheadings and the burning at the stake for the more serious offences, then, as you have seen, chopping off hands or cutting out tongues for the lesser offences.
“So, ya weren’t fuckin’ jokin’,” Mamba said after Ernie paused.
“No, son, I wasn’t. And don’t swear!”
They all laughed.