by Ryan Casey
He brought the knife down again and again. Sliced and fucked up Rodrigo’s twisted, blood-soaked smile, as he started to shake, as the little life that was already there drifted out of his eyes.
“Nobody. Nobody touches them.”
He listened to the footsteps outside and he listened to the whimpering of his children and he stabbed Rodrigo in his neck again, in his skinny chest, in his belly. Didn’t care that he’d gone still long ago.
He kept on stabbing, slicing, cutting.
When he finally stopped, he looked at his children. Looked at them with reassurance, to show them everything was okay, that they were safe now.
They clutched each other. Looked at Jack with complete and utter fear.
“It’s okay now. I’m here. It’s okay,” he said.
But as the footsteps raced outside, as the gasps and cries of the runners surrounded the caravan, as he crouched over the mangled corpse of a man they’d all grown to trust, he knew his words meant nothing.
He knew he couldn’t be a dad because of the fear in their eyes.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jack’s kids didn’t speak to him that night.
They lay on the floor of the back bedroom of the caravan, both of them huddled up together. They usually stayed in the lounge, but they couldn’t anymore.
Not with what was on the lounge floor.
Not with the blood on the lounge carpet.
Not with the memories of what’d happened to Rodrigo so fresh in their minds.
Jack stared up into the darkness. Shivered a little, but he wasn’t sure whether that was because he was cold or simply because the weight of everything he’d done was pummelling down on him. His felt sick, the few spoonfuls of pea and ham soup he’d managed lingering in his throat.
The beating he’d got didn’t help either. He’d covered his left arm up with some old bandages he’d found in one of the drawers. But his ribs, they still wrecked. Hurt him to breathe in too deeply. He’d probably cracked a couple. Needed them seeing to.
Didn’t have that luxury in this world anymore.
He thought about what he’d done. About the events earlier that day.
He’d put the blade into Rodrigo. Cut him up. Brutalised him. Lost all sense of what he was doing, all control.
And he’d felt good about it.
He turned over to his children. He wanted to say something to them. Wanted to reassure them.
When he looked at them, squinted at them in the darkness, he was sure he saw Jenny’s eyes snap shut. Both of the kids were rigid.
He sighed and turned the other way. What they’d seen—the things he’d done to Rodrigo—they shouldn’t have witnessed it. He realised that now. But at the time, it seemed like the right thing for him to do. The right way to deal with somebody who threatened to take his children away.
The right thing for a father to do.
“I know you’re not happy about what I did,” Jack said, hoping one of them was listening. “But I… Rodrigo. He wasn’t who he says he was. He wasn’t a good man.”
“And you’re a good man?”
Jenny’s voice took Jack by surprise. He turned back over. Looked at her.
She had her eyes closed. Her body was still rigid. She clutched on to a little pink pack of Kleenex tissues with a picture of a bunny rabbit on them, the closest thing in this place to a teddy.
Jack gulped. Gulped and dampened his dry throat. “I never said I was a good man. I wouldn’t tell a lie like that. I’ve… I’ve done things in my life that no good man would ever do.”
“Like go to prison?” Sam asked.
Great. So Candice had told them. Nice of her to be honest. “Yes. Like go to prison. Hardly Dad of the Year material.”
He kind of hoped for Sam to smile, to laugh.
Of course, he was completely off the mark.
“I’m… I’m not good at this. This Dad thing. I’ve… I’ve never had the chance to… to try it. So you have to understand it’s not easy for me. Saying the right things. Doing the right things.”
“Stabbing Rodrigo was a bad thing to do,” Jenny said.
“But it was the right thing to do,” Jack said. His arms tingled. He couldn’t help but raise his voice. “Sometimes the bad thing and the right thing are different. And—and this world we live in now. We have to make these tough choices. We have to… we have to do things. To stay alive. To protect each other.”
Sam opened his eyes a little. Rolled his lips, like he was trying to figure out what to say.
“Sam? Is there something you want to ask me?”
He rolled his lips some more. “I… If we have to do bad things. Then how does that make us different to the bad people?”
Jack wanted to go over there and hug Sam, but he wasn’t sure if Sam would be ready yet. Besides, all this mollycoddling, was it even a good thing anymore? He’d seen what this world was like. He had to be tough. Tough, to protect his children.
But they had to be tough too. As Rodrigo had proven, the bad people didn’t stop at the runners.
“My dad once told me something,” Jack said. “We… we were talking about 9/11. The Trade Center bombings. And I couldn’t understand it. Like everyone, I couldn’t believe anyone would want to cause a loss of life on that scale. I couldn’t believe that… that anyone could be so inherently bad.
“And my Dad turned around to me. Turned around and—and he said, ‘Jack, they don’t think they’re the bad ones. They’re just doing what they think’s right. Doesn’t matter how wrong it is to us, everyone thinks they’re the good guys.’ And it just… it stuck with me. I dunno.”
He turned and looked at his kids. Expected them to have their eyes closed—for their bodies to be rigid again.
But instead, they were both on their sides. Both looking at him, like he was being given his first shot at story-time.
He shuffled up closer to them. Hurt his side in the process. “Kids, I’ve done some bad things in my life. I’ve robbed shops, stolen jewellery, I’ve hurt people. I’ve… I’ve walked out on you two. Walked out on your mum when I should’ve been there. But right now, I’ve… I swear to God I’ll do anything I can to protect you. And I’m so sorry for the things you’ve seen. So sorry for the things you’ve had to witness. And… and I’m sorry for the way I dealt with Rodrigo. But I was just…” A lump swelled up in his throat. An outpouring of an unfamiliar emotion that overtopped the anger he’d felt towards Rodrigo, only much, much nicer. “I love you.”
Jenny didn’t say anything in return. She just nodded a little. Her eyes looked tired and were red underneath.
That nod of the head was all Jack needed to know she understood.
“Love you too, Dad,” Sam said.
Jack reached over. Brushed his hand against his face, bonier than he remembered it when he saved them from their mum’s. Narrower cheekbones. All the walking, the lack of sleep, the stress.
Another reality of the new world.
“I… I can’t promise I’ll be the dad you want me to be,” Jack said, stroking Sam’s hair but addressing Jenny too. “But I’ll do everything I can to fight for you. I promise you that. You… you need to be tough now. We all do. I’ll help you be tough.”
Sam nodded. Weary little eyelids drifted up and down.
“You get some sleep now, son.”
Sam yawned. “I don’t want to.”
Jack turned onto his back. Rested his head on his hands and listened to the wind whistle against the caravan. “Need your sleep. Need your energy. It’s important.”
“But the… I still get the nightmares, Dad.”
Jack’s heart fluttered. “The… the dreams?” He thought of Thomas. Remembered Thomas being the only one like Sam to have these weird dreams. Remembered how Thomas ended up stabbing his dad in his stomach. “They’re just… Try to remember they’re just dreams. They can’t hurt you.”
A slight pause. “It’s not me who gets hurt in the dreams.”
Jack looked back at
Sam. His eyes were wide open now, and he stared up at the ceiling. “Who does, then?”
Sam closed his eyes. Little Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. “It’s you.”
THIRTY-NINE
Jack had hazy dreams that kept on waking him up in cold sweat.
Dreams of blood. Dreams of his children covered in blood. Dreams of Rodrigo standing up again, stinking of charred chicken while maggots feasted on his stab wounds.
Dreams of Candice standing over Mr. Biggs and stabbing him.
Only it wasn’t Candice stabbing Mr. Biggs. It was Jack stabbing Candice.
Rage burning up inside.
Taste of blood on his lips.
Sounds of shouting, screaming, so loud that he couldn’t get them away.
And then he saw the stars and they were dancing and moving, drifting down the street, only they had faces and arms and legs and they were reaching out to him, trying to take him, trying to…
“Dad? Dad? Wake up.”
He felt his arm shaking and fast opened his eyes, gasped and winced at the same time, forgetting his wounded ribs. It was still dark. Somehow, even though his dreams felt like they’d lasted forever, it was still dark.
“Do you hear it, Dad? What is it?”
Jenny was the one shaking his arm. He lifted himself up. His head was dizzy, his face dripping with sweat. He clenched the bridge of his nose, his head ringing, as they sat there in the back bedroom.
And then he heard what the kids were talking about.
There was a siren going off. An air raid siren, somewhere in the distance. It whirred like one that used to go off down the road from Jack when he was a kid. Used to scare him and make him think World War III was here.
Now, he knew it was something much, much worse.
“It’s like the sound on the Xbox game Simon plays,” Sam said. “Like Call of Duty.”
Jack struggled to his feet. Arm felt fine, but his ribs were still aching like mad. He’d probably be able to run a short distance, but not far.
He hoped he wouldn’t be faced with that predicament tonight.
He moved over to the bedroom door.
“Where you going?” Jenny asked.
“I need to take a look outside. Sounds like it’s coming from behind us.”
Jenny and Sam both rushed up beside Jack. “Can we come?”
Jack wanted to say no. He wanted to tell his kids it was safer here.
“Yes. But stay close. And be ready to run.” After last time he’d told them to stay put in the caravan, he didn’t want to take any chances. Besides, they had to be tough, and they were tougher together.
He couldn’t mollycoddle them anymore. Couldn’t belittle them.
He had to prepare them.
Jack slipped on some white Converse that were by the caravan door, a few sizes too small, and grabbed the torch. He didn’t look at the mess in the middle of the lounge. Didn’t look at the area he’d covered up with a blanket, blood already running through it.
He didn’t want to think about Rodrigo anymore.
He moved the cabinet away from the door. Unlocked the door, turned the handle, stepped out into the cold night air.
First thing he checked was the moon. It was barely visible—a small crescent distorted by the clouds. That was a good thing. Very little natural light. They should be fine.
He walked down the concrete steps, his kids close behind him, and stepped into the garden. The siren was even louder outside. Definitely coming from somewhere behind the caravan, too.
“Is there gonna be explosions, Dad?” Sam asked. “Because… because I hope there aren’t explosions because—”
“Keep quiet. Stay close.”
They made their way down the front of the caravan, down the stones towards the road. The noise was coming from up in the hills behind the caravan site, over by where they’d seen the weird red streams falling from the sky just a few nights ago.
“What’s that light?” Jenny asked.
Jack saw it. A beam of light shining right into the sky from the top of the hill. His stomach sank when he saw it. Idiots who’d set off the air raid siren clearly didn’t realise what shit they were causing by shining a light. They were attracting runners to their position. A dumb idea destined to die along with whoever had set it off.
“Come on,” Jack said. He put his hands on Jack and Jenny’s backs. “Nothing to see here. Best go inside.”
“The writing,” Sam said. “The writing in the sky.”
Jack wasn’t sure what to say to Sam. He looked at him—looked to see if he was having another one of his weird trippy moments.
But Sam looked himself. Looked normal. He stared up at the light with complete lucidity.
“Come on. It’s getting cold. It’s—”
“He’s right,” Jenny said. She pointed at the sky. “Look at the writing.”
Jack got an awful feeling that maybe Jenny had been hit with these weird hallucinations too as he turned around and looked at the sky.
What he saw quashed that feeling right away.
“It’s like Batman,” Sam said.
Jack’s heart pounded. Pounded, as he tried to read the words, as he processed what he was seeing.
The beam of light was shining into the sky.
But where the beam ended, there was a message. Fridge-magnet letters that had been cut out and placed on top of the huge lamp.
“What does it say?” Jack asked. It was too blurry for him to make out properly, but he knew this was big. A beam of light into the night sky to alert people of its presence—that was a stupid idea.
But a message. A message was different.
A message could change everything.
Sam squinted. “Don’t… go…”
“Don’t Go to the Noise,” Jenny butted in. “And… and then underneath… Woods to Arnside. Safety.”
Jack put a hand on Jenny’s shoulder and stared up at the light, stared up at the message in the sky.
Someone was shining the light, ringing the siren, to attract the runners towards it.
But that location wasn’t where the “Safety” was.
“What do we do?” Sam asked. “What does it mean?”
Jack took in a few deep breaths of the cold night air. Put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, too. “It means we go to Arnside,” he said.
FORTY
Jack and the kids packed a small rucksack each and set on their way to Arnside.
Jack wanted to get going before it got light. It was 5 a.m, so at this time of year they had another three hours or so yet. He carried a torch, but he wouldn’t light it unless he absolutely had to. Better to avoid any unnecessary attention.
And not just from runners, either.
They walked through the caravan site, past the rows of empty caravans. Specks of rain came down and pattered against the leaves in the hedgerows. Up ahead, Jack could see the entrance to the woods looming. In the distance, the siren continued to roar on, the message in the sky still there for all to see.
“Will we come back here?” Sam asked. “If it isn’t safe?”
Jack exhaled. “Sure.” He’d been wondering whether he was making the right call since seeing that message. Wondering whether maybe it was too good to be true. But the reality was, he was running low on food. The kids were running low on food. In a few days, they’d be completely out, and then Jack would have to try his hand at hunting, at fishing. Even raiding the other caravans had no real guarantees, especially at this time of year where very few people would be staying in them, so very few supplies would be left over.
Not everyone was a lunatic like Rodrigo, either. They’d stumbled upon a bad egg. A rare breed. They’d had their share of bad luck. It couldn’t get much worse.
Jack snapped that thought out of his head right away. Didn’t want to jinx it.
The smell of fresh earth filled Jack’s lungs as the rain continued to power down. Up ahead, he saw a dog lying by the side of the road. A brown Staffy. Lying on its side,
guts spilled out over the concrete.
The kids slowed down as they passed it. Stared at it, sadness on their faces.
“Come on,” Jack said. “We want to get there before morning.”
As they stepped right up to the mouth of the pitch-black woods, Jack got a serious case of doubt.
“It looks scary,” Sam said. “Is this… is this definitely the right woods?”
Jack looked back at the caravan site. Thought about the semi-decent life he’d had here. Except it hadn’t been. He was romanticising. Fantasising about a time that hadn’t actually been good at all.
There had to be better places than here. And they had to start with Arnside.
It was all about moving on to the next place now, like Elissa had said.
“I saw the signs up the road when we first got here,” Jack said. “Arnside’s in this direction. Through these woods and over this hill. We’ll get there in an hour or so. You ready?”
The kids looked back at the caravan site. Gripped tight hold of their rucksacks as the rain drenched their hair, giving them a good natural shower.
Sam nodded. Jenny did too.
They both stepped up beside their dad and the three of them walked into the woods, into the darkness.
***
Although it was pitch black in the woods, Jack was getting more accustomed to being surrounded by darkness. It was like his other senses were tuning up—the sound of twigs snapping somewhere in the distance, the difference in smell of living and barely-living, the taste of fear that crept up his throat whenever he got an instinctive bad feeling about a situation.
Just as well, really, with eyes as shitty as his.
They walked further into the woods. Their feet squelched in the muddy pathway. Rain pattered down through the blanket of trees around them, no protection in their leafless branches. His kids were quiet—and that was a good thing. They were learning. Learning to grow more aware of their surroundings. More wary of what might lurk in the darkness.
There was a good reason Jack wanted to get to Arnside as quickly as possible. He wanted to check out the “safe place” from a reasonable distance first. Wanted to see how legit it was—how organised. How much safer it was than the caravan site.
