by Ryan Casey
He swallowed a lump in his throat. His chest and his stomach tightened. He knew he had to be honest. He knew that there was no better time to be honest than right now, in the present.
“Sam, I…” He had to word it right. Had to make out as if Jenny was only just discovering that he was their father too. “I don’t… I don’t know how to say this but—”
“I know you’re my dad,” Sam said.
Jack’s mouth went slack. He glanced down at Sam, glanced at his curly locks pressed up against Jack’s chest. “You… you do?”
Sam looked at his dad. Nodded. Little smile flickered up on the sides of his mouth.
A huge weight drifted up from Jack’s body. A weight of secrecy, as if a balloon of lies and falsehood had just burst and shot off into the sky.
He smiled at Sam.
Kissed his curly hair.
He was their dad. He was their father. He was allowed to be that man now.
“I’m guessing this loudmouth told you then,” Jack said, squeezing Jenny’s arm.
Sam frowned. Shook his head, like he didn’t know what Jack was on about. “I just remembered you. I had the Ticklemonster dream again. And I saw it was your face so I knew it was you.”
Jack couldn’t stop himself smiling. “Well… Yeah. I am the Ticklemonster, I guess.”
They were quiet for a few more seconds. Jenny had gone silent, stopped crying. She tucked her head on to her dad’s chest even more, and they all just sat there in perfect silence.
“If you are the Ticklemonster, you have to show us you are or we won’t believe you,” Jenny said.
Jack raised his eyebrows. Laughed. “Is that so?”
Sam smiled. Wriggled around.
“Well, if that is the case… Tickle tickle tickle!”
The two kids wriggled and laughed and squirmed as Jack tickled them.
He felt himself laughing. Felt himself completely warm inside, completely at ease.
He felt happiness.
After five minutes of messing around, Jack opened the cabin door and stared out into the pouring rain, out at the fields. The late afternoon sun was behind clouds, but it had burned through them, sending a beam of light over the hills in the distance.
“Where are we going for something to eat?” Sam asked.
Jack reached into his pocket. Pulled out the little White Moss Caravan Park card which Jeff had left with him. A few hours on foot, maybe? He’d walked the Morecambe Bay walk once when he was a kid. Nine miles, but that was across sea.
“Let’s go give Thomas a visit,” Jack said.
Sam cheered and whooped. Jenny tutted and rolled her eyes.
The three of them stepped out into the rain and walked again.
Together.
A family.
TWENTY-SIX
Rodrigo Pritchard doesn’t know how to react when he sees the little family. Man, girl, boy, all happy, all holding hands.
It is a long time since he was happy. Since he held anyone’s hand.
He watches them step out of the shed in the distance. Smiles on their faces. But they shouldn’t be smiling. Not in a world as nasty, as horrible as this. Nobody should be smiling.
Nobody normal.
He shuffles around as he looks through the dusty second-floor window. He can smell piss, probably his own. It must be his own because he can feel dampness in his cargo pants too. But that doesn’t bother him. Something he’s done all his life. Something he’s never minded.
He can smell something sour too, as he watches the man, the pretty little girl and the skinny boy wander down the country lane.
He knows what that something sour is. Who that something sour is.
A perk of this crazy new world everyone is living in.
He stands up. Walks away from the dusty window, across the stained pink carpet and over the fallen cigarette ash. His mummy. Always smoked inside. Told Rodrigo it was good for his lungs. Built up his immune system.
Mummy said a lot of things that weren’t true. Rodrigo knew that now.
He walks over to the fridge. Opens it up. Tins of beans inside, opened. Some of them going furry on top. Opened them weeks ago. He grabs one of the non-furry ones. Sticks a rusty spoon into the beans, licks the cold ones out of the tin. If he’d known the world was gonna go to shit, he’d have saved things like beans and canned food.
He licks his lips.
At least now the world has gone to shit, he can indulge in some of his other tastes.
He puts the bean tin back in the fridge. Closes the fridge door, quietly, in case some of the nasty zombie fucks want to chase him, hunt him down. But when he looks over at his flat door—or rather, his mum’s flat door—and sees the beige sofa pressed right up against it, he knows he shouldn’t worry.
Don’t worry, honey, Mummy would tell him. Daddy won’t find us in here. We’re safe, me and you.
He’d suck on her sour breast and a wave of calm would overcome him.
He steps over the torn-up section of the old carpet that has been there in all his thirty-nine years on this earth and he walks up to his mum’s bedroom door. He thinks about knocking. Thinks about knocking, like he always knocks when he hears the squeaky bed, when he hears her making her animal noises.
Then he smiles. Chuckles to himself.
No need to knock anymore. Silly Rodrigo. Silly, silly Rodrigo.
He looks back over at the window. Looks at the man, girl and boy walking away down the country lane, away from the city. He knows if he is quick, he can catch them. He can be friends with them. Because that’s all he’s ever wanted: friends. Mummy always told him friends were bad for him. That other people from the outside could make him bad, make him nasty.
Daddy used to tell her to stop being stupid cause Rodrigo was nasty anyway.
Daddy was probably right.
He turns back to the door. Grabs the silver handle. Lowers it. He’s seen inside the room already, but he just wants to see one more time. One more time, and then he’ll go make new friends.
And he won’t get angry with these new friends. He won’t get mad at them, even when they don’t want to do what he wants them to do. He won’t get mad at them like he has before.
He’ll just play with them.
“Got to go out, Mummy,” he says, as he pushes open the door. The sourness overcomes him. Smells so good. Reminds him of the first accident he made four years ago with the girl in the woods. Reminds him of the taste of her skin. The taste of her tongue, even when it’d gone cold.
He pushes the door further open. Breathes in the sourness. Squints over at the bed.
“Found some friends,” he says.
Mummy is lying on the bed. She is naked. Strapped down by those weird handcuffs that she had on the corners of the bed.
Her head is dangling to her body by a slither of skin.
For a minute, he feels sad to see Mummy like this. Feels sad seeing all the blood all over her wrinkly skin, and the way her eyes look like they used to be a person’s but not anymore.
But then he goes to the bottom of the bed. Picks up the sword that used to be on the wall for decoration. Takes in the smells, imagines the tastes…
Remembers all the bad things she did to him, all his life.
“Gonna get some friends and nothing you can do to stop me now,” he says.
He turns away from his mum’s bed. Walks out of the dark room, towards the lounge of the flat. Looks out of the window, sword in hand.
In the distance, he can still see the man, the girl, the boy.
He licks his lips.
He is going to have fun with them.
They are going to love him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I thought you said there wasn’t long to go, Dad?”
Jack and the kids walked down the winding country roads. They’d passed a few villages on the way, as the afternoon sun took on a distinctly evening glow. They hadn’t come into any trouble, which in turn troubled Jack. He wondered where these runners
were. Were they just all around the big cities? Surely some of them had migrated to the countryside?
He hoped they hadn’t. He hoped he could just keep walking, reach White Moss Caravan Park and find Jeff, Elissa and Thomas.
He knew now he should probably have gone with them in the first place.
The sound of concrete being scraped made Jack jump again. He looked around, saw it was Jenny. Just kept on tumbling over after putting a pair of oversized Converse on her feet. Sam tutted, Jenny told him he was an idiot for tutting, and Jack felt compelled to tell them to stop bickering and respect one another.
“Sorry, Dad,” Sam said.
They walked past a village pub. Doors and windows barred up. Truth was, Jack was still getting used to his kids addressing him as “Dad”. It was still new. Fresh. And although he’d long been allergic to the idea of responsibility, it did bring a closeness between him and his children. He actually felt like they were there for him as much as he was for them.
Like they were together.
“It’ll just be nice to have something to eat and drink,” Sam said. “Maybe Elissa will give us some food again.”
They’d long ago banned talk of food and drink. Decided it just got them thinking too much about how hungry they were. But occasionally, the topic of food slipped into the conversation. Jack wished he’d become a better hunter before all this shit started. He’d been invited on a few hunting trips by a wacky old uncle of his in the past, but he’d always turned them down.
What he’d give now to know how to catch a rabbit, or even just a few fish. It’d make things a hell of a lot easier.
“A nice bowl of rice pudding,” Sam said. “With jam on top and…” He looked around. Realised his error in talking about food. “Oh. Sorry—”
“You don’t have to apologise all the time,” Jack said. “It’s understandable. You’re hungry. I’m hungry too. We’ll find something. I promise.”
Jack regretted promising anything to his children. Truth was, he couldn’t promise a thing. No one could.
All he could promise was that he’d keep his children as safe as he possibly could.
And even the idea of that was scary.
“What if Jeff and the others are gone?” Jenny asked.
Sam frowned. “You shouldn’t say that—”
“No, she’s right,” Jack said. They kept on walking down a new country road. In the distance, Jack saw hills rising. A small farmhouse up ahead. Further ahead, sight of the coast, the sun on the verge of dipping under the horizon. “It’s something we have to be totally prepared for.”
“Yeah. Especially with what you said about them,” Jenny said.
Sam squinted at his sister. “I didn’t say anything about them. Tell her, Dad. I didn’t say anything.”
Jack just sighed. He couldn’t tell Jenny anything of the sort because he knew exactly what Jenny was talking about. Back when they’d departed from Jeff, Elissa and Thomas. Sam had said something about “something bad happening to them”. Maybe it was just speculation. Fear. Worry, after everything else that had happened.
Or maybe it was something to do with his blackouts. His weird dreams.
They moved past the farmhouse. Jack squinted through the window, swore he saw movement. But then again the tiredness on top of his short-sightedness was hardly helping.
“Stay close, kids. And stay alert. Always.”
They headed down the narrowing road. Saw a sign up on the left with that little White Moss squirrel on it. Further ahead, caravans. Static caravans, like holiday homes. Posh ones, too. The place looked nice. Perfect little seaside getaway, much like one Jack used to go on with his grandparents when he was a kid.
Except this place looked empty. It was silent.
Jack had learned not to trust silence anymore.
They stayed close as they walked past the first batch of caravans. A part of Jack wanted to avoid looking through the caravan windows for fear of what he might see, but he knew that knowing anything was inside there was much, much better than the alternative—not knowing what was following them.
He looked down one road, which was filled with caravans. No sign of life.
Looked down another. Autumn leaves drifting from a tree, scraping against the road. No sign of life.
“How are we supposed to know where Thomas is?” Sam asked.
“Use your special powers,” Jenny said.
The pair of them bickered. Jack reached into his pocket as he approached a dip in the road. Pulled out the White Moss card. Flipped it over—looked for a caravan number, a road, anything like that.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He was about to turn around and find a caravan of his and his kids’ own when he heard a screaming down the road ahead.
He looked up. Squinted, his vision blurry. His kids stopped walking. Stared, just like he did.
There was a man at the end of the street. He was on the road. Lying flat on it. Surrounding him, intestines. Torn-out body parts.
“Wait, that’s…”
Sam didn’t need to continue, and he didn’t. Because Jack knew exactly who it was—Jeff.
But what scared Jack more—what made the hairs on his arm stand up—was the person tearing the guts out of him.
“Back up the road. Slowly. No sudden movements.”
They stepped away. Stepped away, as Jeff continued to shout out, continued to struggle.
Jack’s heart pounded. He kept his eyes on Jeff. Kept his eyes on him, even though it was horrifying, even though it was impossible to understand.
He kept his eyes on Jeff until his son, Thomas, looked up at Jack, looked him right in the eyes with glazy eyes of his own.
Thomas was one of them.
Somehow, he was one of them.
There was a momentary pause. Breeze brushed over the caravan site, as Jack stared into Thomas’ glassy, childish eyes and Thomas stared back at him.
And then Thomas stood up. Stood up, holding a small knife, blood dripping from the end of it.
“Run,” Jack whispered.
And they would’ve run, if there weren’t three runners already standing at the top of the road, blocking their path.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jack looked to the road on the right. Looked for an escape, as the three runners on the top road got closer to them.
But all that was on the right was Thomas.
Thomas, Jeff and Elissa’s kid.
Thomas, blood dripping from a little knife in his hand.
Thomas, glassy-eyed, his dad’s gutted body lying in front of him.
Jack looked over his shoulder. Stone wall, way too high to climb. No way out. He had to try something. He had to pick a route.
The three runners on the top road.
Thomas on the bottom road.
He held his breath. Listened to the patter of the top-road runners’ footsteps getting closer.
Then, “Now,” he shouted.
He ran with his kids in hand down the bottom road. Ran towards Thomas, all small and frail. Figured he had a better chance of dealing with Thomas than the three bulkier runners on the top road. He saw them pick up as he started to run. Heard them gasping, heard their footsteps getting closer.
Thomas didn’t look fazed by Jack’s and the kids’ approach. He didn’t look anything.
He just looked. Stared. Eyes that had been so full of life earlier that day were now gone, replaced by something completely vacant.
The sun was close to dipping below the horizon, but not close enough. Jack ran. Ran as fast as he could. Ran at Thomas, trying all he could to keep his footing, the smell of sweat and death getting closer as he passed the final caravans.
He let go of his children’s hands. Let go, held his breath.
He tried not to see Thomas as he clattered into him. Tried not to see him as he pressed him down the road, tore the knife out of his bleeding fingers.
He tried not to see him as he rammed the knife into his head, Jeff’s dead body look
ing on just feet away.
Once Jack was sure Thomas was dead, he turned and saw the three runners at the top of the road. They slowed slightly. Slowed when they saw Jack standing there with the small blade in hand. They twitched. Twitched, half-glanced at one another.
Jack backed away slowly with his kids beside him. Lifted the bloody knife he’d taken from Thomas, pointed at them.
He thought for a moment that maybe they’d just back away. Maybe he’d proven to them that he could take them out, or some shit like that.
That thought evaporated when the two runners at the front sprinted in his direction.
He held his breath. Held the knife in his shaking hand. Waited for them to arrive, to try and stab them in the sides of their heads. There was no point running anymore. No point running from something that was on the verge of catching you. Better to dig in your heels. Stand your ground.
Aim, and prepare.
And then something weird happened. Something weird, just as the two runners got halfway down the road.
They slowed down. Slowed, turned, looked over their shoulders.
Then they stopped.
Jack stayed still. If he were in a fit state of mind, he’d have hidden right away, but he was acting all on instinct, all on gut reaction.
He stood there. Stood over Jeff’s and Thomas’ bloodied corpses, waited to see what the hell was going on.
“What’s that sound?” Jenny whispered.
Jack heard it just after Jenny brought it to his attention. A low hum, somewhere over to their right. He looked up. Looked over at the hedges at the back of the caravan gardens.
“It’s an engine,” Sam said. “Like… a car engine.”
Jack shook his head. Listened as the rumbling got closer. Watched as the runners grew more disoriented, more curious.
“It’s bigger. Come on.”
While the runners were still disoriented, Jack took a moment to creep into the nearest caravan garden with his kids. There was blood all over the grey stones, the concrete slabs. Blood, a trail of it, where someone had been dragged along.
Judging by the way Jeff was sprawled in the road, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened.
They walked to the ajar door of the caravan. Scuttled up the steps, moved away the pink curtain and checked the dim room for any unpleasant surprises. All the while, the rumbling got closer, the runners got more and more disoriented…
