by Ryan Casey
The others nodded. Mumbled in agreement.
“You don’t lay a hand on them—”
“I’m not some kind of pervert,” the leader said. Tutted, like he was offended. “No. No perverts here. A pervert-free zone.”
He stepped back away from Jack. Lowered his gun. Walked over to Jim’s quivering body as he sat on his knees.
“No perverts here, no. But we do want your kids. We want ‘um because they look healthy, and healthy kids ain’t much in abundance these days. So you make a call, good father. You make a call right here right now, just for fun. You really wanna stay here? Really wanna stay together with your kids?”
Jack swallowed the lump in his throat. Smelled piss—possibly his own, possibly Sam’s or Jenny’s. Probably Jim’s.
“Quick, mister. Make your mind up. Sun’s rising.”
Jack nodded fast. “Yes. I… Yes. I do.” He felt defeat in admitting this. Felt defeat in giving himself—giving his kids—up to these people.
But what else did he have?
“Good,” the leader said. He stepped behind Jim. Pushed his comrade away. “‘Cause I like a father who steps up. A man with responsibility.”
He smiled at Jack. A warm, honest smile, while the other dead-faced companions looked on in bewilderment.
“Shame we only got room for one man though,” he said.
He pulled out a butcher’s knife from his back pocket.
Yanked Jim’s head back, pressed the knife up against his skinny, sinewy neck.
When Jack tried to look away, he felt someone grip him. Felt someone grab his hair and push him down to the ground, forcing him to look.
Felt someone pull his kids away and force them to watch too.
“You will watch this and you’ll learn,” the leader said, as Jim shook and quivered and whimpered and tried all he could to get free.
Then the leader sliced across Jim’s neck, left to right, left to right.
Blood oozed out of Jim’s neck. Spluttered out of the growing wound as the leader continued to cut. Jim’s eyes went bloodshot and red. Sam and Jenny started to shake, started to cry.
Jack tried to close his eyes but someone yanked them open as he lay there belly down on the road.
He watched as the knife kept on cutting, as blood sprayed from Jim’s convulsing body. Listened as the knife punctured Jim’s windpipe, Jim squealing from the neck wound like a pig in an abattoir.
He watched as the leader cut through the bone. Listened to the unforgettable sound of that knife scraping and scraping, Jim still shaking and trying to get free, still crying somehow.
He watched as the leader sliced away at the final bit of tendon and muscle holding Jim’s head to his neck. Watched as Jim’s decapitated body fell to the ground. Watched as the blood pooled out on the pavement.
The leader held up Jim’s head. Grabbed his lips. Forced his severed head to smile.
“Don’t worry,” he said, swinging the head from side to side. “We’re your friends now. All friends here.”
He tossed Jim’s head across the concrete at Jenny and she let out the biggest cry Jack had ever heard.
FORTY-FIVE
Jack and his kids walked with their hands tied behind their backs until their feet were beyond sore and blistered.
The sun rose soon after they’d been captured. Fortunately for the group of men, they were on a country lane. Way away from any houses, any buildings, any society.
Arnside was long behind them.
The sun seared down, burned through the clouds and made Jack’s arms sting as he was pushed along, gun constantly prodding into his back. His right side was aching even more after he’d been knocked to the ground. His mouth was chapped and he could taste nothing but damp old tape wrapped around his mouth.
But it wasn’t self-pity he felt. It was sympathy for his children.
His children, who’d had to witness Jim’s beheading, right in front of them.
His children, who although they’d seen a whole host of horrible things since the start of the new world, would never possibly get that image out of their heads.
Jack knew he wouldn’t.
“How’s the kids lookin’?” Ranger, the main guy, asked.
Jack flinched when he did. Flinched, tried to turn around and reach for his kids, but it was no use. They were behind him, and someone had a gun pointed to his back.
Sam and Jenny were in just as bad a situation themselves.
A greasy-haired, skinny man called Travis was keeping an eye on them. “Looking fine,” he muttered.
“Good,” Ranger said. He nodded. Little smile twitched at the corners of his grey-bearded mouth. “Want to keep it that way too. You know what it means for all of you if we hand over two healthies. You know the kind of power that gives us.”
“Yes sir,” one of the men said.
A few other mumbles of agreement.
Jack gave up trying to resist and walked along some more. He understood what was happening now. What the purpose of this whole exercise was. These men, they were bandits of some kind. Bandits who clearly got a kick from going around and spreading their destructiveness. The kind of men with no responsibilities, no commitments, that a world like this was designed for.
The kind of man Jack could have been if he hadn’t stepped up to the plate as a dad.
“Better find some place to rest up here anyway. Don’t wanna take any risks.”
They walked further down this country road. Jack smelled burning, but could taste nothing but the damp tape mixed with blood. He knew what this meant—what they were planning. They were planning to take his kids away. Sell them to the highest bidder because they were “healthy.” What Stuart said about the kids all turning eventually when they had the dreams… he must’ve been on the mark.
Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was only speaking from his own experiences. Because that’s all anyone had now, without news or official reports: their own experiences.
But as they kept on prodding Jack in his back with their guns, kept on kicking the back of his thighs so that he tumbled over, hit his face, got dragged back up only to tumble over again, he had to ask the question: what was the point of him being here?
Why had they kept him alive?
He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered whether he was just being dragged along to make this whole scenario more painful for him, his children.
They reached a little country pub. Just up on the left. Windows weren’t boarded up. Neither was the door. Place looked dark. Abandoned. Unoccupied.
“Stay close,” Ranger said. “We’ll stick together. Go in through the front. Don’t want another Red Lion.”
“Amen to that,” Travis said.
They approached the entrance to the country pub. Looked quiet inside. Some of the windows were cracked, and it looked gloomy and lacked the typical warmth of a country pub.
The men stepped up to the big, black-painted wooden door. One of them lifted a hand to open it.
A shuffling inside. Definite footsteps cracking against what sounded like broken glass.
The balding man in the bulky tracksuit pulled away. Shook his head. “Shit. Ain’t no way I’m goin’ in through there. No fuckin’ way. Not after Arnie.”
“Fucking pussy, Blake,” another of the guys said.
“Yeah?” the tracksuited guy said, squaring up to his friend. Pushed him in the chest. “Don’t see you fuckin’ volunteerin’.”
“Alright, alright,” Ranger shouted. “If we dick around out here long enough, we’re gonna draw whatever’s in there out towards us. There’s a way around this. Risk-free way of checking what’s inside.”
He looked right at Jack. Steely grey eyes glimmered.
“Ungag him. But keep his hands tied. Send him to take a look. About time he had some fucking use.”
The men behind Jack kicked him in his back so he tumbled to the ground and pulled away the tape around his mouth, pulled so hard th
at it cut his skin. He gasped. Gasped, as a trail of bloody saliva dangled down from the sides of his mouth.
On the ground, he got a good look at his kids. Saw the horror in their faces. But mostly, it was shock that was there. The way Sam was shaking ever so lightly. And Jenny’s face—pale beyond comprehension. Tears were stained down her face like scars.
“Get up,” one of the men said. Dragged him to his feet and pushed him towards the pub door.
“You know how this works,” Ranger said. Planted a hand on Jack’s shoulder and smiled at him. “You go in. You look around. You survive and we know this place is safe. Die and we know it isn’t.”
Jack stared back into Ranger’s eyes. Stared back with so much hate. So much anger bubbling underneath. He was beyond begging for his children’s freedom. He’d known guys like this before the world fell—guys who took pleasure in the power, the status.
Jack took in a shaky breath, hurting his chest in the process. Leaned onto the pub door with his shoulder.
“Oh,” Ranger said. He pulled Jack back. Made him ache some more. “Don’t try anything. I won’t kill your children, but I promise I’ll hurt them. Ain’t nothin’ a little finger-snipping’s gonna do to their health, huh?”
Jack resisted the urge to lunge at Ranger. Looked over at his children. They didn’t even react to Ranger’s words—they were still so laced in shock that nothing could make anything any worse for them. Probably for the better, poor kids.
Jack turned around. Faced the door. Listened inside for any more sounds—nothing. No scuttling. No movement.
He leaned in again. Let the door creak open, the smells of stale beer surrounding him, and he shuffled inside.
The interior of the pub was strange, now he was inside it. There were unfinished pints sat on tables. Glasses smashed on the floor. On the wall above a real log fireplace by some red-cushioned chairs and circular wooden tables, there was a massive LCD television.
Flickering white noise lit up the pub.
The door slammed shut behind him. Made him jump as it echoed all through the empty building.
Or at least, the building he hoped was empty.
He took a few steps. Was careful not to tread on any glass, make his sore feet any worse. He looked at the table. Looked for a sign of movement, a sign of life—nothing.
Over to the right, the pub was pretty much the same. A dining area. Menus still resting upright. The special of the day, Beef Wellington, chalked on a blackboard and dated Monday. Jack wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore. He’d stopped counting. He’d figure that out again when the world picked up the pieces.
If the world ever picked up the pieces. Admittedly, that wasn’t looking anywhere near likely.
He peeked over the bar. It was empty there too. He’d definitely heard a noise when he was outside—everyone had. Something scuttling. Something scratching around. Something—
The floorboards creaked above him.
His heart picked up. He looked over at the door behind the bar. Slightly ajar. Swinging a little.
He took a deep breath and crept behind the bar, over towards that door.
Before he entered the door, he crouched down, which wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be with no hands to support him. He picked up a piece of a broken pint glass. Held it behind his back, the thick wire holding his wrists together.
He tried to cut himself free for a moment, but he quit when he realised he didn’t have the right angle on it.
Besides, what Ranger had said. What he’d said he’d do to Sam and Jenny if he tried anything. He couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t put them through any more than they’d already been through.
He got back to his feet. Walked closer to the door. Pushed it aside with his left shoulder.
Inside the doorway, there was a staircase to the right. It led up to another door, this one wide open. It was windowless in here, so it was as dark as night even though the sunlight was strong outside.
He stared up the staircase. Listened for the footsteps again, for the creaking, but didn’t hear a thing. The only thing he heard was the sound of his own breathing. The sound of his own heartbeat.
He gripped the glass so tightly in his hands that he cut it and he moved onto the first step.
As he made his way up the stairs, step by step, he heard the creaking again. Heard the movement. It got closer to him. Closer to the open doorway. Closer to the staircase.
He held his breath. Readied himself to tumble down as the runner threw itself at him. At least he had darkness on his side. At least he had time. At least he—
Movement. Something threw itself at him. Growling, barking.
Jack fell down the stairs, dropped the glass, smacked his head on the hard floor of the pub.
His head fuzzed. Vision went blurry. But all along, he could see what it was. He could hear what was making the noises.
A dog. Golden retriever. Only some of its fur had been tugged away. It was bony as hell. Kind of looked like one of those dogs that entered into the ugliest dog competitions.
It sat over him. Barked in his face with its rancid breath, drooled onto him. It had a scar over its left eye, which was slightly discoloured.
“Alright, boy,” he said. He pulled himself up. Couldn’t help but smile. “Just a dog,” he said. He turned to the pub door. Raised his voice. “Just a dog!”
Nobody replied.
He got back to his feet. Felt dizzy as he did. His head throbbed now too. Jesus, there wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t hurt.
The dog stopped barking when he stood over it. Peered down at it, asserted his dominance.
It let out a low, grumbling growl and lowered its head as Jack stumbled back from behind the bar and to the pub door.
He reached the door, shaking with realisation and shock and relief. It was just a dog. He was alive.
He was going to survive a little longer.
He turned around. Struggled to get a grip on the door handle with his cut hand. Managed eventually, got his foot between the door and the frame, the dog still watching and growling from inside the pub.
“Just a dog,” he said, when he got the door open.
But his voice was worthless. No one was there to hear it.
He stepped forward. Stepped out of the pub, down the concrete steps. He looked down the road—looked to the left, looked to the right.
He wanted to shout. Wanted to scream as he looked for Ranger, for Travis, for his children.
His heart raced. Breathing got tricky. Sunlight was hot but he felt hotter and hotter inside as he tugged at his binds and shook them, trying to get free, trying to get out.
The dog came up to him. Nudged his leg with its head.
“Fuck off. My—my children. I… My children. They…”
Jack looked down at the dog.
Saw what it had in its mouth.
He crumpled to his knees. His lips shook as the realisation hit him in waves.
A severed little human finger, bone sticking out of the bottom.
FORTY-SIX
Jack ran as fast as he could down the country road.
He looked for a sign. Looked for signs that Ranger had taken his kids this way. Something dropped, footprints, stuff like that. They couldn’t have gone too far. They were on foot, and Jack had only been in the pub for, what? Five minutes? Less than that? More than that?
His stomach sank and he stopped running when he considered they might’ve turned back on themselves.
He looked over his shoulder. Taste of sick in his mouth from when he’d seen that little severed finger in the golden retriever’s mouth.
The dog was still following him. Panting and staring at Jack. Dependent on somebody to help him. Somebody to save him.
“I can’t look after you,” Jack said. He ran back in the direction of the pub, hands still tied behind his back with wire, but he wasn’t sure what to do, which way to go. He felt lost. Disoriented.
He’d lost Sam and Jenny. He’d let t
hem down. He’d failed them.
As he reached the pub entrance again, barely able to run any more, he leaned forward as a stitch tore its way through his stomach. The dog was still behind him, watching him closely.
“I can’t look after anyone,” Jack said.
The sun burned the back of his neck. He’d lost them. He’d lost his children. What hope did he have of finding them?
And shit—what was he hoping to achieve when he did find them? Ranger would kill him. Because this was his torture. This was Ranger’s way of getting to him, of tormenting him.
He’d left Jack alone. All alone with his hands behind his back in the middle of daylight.
All alone to ponder the fact he’d failed his children.
That was a fate worse than death in this new world.
He crouched down. Sat against the step of the pub. Let the wind brush against him, the smells of the fresh country air surrounding him. The dog sat beside him. Panted, its tongue dangling out.
“Looks like… like it’s just you and me now,” Jack said. Realised instantly how lost he was, how lonely he was, that he was talking to a dog. He’d never even fucking liked dogs, for one. Had a bad allergic reaction to a Westie his mum brought home when he was a kid. Got attached to it, and then got upset when she took it away because he was waking up every morning with his eyes the size of grapefruits. So he resented dogs for that. Resented them for not allowing him to bond with them.
Just another thing he couldn’t care for in this world.
In his blurry, exhausted state of mind, he figured the best thing to do now was just to wait. Wait for an inevitable flock of runners to come along and mutilate him to a bloody pulp. There was nothing else he could do. He could run down the road to the left and end up in the middle of nowhere, lost, tired, hungry.
Or he could run to the right and go back to Arnside where he’d end up in the same predicament.
Or he could wait here. Sit and wait here for the inevitable. Sit, watch the orange autumn leaves drift along the road, and wait for the ending.
