by Ian Woodhead
Arthur grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and ripped the pistol out of his hand while yelling into Fred’s face. Not that he could figure out what he was saying. He couldn’t hear a bloody thing. He pulled the pistol back out of Arthur’s hand. That shut him up. Not that it mattered. Fred turned around and stormed back towards the stairs; he had enough of this. It was time to gather the others together and get out of here. For a start, Fred did not believe that everyone in Brandale was dead except for the few survivors in this shop. Fred would find them. He’d find them all, with or without Arthur’s help.
Before he could reach the bottom of the stairs, a hand slammed down on his shoulder and jerked him back. The pistol fell out of his hand. Fred spun around, intending to give the old man a piece of his mind but only with his fists. Arthur moved his head to the side and was able to slap Fred’s fist away before grabbing the side of his head and moving his mouth right up to his ear.
“We need to move it, you stupid little boy!” he screamed into his ear. “You shouldn’t have done that. You have really fucked things up now!”
Arthur screamed again, but it wasn’t from fury. The man staggered back, bringing Fred with him. The old man slammed into the wall then pushed Fred to one side before pointing at the ceiling. By now, Fred had realised that something was seriously wrong due to the amount of dust falling around them. It looked like it was snowing.
He spun around and moaned in horror when he saw a brown point push through the floorboards between two rafters. Fred dragged Arthur out of the way when that section of ceiling caved in, exposing the floor above, only now, Fred could see daylight.
The point belonged to the tip of that huge monster’s foot. It had smashed it through the roof and the two floors. It pushed two more feet through the hole in the roof, curled the limbs under, and pulled off the rest of the roof. It then proceeded to do the same with the upper floor. Fred wept at the sight of three drained skeletons falling.
Fred wept when he saw so many bones mixed with the debris which rained back down. He now understood when Arthur had said there was nobody left. Hundreds of those vile creatures like the one he’d just put down had gone through Brandale while the population was sleeping and murdered his friends and neighbours while they slept.
The blue sky vanished yet again when the huge beast thrust its monstrous head through the hole. Fred gasped when he noticed the all the others cowering around the shop counter.
“We need to hide!” hissed Arthur. “Maybe it’ll go away?”
Fred snatched the rifle out of the old man’s other hand. “You do that,” he replied, handing Arthur the other gun. “I’m going to save my friends.” Fred skirted past the creature’s massive leg, leapt over a pile of rubble, and managed to get to the foot of the stone stairs.
A stomach-churning moan stopped him dead. He peered through the hole in ceiling and saw the woman trying to crawl out from around the counter. Both Pardip and Mrs. Clough were desperately trying to stop her by grabbing her legs.
“What the hell are you doing, you daft woman?” he screamed. “Get back to the others.” His voice went unnoticed. The woman had managed to get away from the other two by booting Mrs. Clough in the nose. Judging from the look on that stupid woman’s face, she actually considered hurting the poor teacher so she could get away as some kind of victory.
Fred raced up the remaining steps and burst through the cellar door. He dropped to one knee, aimed the rifle, and fired a single shot. The creature screamed. Its body moved from side to side. He hurriedly slammed another shell onto the chamber. Had he done it? Did his last shot do so much damage? Fred aimed, eager to finish it off, but before he was able to squeeze the trigger, one of the monster’s arms smashed into the front of the shop.
The woman shrieked out and skidded to a halt when both shop windows imploded, showering her with shards of glass. Fred ran towards her, trying to get this stupid woman back under cover when a flexible blood-red pipe dropped from under the creature’s belly and curled around her midriff. Her screams were cut short as that pipe tightened. The end of the pipe wriggled its way out of the coils. Fred blanched when he saw the end fold back like petals on a flower and a dozen pale cream needles pushed out from the middle. The end then whipped back around and slammed into the side of the woman’s neck.
He scrambled back and joined the others still cowering behind that counter. Fred raised the rifle, only for Pardip to push it towards the floor with his hand. His friend pointed towards the huge creature’s head. Fury, as well as the sense of total helplessness, ran through his system in equal amounts when he saw what Pardip was pointing at.
Large bony-looking lumps had grown across the front of the creature’s face. He couldn’t believe it; the bastard thing must have reacted to Fred’s shooting and armoured itself. What hope did they have against these monstrous abominations?
He watched that pipe lifted the woman’s body up and for the first time since becoming fully aware this morning, Fred contemplated ending his life before that thing and its vile helpers could get there first.
Fred might have even gone through with the sinful deed right there and then if Mrs. Clough hadn’t spotted that it was about to leave the shop. It also appeared that the other little nightmares were leaving as well. Also, he had swapped his pistol for the rifle.
…
Harry gratefully took the offered water bottle from Callum and drank the contents in one go. He listened to those automobiles travelling along that concrete bridge and glanced at his silent audience while anticipating the torrent of questions which would inevitably follow. Harry felt confident that he should be able to answer them all. The young Harry from many moons ago had milked that old man dry, squeezing out every scrap of information the man possessed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Patrick Nolan stomped over to the bedroom window, placed his thick arms on the cluttered window sill, and stared through the dirty window. He looked past his pride and joy which that wife of his had wrecked last week. There was little movement along the bus route which cut through the middle of Harmony Estate.
The only shop open at this stupid hour just happened to be the one that he intended to visit once he had dressed, which, in Patrick’s eyes was good news for him, but bad news for the cheeky fucker who should be behind that counter around about now.
As a lifelong inhabitant of Brandale’s notorious housing estate, its bad name, mainly thanks to people like him, Patrick had believed that other people, the normal ones, the kind of mice who crossed to the other side of the road to avoid people like Patrick, would have the good sense not to get all cuddly with his wife.
A black Passat stopped in front of the shop. A moment later, some suited dude stepped out and disappeared inside. Obviously not a local. Not dressed like that.
Nice car. Patrick might have to have words with a mate to see if he could acquire such a vehicle for himself. This time, he wouldn’t let the silly cow anywhere near it.
Patrick moved his hand a little further towards the wall, grunting in satisfaction when one of Tracy’s porcelain elephants dropped off the window sill and onto the carpet.
Much to his annoyance, the bloody thing didn’t break. Tracy had come home with that horrendous thing a few days ago. She told Patrick that she saw it on one of the market stalls in Brandale market and just had to buy the gorgeous-looking ornament. Tracy promised him that it hadn’t cost that much, less than a packet of cigs. Like he even gave a shit. What caused him the stress, enough to ball up his fist, was that she was there frittering his money just two days after smashing up his car.
Patrick leaned close enough to inspect the damage she had caused to his car. It sat there, on their drive, like a gravely wounded animal just begging him to put the beast out of his misery.
Yeah, he so needed another car. The woman who had committed the atrocious deed then rolled onto his side of the bed, stretched her arms and legs, and started to snore.
Jesus, now he had another wounded animal
in his sight. Patrick so wished that he could put that annoying bitch out of her misery. To think of the problems he’d solve if he could find a way to make her disappear.
He lifted his leg up to hip height then brought his foot down on Tracy’s last acquisition. That would teach her not to leave her crap all over the bedroom. The woman had a glass cabinet in the corner of the living room for all this tat. Fifty quid that bloody thing had cost him. The fact that Tracy had already placed it there a couple of days ago had crossed his mind. It’s more likely that one of the kids had taken it out and brought it up here.
Patrick crouched and carefully picked up all the broken bits and dropped them in the bin. Why one of the kids had brought the elephant in here was anybody’s guess, although knowing them, they’d probably sneaked in here to root around, looking for either money or cigs.
He guessed that Emily had done it. She liked to pick up things she thought were pretty and hide them under her bed. Nobody knew why; the little witch had been doing it since she was a kid. He wondered if she was part magpie.
Sky wouldn’t have taken it, not unless it was worth anything. He was another one who was part magpie. Unlike his sister, that bugger took stuff he could sell to Abdul, who owned that second-hand shop on Bethel Road. There’d been more than one occasion when Patrick had walked past that shop only to find something which once belonged to him for sale in the shop window.
That reminded him: did that lad come home last night? He’d have to have a peek in that pig-sty of a bedroom and see if he could see the no-good layabout under all the chucked clothes, discarded coke bottles, and empty pizza boxes which covered his carpet. He was another one who needed a good kicking.
Patrick picked the ceramic head out of the bin and placed it on Tracy’s pillow Godfather-style before he grabbed his boots and left the bedroom, making sure to slam the door on his way out. If it woke up the lazy bitch, then that would be a bonus. Listening to her scream when she found the head on the pillow? Oh, that would really make his day. Well, perhaps the sweetener before the main meal.
He stopped by the landing window and looked out of the window. His main meal lay yonder, in the guise of that shady fucktard Raymond Custer, the man who actually believed that he was God’s gift to every woman on the estate. He would be receiving a gift alright; Patrick’s gift would be his big fist in the man’s mush. Not too violent, just enough so Mr. Custer would need a straw to drink every meal he would ever consume.
No man tried to get into his wife’s knickers, not while he still lived and breathed. Sure, Tracy had been asking for it, giving him the sly wink every time she walked past his table to and from the bar. Patrick even heard from Andrew, the part-time barman, that the dirty slag even touched Custer’s knee when he went for a piss. Whether that was true was another matter. She swore up and down that it never happened when he confronted her outside Khan’s Kebab Shack, but then she would say that. Patrick had never used his fists on a woman, but he had come real close. Tracy knew how bad his temper was, especially after he’d put away a few pints.
Whether she had led him on didn’t really matter. It didn’t excuse Custer from trying to put his hand up her skirt in the car-park outside the Dog and Goose, and that was one event which did happen. He saw it with his own eyes. Looking back, it might have been more of a case of him not knowing where his hands were going when Tracy rushed over to pick him up, but that was beside the point. The man clearly fancied his wife, meaning he needed to do something about that. It was that simple.
He checked in on the kids before going downstairs. Emily was fast on, just like her mum. In fact, that girl shared more than laziness and the ability to waste money on shit. She also looked just like her when Tracy was that age, even down to the shapely legs and soft blonde hair. Thankfully, unlike her mum, Emily had an overprotective father to stop any hormone-ridden teenage waster from trying it on with his daughter. He’d already ‘had words’ with five brats in the past couple of years, who thought that Emily could be another notch on their belt.
Patrick was no fool; he knew his little princess wasn’t exactly the sweet naïve girl that he used to take to the park every Saturday without fail. Just living on this shitty estate soured your innocence. Having a complete brain donor for a mum didn’t help either. Still, he had to try his best to keep her pure. It wasn’t totally within the bounds of science fiction to think that, one day, she might fall in love with a boy who didn’t sell weed on the corner of Maple Street, or spent their weekend stealing beer from the local supermarket.
“Someone like that Passat owner?” he murmured.
Emily turned over and groaned. He hurriedly shut the door and left the young woman to her dreams and walked up to the next door.
The tragedy of Patrick trying to save his daughter from the groping hands belonging to wasters just like Sky wasn’t lost on him. He knew that Sky had gone into the weed selling business, and no matter how many quiet words Patrick had with the lad, he still continued to persist in defying him.
Patrick opened the boy’s bedroom door and sighed loudly. There was no fear of his noise waking the lanky streak of piss on account of him not being in there, meaning that he’d stayed at a mate’s house or the idiot had fallen in some alley as drunk as a lord and won’t appear until dinnertime. Patrick slammed the door and stomped back over to the landing window.
Jesus on a stick. What had he done in a previous life to deserve all this bullshit? “There’s always some motherfucker trying to skate uphill.” Where had he heard that saying? Probably from a movie. Wherever it came from it was apt, and if the shoe fits, lace that bitch up and wear it.
While making his way down the stairs, it did occur to Patrick that just like Emily followed in her mother’s footstep, so Sky was turning into a younger version of himself. Patrick had behaved just like Sky. Probably less of the thieving and more violence but still, it was obvious as the nose on the end of his face that Sky took after his daddy.
Patrick reached the bottom of the stairs, pulled out his lucky cricket bat out from behind the dresser, and walked into the living room. It was all well and good acting the outraged parent now that he’d got older and mellowed out. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he really hurt someone. Sure, he did punch some random guy in the pub last week, but that didn’t count. He only hit him once, just a touch really.
Patrick left the living room after checking Tracy’s cabinet and made his way into the kitchen to snag a dishcloth from the drawer under the microwave.
What he needed to do with that kid of his was to find some way to channel all that aggression. It’s what Patrick’s old man tried to do to him back in the day. It didn’t exactly work, mind. He guessed that’s due to the daft bastard trying to get Patrick into motors. Cars and especially their engines had obsessed his dad since he was a kid and naturally, he believed Patrick would become hooked too.
That didn’t happen. Patrick couldn’t give a crap about cars which earned him a good hiding. Looking back, he decided that Dad’s method of getting Patrick to calm down probably had the opposite effect. Then again, his dad had always been a bloody idiot.
Patrick pushed the dishcloth into his back pocket and opened the side door. He filled his lungs with the cold morning air then stepped onto the path after shutting the door.
“Shooting,” he said. “I could get the little shit into that!” It made sense. Sky’s bedroom walls were covered in posters showing guys with big guns blasting apart zombies. Granted, Patrick couldn’t exactly pull a bunch of walking dead people from out of his arse, but he could show him what it was really like to fire off a shotgun.
His old mate from school, Jacob Dunn, now owned the farm which once belonged to Jacob’s uncle. Patrick knew for a fact that Jacob did a bit of shooting, mainly rabbits and the occasional stray dog which managed to get inside his property. The lucky bastard had inherited the shotguns along with the rest of the place.
Shotguns weren’t the only type of weapon that low-life sc
umbag kept. Thanks to copious amounts of beer, a bit of speed, and the promise of a go with Patrick’s girlfriend, his old mate had once confessed to finding a cache of automatic weapons hidden under the floor inside the huge barn.
Twenty-five years had passed since that confession inside the lounge of the Dog and Gun. He doubted Jacob remembered, but Patrick sure as hell did. Just as he remembered watching that drunken oaf trying it on with Tracy in the bushes at the bottom of the carpark.
Yeah, getting Jacob to teach his boy to shoot sounded like a great idea and if that pretend farmer started to get a little shirty, then Patrick would drop just the tiniest of hints about what the fella had found in that barn.
This was turning out to be a glorious day. The sun was getting ready to peek over the rooftops, he’d managed to sort out his son, and his trusty bat was about to taste blood again. Passing his wrecked car cast a shadow upon his otherwise flawless finish, but even that was fixable. Patrick had a plan for everything.
He approached the front gate and, as this day had turned out so well, Patrick leapt over it, something he hadn’t done in bloody years. He reached the curbside, waited for a lone delivery truck to pass him then crossed over. The time to severely fuck up the rest of Custer’s day had arrived.
The sound of whistling greeted Patrick when he entered the shop. It reminded him more of an old-fashioned boiling kettle than some recognisable tune. He leaned against the doorframe, casually eyeing the top-shelf magazines while simultaneously watching his next victim cut the plastic strap off a pile of newspapers. The fancy knife Custer used looked expensive. Patrick decided that would be his. He needed another knife since his other one, the knife that he stole from his dad, back in the day before he met Tracy, had mysteriously vanished a few days ago. Maybe not so mysterious; he knew Sky had taken it, the thieving shit.
