Ghostland (Book 2): Ghostland 2

by Whittington, Shaun

  “Relax,” Hando laughed and patted Ian on the back. “I don’t want him dead. He just needs reminding, brothers, that he’s lucky he’s with us.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now, we pick him up and take him into the cottage. Tomorrow we’re gonna try and find somewhere where there’s food. But first we need a decent night’s sleep.”

  “Where shall we put him?” Wazza bent down and grabbed the legs of the battered and bruised John McHugh. Ian grabbed his arms.

  “Put him on the couch, if there is one,” said Hando. “I’ll get the bags.”

  “There’re three bedrooms.”

  “Good.” Hando smiled. “We can have one each. I think I’ll take a room for a change. Mr. McHugh can stay downstairs and lick his wounds.”

  *

  His eyes opened and Q looked around the dark room, but he could hardly see anything. He tried to sit up, but the pain was excruciating, and he lay back down with a loud groan. It was all coming back to him now. He was certain he was in the cottage, in the living room, but he had no idea where the other three were. He guessed they were upstairs and was surprised that his life had been spared. It looked like he was going to be given a second chance.

  He tried to sit up once more, but again he struggled, and this time he decided to roll off the couch. He hit the floor and went on all fours. His ribs were aching and the pain increased as he tried to stand to his feet.

  He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t be hanging around with these men. He had to leave. He was aware that if he fled and was spotted in the future by Hando and his cronies, he would be a dead man.

  No.

  He had had enough.

  It was time to go. It was worth the risk.

  He felt his way around the dark place and realised that his knife had been taken off of him. He entered the room, which he could see was the kitchen. He wanted to go through the drawers to see if he could get himself a blade, but was paranoid that the cutlery drawer would make a noise. He grabbed the handle of the drawer, under the sink, and pulled it out slowly. He stopped with the drawer only being opened a few inches, when he noticed something to his left. He looked up and could just about see a knife block to his left, sitting on the windowsill.

  He had no idea which were the steak knives, the bread knife, or what. He grabbed himself any knife. He thought, so long as it had a pointy end, it should work if ever he needed to attack someone or something.

  He paused and stood in thought, questioning himself whether he was doing the right thing. These guys were bastards, but he was still alive because of them; he was aware of that.

  The door was a few yards away, and it was a simple matter of opening it and walking out. It was night time and it was going to be dangerous, but he needed to get away from these three.

  He thought about sneaking upstairs and killing them.

  All three of them?

  He was lucky if he could manage the one before the alarm was raised.

  Q didn’t know the sleeping arrangements upstairs and it was so dark up there, he would be lucky to reach the landing unscathed, let alone entering a room and killing the men.

  Escaping was the only option. It was a dangerous one, but he was willing to take the risk.

  Q opened the door and winced when the rusty hinges cried a little as the old wooden door was pulled wider. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him, slowly. He walked along the walls of the cottage, until he reached the front and the country road.

  Aware that danger could be lurking anywhere, Q swallowed his fear and strolled down the dark country lane, heading back to the place where they had come from.

  There was something he needed to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Monopoly had been abandoned. Donald and Simon had become too drunk to care, and Dicko had hardly said a word since he returned from the first floor. It appeared that the party atmosphere was dying.

  Donald’s bottle was almost finished, and with a large slur in his words he suggested a game of spin the bottle. Simon was starting to think that his drunken bonding plan was now a bad idea, and Donald was beginning to get on his nerves.

  “Spin the bottle?” Yoler looked confused. “And what happens if the bottle points at a particular person?”

  “Then you have to tell us something about yourself that we didn’t know, something juicy,” Donald slurred.

  Yoler picked at her left ear with confusion on her face. “Like truth or dare?”

  “Yep.” Donald nodded. “But without the dare.”

  “I’m not sure about this.” Helen shifted in the armchair uncomfortably and added, “You count me out.”

  “We’re all in; no matter what,” Donald growled, struggling with most of the words from his sentence.

  Simon laughed and said, “Fuck it. I’m up for it. I’ve got nothing to hide. You already know that my family are dead and I was a shitty husband.”

  The bottle was placed on the floor and Simon sat down. Yoler, Dicko and Donald also sat on the carpet, in a circle, but Helen remained in the armchair.

  “It’s not a thick carpet.” Donald grabbed the bottle, ready to spin it. “So it should spin okay.” His bloodshot eyes gazed at his housemates and asked them if they were ready. They all nodded, except for Helen, who thought that she should be going upstairs to check on David.

  “Who’s asking the questions?” said Yoler.

  “I am, unless it points at me.” Donald grinned and added, “My game, my rules.”

  Donald lay the bottle down, grabbing the body of the bottle with his right hand, and span it, a little too fast. It didn’t spin for long and stopped with the bottleneck pointing at Simon.

  Simon smiled and held his hands up. “Okay, I’m ready. Ask me anything.”

  “One question.” Donald held up his fingers, hiccupped, and his head was wobbling. He was obviously soused, a lot more than anyone else. “The question could be about the past or the future.”

  Simon nodded. “Okay.”

  “Okay, here’s the question,” said Donald Brownstone. “Yoler and Helen come on to you tonight. Which one do you turn down?”

  Simon cackled and dropped his head with embarrassment. He didn’t want to offend either woman. “I thought this was supposed to be serious? I thought we wanted to know about our past and shit.”

  Donald snickered, “Just answer the question, Washington.”

  “Come on, Simes.” Yoler looked over to Helen and gave her a playful wink; Helen responded with a smile. “That should be an easy one.”

  “Um...” Simon thought for a moment. If he hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t have answered the question at all. “Okay, I’d turn down Yoler.”

  “Really?” Yoler laughed. “Fuck’s sake.” Yoler looked over to an embarrassed Helen and gave her a smile to tell her that she was joking. “You don’t know what you’re missing. I would have ridden you into the ground, Simes.”

  “I can vouch for that,” said Dicko, also now clearly soused.

  Helen blushed and looked away from Simon, just in case their eyes locked. Donald lost his smile. Although it was his question, the answer didn’t please him, and Helen’s reaction suggested to him that there was an attraction there.

  Donald spun the bottle again. This time it pointed at him when it stopped. He raised a smirk and looked at his housemates.

  “Can I ask the question?” Simon put his hand up like he was a child back in school, and Donald nodded.

  “Okay,” Donald sighed. “If you must.”

  “The other day, I saw you changing shirts when you were outside,” Simon began. “You have a tattoo on your back, written in old English. Charlie. Who’s Charlie?”

  “I’ve already explained this one to Yoler,” Donald groaned. “She can tell you. I can’t be bothered.”

  “No, you tell us,” said Simon. “It’s your turn, your story.”

  “Not sure I can be bothered with this now.”

  “No.” Simon shook his h
ead and tried to joke. “You’re not getting away that easy, Brownstone. Come on. This was your idea, so spit it out.”

  “Alright!” Donald snapped. He licked his lips and ran his fingers over his bald head, showing signs of anxiety.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Helen called over, noticing that the man was looking anxious. “We can call it a night. You’re all drunk and—”

  “No, it’s okay. Helen and Yoler already know, so I may as well tell you guys as well.”

  Simon persisted, “So who’s Charlie?”

  “He is ... he was my son.”

  “Was?”

  Donald nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” said Simon. “Did you lose him during the apocalypse?”

  Donald shook his head and was struggling for words.

  Helen said, “Take your time, Donald.”

  “For months, I moaned about the speed some of the cars went in my street,” he began. “I sent an email to the council, asking for them to put speed bumps in the road. I can’t remember what exactly they put in the letter. But they basically said that they had no funds for speed bumps and pretty much said that there had been no fatalities, so they didn’t think there was any need.”

  “Typical,” Yoler huffed.

  “At the bottom of the letter, they had the cheek to have the words, proud sponsors of the upcoming Commonwealth games.”

  “But they couldn’t afford a couple of grand for some bumps?”

  “Exactly. Anyway, I contacted the local newspaper and told them about the problem and the response from the council.”

  “And what happened?” Helen asked him. She had known Donald for months, but this was the first time she had heard the long version of how he had lost his son.

  “The newspapers e-mailed me back and said they would like to interview me, but I never replied back. I was too busy. I wish I did now. Maybe the story being in the papers would have put the pressure on the council. The speed bumps could have been put in place and maybe Charlie would still be alive.”

  “So your son was hit by a car, on your road?” Yoler asked him, and placed her hand over her mouth, already knowing what the answer was going to be.

  Donald nodded. “It happened not long after I complained to the council. It was a Saturday. Me and the wife were painting the living room and Charlie was playing outside with his pals. We heard the screech of the tyres.”

  “Oh, shit,” Yoler gasped.

  “Apparently, Charlie had dropped his ball. It bounced onto the road and he went after it, but was hit by a stupid young driver doing forty in a twenty zone.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Simon.

  “Me too,” said Helen.

  “Anyway,” Donald cackled falsely and clapped his hands together. “This has been a barrel of laughs so far. Whose stupid idea was this? Who’s next?”

  Nobody answered. Everyone felt sombre after Donald’s story and, in truth, everyone wanted to abandon the stupid game, especially Simon, as getting drunk and getting to know one another was his idea. It seemed a good plan at the time, but the evening had become depressing.

  Donald leaned over and spun the bottle again. Helen, Yoler and Dicko had still yet to be ‘picked’ and once the bottle stopped spinning, they could see that Dicko was up next.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Helen said to Dicko. “Let’s all just turn in.”

  “She’s right.” Yoler uncrossed her legs and was about to stand up. “I think we should call it a night.”

  A drunken Dicko shook his head, and said, “No, you guys have answered some painful and awkward questions. It wouldn’t be fair if I got away with it.”

  “I have two questions,” Donald spoke up.

  “That’s cheating,” Simon laughed. “I thought the rule was one question at a time. Wasn’t it?”

  “But Dicko is the most mysterious out of the lot of us, so I think it’s only fair.”

  “It’s okay.” Dicko held his hands up, looking over at Simon and Yoler. “Let Donald have his way.”

  “Okay,” Donald began. “So, here are the two questions: Did you have a family? And what’s your real name?”

  Dicko smiled over at Donald and could see the drunken man leaning to the side, but then immediately straightening himself up. Donald shook his head and gazed over at Dicko, making him laugh.

  “Are you ready?” Dicko snickered. “I thought we nearly lost you there.”

  “I’m ready,” said Donald. “Start with your family first and the story of how you lost them.”

  Dicko nodded. “Okay.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A beaten and bruised Q strolled down the dark country lane. He had slept in his clothes and his black trousers. His collarless smart black shirt especially could have done with a press, but it was something that couldn’t have been further from his mind.

  The thirty-nine-year-old followed the bend in the road, thanks to the little light coming from the half moon hanging above him, and he was staggering like a drunk. With hospitals defunct now, he hoped that the three guys hadn’t harmed him too much and that he wasn’t bleeding internally. He was aching all over, and hoped that there were no breakages.

  He knew where he wanted to go, but was unsure how to get there. He came to a junction he recognised and turned left. He knew where he was now.

  Many minutes had passed and he finally entered the street he wanted to be in. He reached the house and stopped walking. He stood by the front garden path and looked at the house. He remembered that a window had been broken around the back in order to get in, so he went around and entered the window and into the kitchen.

  Q, real name John McHugh, went through the kitchen drawers and found a lighter. He went through cupboards and at last found a large cinnamon Yankee candle. He lit the candle with the disposable lighter, and went upstairs, pleased that there was some light.

  Once he reached the landing, the man paused. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to see what awaited him.

  He entered the room where the mother was, and lifted the candle so that he could see better. Hando had stabbed her through the temple. It was supposed to be a mercy killing, but Q couldn’t help think that Hando had probably enjoyed it. He moved the candle ever so slightly and clocked the boy, Dale. The boy was by her side and Q nearly dropped the candle when he saw the way Dirty Ian had killed the poor little thing.

  The little fellow had been suffocated to death. Dirty Ian had placed a pillow over the toddler and had killed him that way, but what angered Q was that Ian Robinson didn’t have the decency to remove the pillow once he was done. The pillow was still covering the child’s face.

  “Bastard,” Q barked, his eyes filling. “Fucking bastard.” Maybe he should have tried to kill them before he had left, or at least Ian. Dirty Ian was the worst of the three.

  Q ignored the smell from the room and continued to gaze hypnotically at mother and child. It reminded him of his own family.

  In the second week, with his girlfriend and five-year-old daughter, John McHugh had jumped in his Jeep and headed somewhere where there were less of the dead. He had a scared wife in the passenger seat in the front, and a hysterical little girl in the back. They travelled for miles and eventually came to a stop at a beauty spot in Cannock Chase. Q’s thinking was that if they headed for the countryside, there should be less of them.

  He was wrong.

  After three days of no sleep, John McHugh had to sleep. He slept in the car, whilst his girlfriend and daughter sat around the small fire and ate berries. Screams woke him up and he looked over to the fire to see six of the Snatchers, as he used to call them, tearing his partner and daughter apart. There was nothing he could do for them. All he could do was watch helplessly with tears in his eyes and witness their agonising deaths. It took a while to sink in for John to flee, and once he moved off in the car, he drove for miles, and kept on driving until the vehicle eventually conked out and ran out of petrol.

  There were many images that Q would
never forget. Of course, the image of his wife and daughter being eaten before his very eyes would always overshadow anything else that he had experienced, but after their deaths, after the car had broken down and he was made to walk, the man entered a village and scavenged.

  He entered a garage that belonged to one of the houses and was overcome by the smell of carbon monoxide. He noticed inside the Renault Clio that a male in the driver’s seat was slumped in the seat, obviously dead. But what upset him the most was the beautiful little blonde girl in the back. Her head was back as if she was just sleeping. She wore black leggings and a Barbie T-shirt, and it was clear that the father was convinced that they were both better off away from this world. It was hard to disagree with him.

  That was nearly a year ago, and that image had never left his mind.

  Bringing himself out of thoughts from the past, Q shook his head and looked at the deceased mother and son once more. Despite his pain and injuries, he wanted to bury the mother and child in their own back garden, but he was so exhausted that he wasn’t sure he could do it on this particular night.

  Maybe he should wait, get a good rest in one of the spare bedrooms, and do it in the morning. And after that he would need to venture out and get some food and water. Maybe he should try the neighbours.

  His head ached with tiredness and he decided to sleep in one of the spare rooms. Not the one next to the dead, but the one furthest away that looked out onto the main road.

  Before leaving for the spare room, Q walked ungainly over to the bed, where mother and child lay, and removed the pillow off the little boy’s face.

  He knelt down with tears in his eyes, leaned over and kissed the little boy on his cold cheek. “God bless you, little man.”

  Q left the bedroom and shut the door slowly behind him. With the candle still in his left hand, he staggered across the landing to the spare room and opened the door. He went inside and held the candle up to get a better look in the place.

  The bedroom was small, and it had an Ikea cupboard to the left and a single bed in the other corner. There were no teddies or wallpaper with cartoon characters; it was a simple room, suggesting to Q that it was a spare room and not the room where the little lad used to sleep.