by Hatchett
Dalston, London
The rain eventually stopped, although the dark clouds above threatened more. Mamba was behind schedule and knew he needed to get a move on, so he slowly rose to his feet, bent over at ninety degrees due to the low roof. He stretched as best he could then slowly took the steps back down to the ground. He then edged around the playground, stabbing the four zombies still mulling around. There were still several outside the fence, but they gave Mamba nothing more than a cursory glance. Normal business was resumed.
Mamba reached the gate and was about to open it when he heard some taps coming from the direction of the climbing frame and turned to see the dog coming down the steps before walking in his direction, the shortened lead still trailing on the floor behind it.
Mamba lent over and removed the lead then opened the gate and allowed the dog to go through first. He then headed slowly back along the path to Bunter Close to continue his journey.
It was clear after just a few yards than the dog was following Mamba, so he turned and tried to shoo the dog away. When Mamba walked on, the dog followed. Mamba turned again and told the dog to ‘sit’ and was pleased to see that his order was obeyed. He’d never had a dog, never really wanted one, and he certainly didn’t want one now, following him everywhere he went and effectively pointing out his position to anyone who happened to be watching. He had enough trouble looking after himself sometimes without worrying about a bloody dog, but the thought of setting the dog on Ahmed brought a smile to his face, although he knew it was just wishful thinking.
Mamba stood looking at the dog as the dog continued to stare at him and wondered what the hell to do. He needed to get moving because it could start to rain again any moment. In the end he ordered ‘stay’ and started backing off. The dog didn’t move, so he continued backing away. He reached the corner of a building and took a quick look around it before looking back at the dog. He ordered ‘stay’ again as if to reinforce his message, then eased around the corner and started to run.
Mamba sprinted to the far end of the building, not caring if he attracted any attention. He turned the next corner and stopped, took a couple of steps back and looked where he had just come from. No dog. Thank God.
Mamba quickly headed for a path between two other buildings which took him onto Boleyn Road, which then led him to Kingsland High Street.
He looked around carefully, spotting the shopping Centre about forty metres away to his left and once he was satisfied there was nothing to worry about, slowly merged onto the pavement and made his way to the entrance.
The Kingsland Shopping Centre was fairly large with over forty stores, its own car park and outdoor market. The largest stores included a Sainsbury’s supermarket and a bargain clothing store, but it also offered the usual high street coffee shops, pound store, electrical outlet, phone shop, furniture shop, sports shop and the like.
The main entrance used to have motion detectors but, without power, needed to be man-handled open by Mamba until he could slip through the gap he had created. He then closed the doors behind him to ensure no unwanted zombies followed, then he stood still and listened for any noises or movement. ‘What the fuck is that smell?’ he thought to himself and it didn’t take long for him to make an educated guess. He pulled a bandanna from his pocket, and taking a bottle of water from his rucksack, soaked the bandanna and then tied it across his mouth and nose. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but it was better than nothing. He’d have to find himself some more menthol gel when he got to the supermarket.
The centre was quiet, but extremely gloomy. Mamba looked up and could see a continuous line of glass window panes in the ceiling, with dark clouds rushing past high above, blocking the light. He looked back into the centre, waiting for his eyes to adjust and began to pick out different shapes lying on the floor and in the nearby stores. None appeared to be moving.
Satisfied that he was alone, Mamba shuffled across to one side and consulted a large plan of the centre. Apart from the various entrances, the centre was mainly one long hall with the supermarket at the far end on the right, so there wasn’t any chance of him going wrong. He headed off slowly, his footsteps echoing off the marble floor.
He passed numerous smaller stalls in the middle of the walkway, selling phone cases, leather goods, perfumes and scented candles. There were bodies strewn all over the place with blood splattered across the walls and shop windows, but the majority of the blood had congealed and dried in large sticky pools next to the bodies and were now covered with flies. Mamba noticed that all of the bodies were headless, and he was pretty sure the missing body parts were currently resting on spikes on the outer walls of the Dalston Estate.
Mamba looked inside some of the stores as he passed and could see more death and destruction. He felt glass crunch under his feet as he continued his progress, almost slipping at one point, but managing to snake an arm out to grab hold of one of the stalls and stay upright.
Eventually, he came to the supermarket entrance, but there was no sign of Ahmed. He had been told by Basir during one of their chats that the shopping centre had been cleared of zombies, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any scavengers around, so he approached slowly, holding a knife in each hand.
He entered the supermarket and stopped just inside the broken doorway to look around. Still no Ahmed, which was a little worrying.
It was obvious that the shop had been ransacked, but it had clearly been done selectively. He was about to move on and take a look down the aisles when a couple of heads popped up from behind the tobacco kiosk next to him and screamed. Mamba almost shat himself for the second time that day and was about to react until he recognised Ahmed and Basir, both of them smiling like Cheshire cats.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Basir explained quickly as they emerged from behind the counter. Basir had witnessed Mamba’s temper first-hand and didn’t want a repeat performance.
Ahmed started chuckling when he noticed the bandanna.
“Howdy cowboy! Where’s yer horse?”
“Fuck off, ya nearly gave me a fuckin’ heart attack,” Mamba admonished him.
“Yeah, he did it to me earlier as well,” Basir added.
“Well, serves ya both right,” Ahmed replied. “No one tol’ me there would be anyone ‘round so how was I supposed to know? I nearly fuckin’ killed Basir and his mates before I realised who they were.”
“Where’s the rest of ‘em?” Mamba asked, looking around, expecting another ambush.
“Gone home,” Basir explained.
“Basir told me it was one place I could find him or one of the other Turks because this is where they do their regular shoppin’,” Mamba explained.
“Could’ve fuckin’ tol’ me,” Ahmed stressed.
Mamba just tapped his nose.
“Anyway, where ya bin?” Ahmed asked. “We’ve bin waitin’ fuckin’ ages.”
Mamba grabbed a packet of cigarettes and a lighter before lighting up and telling them what had happened.
“So, you killed some little kids?” Basir asked, a little horrified.
“They’re not fuckin’ kids anymore, you twat,” Mamba admonished him.
“Where’s the dog then?” Ahmed asked.
“How the fuck should I know?” Mamba retorted. “So, any news?” he asked, looking at Basir.
“Like what?”
“Duh! Like, what the fuck is Sully doin’? Like, where’s Ayla? Like is everythin’ sorted for our plan?”
“Sully wasn’t too impressed with the results of our previous adventure. Got a visit from the people at Heathrow. Haven’t seen Ayla since she left to meet you,” Basir explained. “The new plan is in place and everyone who needs to know is up to speed.”
Mamba was quiet for a few minutes, thinking things through. He reached into his rucksack and brought out his new version of ‘The Good Pub Guide’, which Ayla had given him as a present. This one was from 2016, rather than 2012, so he should now be able to avoid pubs which had closed down.
“Let�
�s walk,” Mamba ordered.
Ahmed and Basir followed Mamba as they left the supermarket and turned right towards the back entrance / exit of the centre. Mamba was explaining what he wanted Basir to do when he suddenly stopped and stared into a gloomy amusement arcade. The arcade was close to the rear exit and the additional light coming through the doors had lit up enough of the interior to pique Mamba’s interest.
“What the fuck’s that?” he asked.
Basir laughed. “Ah, that’s the boys having a bit of a laugh,” he explained. “They call it art.”
The amusement arcade looked like something out of Madame Tussaud’s. There were two F1-type plastic cars side by side where players once sat to race on the large flat screens in front of them. Now, a couple of headless bodies had been placed in the seats with their hands attached to the steering wheels.
“Art?” Mamba asked incredulously. Then he started laughing. “A bit like that ‘Booker’ prize or some shit where some idiot puts a brick or an unmade bed in the middle of a room ‘n calls it ‘art’.”
“Turner Prize,” Ahmed pointed out.
“What?”
“It’s the Turner prize, not the Booker Prize. The Booker Prize is for books, like the name suggests, ‘n the Turner Prize is for art, named after the artist,” Ahmed explained.
“Which artist?” Basir asked.
“Dunno,” Ahmed acknowledged.
“Do I look like I give a shit, Mr fuckin’ know-it- all?” Mamba shrieked. “It could be the fuckin’ Disney prize for all I care. I was jus’ pointin’ out that if some fucker can win a prize for puttin’ an unmade fuckin’ bed in a room, any idiot could win it. Should’ve used my bed with ultra-violent light, then they could’ve seen a real bed with real stains. Lot of ‘art’ went into makin’ them stains, I can tell ya!”
“Too much information,” Basir suggested with his nose wrinkled.
“Ultraviolet,” Ahmed pointed out.
“What?”
“It’s ultraviolet light, not ultra-violent,” Ahmed corrected.
“Who the fuck cares?” Mamba almost screamed, “and stop fuckin’ interruptin’!” He turned back to the piece of art and noticed light glancing off some wire which had been used to tie the hands to the steering wheel.
“They called this one ‘Death Race’,” Basir noted. “Appropriate eh?”
Mamba took a couple of steps closer and smiled. “Death Race? I like it!”
Mamba looked around some more before making out two naked bodies, one male, one female, sitting on an arcade game with their backs to the screen, each leaning forward with their hands together, holding a bit of rope.
“They’re the ‘Knob Jockeys’,” Basir explained, seeing where Mamba was looking.
“Knob Jockeys?” Mamba asked, confused. “I can see it looks a bit like they ridin’ a horse, but why ‘Knob Jockeys? I don’t get it.”
“Well, they’re not on a horse and if you knew where the joysticks were hidden…,” Basir began, but he didn’t finish because Mamba was already laughing out loud.
“I wondered why they didn’t slip off onto the floor,” Mamba spluttered, still laughing.
Once he had calmed down, he took another step towards the arcade to take a closer look.
“Be careful,” Basir warned.
Mamba looked at him enquiringly and Basir pointed to a figure near the entrance. Mamba looked around and saw two eyes staring back at him from a head which was sitting on the lap of its owner, occupying a chair close to the entrance. As he looked, the mouth opened slowly then snapped shut, the noise echoing in the hall and causing some of the flies to buzz around.
“That’s the ‘Gatekeeper’,” Basir explained.
Mamba edged a little closer but kept some distance between himself and the Gatekeeper.
“Does the rest of the fucker move?” Mamba asked.
“Don’t be daft, it’s dead,” Basir replied, biting his tongue for suggesting Mamba might be daft.
Thankfully Mamba didn’t seem to have noticed the slur but was carefully eyeing the rest of the arcade. It seemed like the shadows were constantly moving, but it was just the flies.
Mamba picked out a basketball game where the aim was to score as many baskets in the permitted time. Two figures had been positioned facing the two basketball nets. One figure had a basketball where his head should have been, and the other was holding its own head as if about to shoot. It was only when Mamba looked at the nets that he spotted the other’s head was already in one of the baskets, the eyes looking in his direction.
This is fuckin’ spooky,” Mamba whispered, “but I love it. What’s that basketball one called?”
“That’s ‘Ball Fake’, whatever that’s supposed to mean,” Basir muttered. “I’m not into basketball.”
Mamba was riveted to the scene. He saw a female headless body bent over at ninety degrees, looking like it had lost its head in the wall, with a man’s headless body standing up close and personal behind it. There was a similar body which had been suspended from the ceiling, so it looked like its head had gone through the roof.
Another scene was based on the ‘Whack-a-Mole’ game, except there were heads sitting on the holes and a headless body standing upright holding an axe, with one of the heads below the blade split wide open; it was the only head out of the nine in this ‘piece of art’ where the eyes weren’t open and looking towards the three of them.
There was one of those ‘grabber’ games where you tried to use a crane to pick up a teddy bear or some other prize and deliver it to the chute, except this one had a head in the crane’s claws. Everywhere you looked, there was something weird, and plenty of eyes following their every movement.
“This is fuckin’ brilliant!” Mamba exclaimed. “Whoever did this is mad, but it’s funny.”
“Faruk and Ismet,” Basir said, pre-empting Mamba’s next question.
Mamba turned to look at Basir in surprise.
“Ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me!”
“I kid you not,” Basir replied.
“Those two fuckers who came with us before?” Mamba asked incredulously.
“The same,” Basir confirmed.
“Well, why didn’t ya say?” Mamba asked.
“It’s not really the sort of thing you brag about is it?” Basir suggested. “‘Hello, these are my twin brothers, Faruk and Ismet. They’re nice enough, but they are a little weird’.”
“Little weird?” Ahmed asked sarcastically. “Mad as fuckin’ hatters more like.”
Mamba was still shaking his head in wonderment. “Unbelievable! They’re defo yer bro’s?”
“Yes, all those who came with us to the airport were all my brothers…and sister.”
“Oh, I get ya,” Mamba replied sarcastically, “everyone’s my brother, ain’t that right?”
“No, they literally are my brothers, well, half-brothers and half-sister. Most of us have all got different mothers,” Basir explained.
“What?” Mamba asked in surprise. “All ya fuckers who came with us are all related?”
“Yeah, I ought to know.”
“Fuck me, that fat bastard Sully puts it ‘bout a bit, don’t he? Didn’t think he could fuckin’ move, never mind get it up” Mamba commented. “So, Ayla’s ya sister?”
“Half-sister.”
“And that knob, Temel, he ya bro?”
“Half-brother.”
“Lucky you! How many other half-bro’s ‘n sisters do ya have?”
“At the last count it was thirty-two.”
“Fuck me!” Mamba replied, amazed at what he was hearing. He found that he was grudgingly impressed by the fat bastard’s obvious prowess and sperm count, but suspected that the mothers in question wouldn’t have had much say in the matter.
“I need to get back,” Basir stressed.
“Yeah, ya go,” Mamba confirmed, “but if ya ever call me daft again, I’ll fuckin’ kill ya.”
Basir thought Mamba had forgotten, but he should’ve known
better. Mamba never forgot.
“OK, see you later.”
With that, Basir turned and headed towards the rear exit.
“Come on,” Mamba ordered as he headed back towards the front entrance.
“What did ya make of that little revelation? Fuckin’ unbelievable eh?”
“I already knew,” Ahmed said, with a smug look on his face.
“Well, why the fuck didn’t ya tell me?” Mamba asked, getting annoyed.
Ahmed tapped this side of his nose and smiled at Mamba’s obvious irritation. He followed Mamba, wondering what the hell was going on.
“Where we goin’?”
“Pub.”
“That’s a surprise,” Ahmed muttered sarcastically. Mind, he could do with a drink after what he’d just witnessed. “What’s this plan ya were talkin’ ‘bout?”
Mamba just tapped the side of his nose.
As they approached the main doors, they saw a shape the other side of the glass. It looked like someone crouched down, but it was too difficult to make out any details.
“What the fuck is that?” Ahmed asked, slowing his approach and taking out his knife and a pistol.
“How the fuck should I know?” Mamba whispered, drawing his own knives.
As Mamba got closer, he smiled and put his knives away. Ahmed saw him do it but wasn’t ready to relinquish his own weapons.
Mamba uttered, “Don’t worry, it’s jus’ the dog.”
Mamba pulled open the door and slid through, swiftly followed by Ahmed, who closed the door behind him.
The dog started growling in Ahmed’s direction, its fur beginning to stand up until Mamba ordered it to be quiet.
“Thought ya didn’t know where the dog was,” Ahmed noted.
“I didn’t,” Mamba replied. “Thought I’d lost the fucker.”
“Must’ve followed ya scent,” Ahmed suggested.
Mamba took a quick smell of his armpit and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“It must be a fuckin’ stupid dog if it wants ta follow my scent. Anyway, I reckon that’s a load of old bollocks. Ya jus’ pullin’ me chain, Ahmed.”
“Nah, bro. Smells are betta than seein’ for dogs,” Ahmed explained. “They smell like thousands of times betta than us.”
