Z-Series | Book 6 | Z-Endgame

by Hatchett

  “’N we couldn’t fit the fucker in it,” Ahmed finished the sentence.

  Mamba scowled at him for interrupting.

  “So, what did you do?” Khalid asked, leaning forwards in anticipation.

  “Well, we carted him back inside ‘n chopped his fuckin’ legs off,” Mamba said, nonchalantly.

  “Took fuckin’ ages, too, all that sawin’,” Ahmed added.

  “Then we bundled him up again ‘n this time he fit in the boot perfect,” Mamba concluded.

  “Weren’t you worried about people seeing you and calling the police?” Basir asked.

  “Nah man. Everyone ‘round there are deaf, dumb ‘n blind.”

  “Really?” Basir asked, surprised.

  Mamba laughed.

  “They are if they know what’s good fer ‘em. Like ‘em three monkeys.”

  “What? Basir asked, confused.

  “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” Ahmed explained. “Ya never heard of ‘em?”

  “Nah,” Basir confirmed.

  “Nor me,” Khalid added.

  Emre nodded in agreement

  “It means no one’s gonna say shit if they value their own safety,” Ahmed explained

  “Yeah, grasses don’t last long ‘round our way,” Mamba agreed. “Remember that fuckin’ Dogger?”

  “Yeah,” Ahmed replied, smiling at the memory.

  “Who’s Dogger?” Emre asked.

  “Ya dunno him.”

  “Why’s he called Dogger?”

  Mamba and Ahmed looked at each other, laughing and shaking their heads. Emre looked even more confused but decided to let it go.

  “So, what happened to this Dogger?” Basir asked, deflecting Mamba and Ahmed’s scorn away from Emre.

  “He went ta the pigs,” Mamba said.

  “’N was dead wivin a week,” Ahmed added.

  “How?” Khalid asked, his eyes widening.

  “Well, apparently he felt so bad ‘bout grassin’ people up, he smashed his own head in,” Mamba said, casually.

  “Yeah, ‘n the stupid fuckin’ pigs couldn’t work out how he’d managed to headbutt the sink six times when he was dead after the first butt.”

  Mamba and Ahmed started laughing again, and this time were joined by Basir, Dev and Emre.

  “Enough of all this old bullshit,” Mamba ordered, “let’s party!”

  48

  Day 28 – 12:00

  Swindon

  Mamba was outside the warehouse, looking at the grey cloud above. As he looked back to the delivery area, it began to spit, and he was glad that they would be travelling in vehicles. He eyed the zombies straining against the fencing encircling the property, then noticed Faruk and Ismet sliding between the monsters to get back in.

  Earlier that morning, with a splitting headache, he’d drunk copious amounts of coffee while ordering his men on a variety of different errands. Some had been sent to find some 4 x 4 vehicles, while the rest loaded two articulated trucks in the delivery bay; one held their cache of weapons and the other was being used to fill with food and as much other equipment from the warehouse as they could fit in. Except yellow kagools. Mamba had been very specific on that.

  After the party had ended the previous night, and everyone had gone to bed, the women had sloped off, never to be seen again. Well, maybe, maybe not. Some of the men had been a little disgruntled with having their sex tap turned off, and it had almost led to trouble, but a few harsh words from Mamba and Ahmed had done the trick and things had settled down pretty quickly.

  The twins sidled up to Mamba. He hadn’t heard them, just felt their presence like a big black cloud. It sent a small shiver down his spine.

  “Anythin’?” he asked, without looking at them.

  Faruk: “No.”

  Ismet: “Zilch.”

  Faruk: “Zero.”

  Ismet: “Zip.”

  Faruk: “Nothing.”

  Ismet: “Nada.”

  “Guy’s? I get it, OK? Ya betta get yer things, we goin’ soon.”

  Faruk: “There is something,”

  Ismet: “You might be interested in.”

  Faruk: “Yeah, maybe.”

  Ismet: “Yeah, definitely.”

  “Spit it out then,” Mamba interrupted, already bored with the conversation.

  Faruk: “It’s the zombies.”

  Ismet: “Yeah, the zombies.”

  “Well?” Mamba asked after a pause.

  Faruk: “They’re…”

  Ismet: “Slower.”

  Faruk: “Less…”

  Ismet: “Aware.”

  “What the fuck are ya on ‘bout? ‘Course they slower. They ain’t got anythin’ ta interest ‘em.”

  Faruk: “Not…”

  Ismet: “That.”

  Mamba was on the point of losing his temper. The twins appeared to sense the change in Mamba and quickly continued.

  Faruk: “It’s like…”

  Ismet: “They’re ill.”

  “What?” Mamba asked in surprise and confusion. “How the fuck can summat dead get ill?” He started laughing and shaking his head, thinking the twins had really lost it this time. Too much wandering around in their own mad little world.

  Faruk: “Some are…”

  Ismet: “Collapsing.”

  “They prob’ly jus’ tripped,” Mamba said, smiling.

  Faruk: “No.”

  Ismet: “Nada.”

  Faruk: “They’re not…”

  Ismet: “Getting back up.”

  Faruk: “They just…”

  Ismet: “Lie there.”

  Faruk: “Like they’re…”

  Ismet: “Dead.”

  Faruk: “But they’re…”

  Ismet: “Not.”

  Faruk: “Still…”

  Ismet: “Snapping.”

  “Mebbe they jus’ tired,” Mamba suggested, “I could do wiv a lie down, meself.”

  Faruk: “No, it’s not…”

  Ismet: “Normal.”

  “OK, well thanks fer the info, boys. Ya betta get yer stuff.”

  The twins sloped off and when Mamba turned to look, they had already disappeared. ‘Zombies not feeling very well’ Mamba thought to himself, smiling and shaking his head. That was a good one.

  Ahmed came towards him.

  “Summat funny?”

  “It don’t matta,” Mamba replied, still smiling. “We ready?”

  “Nearly. Last few things. Ya sure ‘bout this? Why don’t we stay a while?”

  “Nah, bro. Gotta keep movin’,” Mamba replied, eyeing the crowd of zombies straining against the fencing. He saw one go down and didn’t see it get back up, and just assumed it was all part of the jostling for position.

  “I got a bad feelin’ ‘bout this,” Ahmed said.

  “Ya always got a bad feelin’ ‘bout everythin’ these days. What the fuck’s the matta wiv ya?”

  “Dunno. Jus’ tired, I guess. Fed up wiv movin’ all the time.”

  “Here we go again. Ya beginnin’ ta sound like a broken record, Ahmed. Why don’t ya fuck off back ta Corsham ‘n live in one of ‘em shitty little cottages seein’ as ya like that shithole so much? Ya could stay wiv ol’ Ernie, I’m sure he’d like it.”

  “It ain’t a shithole,” Ahmed protested, “but I don’t like it that much!”

  “Well, fuckin’ stay here then, wiv all the birds ‘n the kids. I’m sure they’d like a nice strong man like ya ta hang ‘round ‘n help ‘em out. Ya’d be in shag heaven, bro, diff’rent bird every day. That Karina was a bit of a goer. In fact, I think they all were. Ya’d be shagged out in a week ‘n beggin’ fer mercy.”

  “Nah, man, ain’t interested.

  “’Couse not. Ya still thinkin’ ‘bout Ayla, so ya should be fuckin’ happy we goin’ that way.”

  Ahmed shrugged.

  “Well, come on then Rubber Duck. We got ourselves a little ol’ convoy,” Mamba said, “Let’s get gone.”

  Mamba started walking across to the r
ear of the two articulated trucks where the men were beginning to gather, and the huge heavy doors were being slammed shut and locked.

  “Heh! Ahmed said, catching up. “Ya know what that ‘Rubber Duck’ thingy sounds like?”

  “Yeah man, it did cross me mind. A new one fer the Cockney rhymin’ slang dictionary.”

  The men watched as Mamba approached.

  “Basir, ya drive one truck, Dev, ya do the other. But make sure ya drive it betta than that fuckin’ tractor!”

  The men laughed as Dev started to protest.

  “I’m in the Range Rover,” Mamba said, cutting off anything Dev was planning to say. “Truck up front, me behind, truck behind me then the other SUVs. Got it?”

  There were nods all around.

  “Got the walkies?”

  “Yeah, boss,” Basir and Dev confirmed at the same time.

  “Let’s go then. Saddle up!”

  Mamba headed for a sleek silver Range Rover with Ahmed in tow as the other men spread out and headed for the various vehicles.

  “What’s wiv all this cowboy shit all of a sudden?” Ahmed asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Shut up Tonto,” Mamba replied.

  “He was an Indian, not a cowboy,” Ahmed pointed out. “Whereas the Lone Ranger was a cowboy…”

  “Ahmed!” Mamba said, breaking Ahmed’s flow.

  “What?”

  “Who the fuck cares?”

  He started the car and picked up his walkie talkie from the central console. He clicked the button.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Numerous ‘readies’ came back.

  “Giddy up then,” Mamba barked, as he allowed the car to roll forward. He pulled to one side to allow Basir to drive past, noticing Faruk and Ismet standing by the gates.

  Once Basir’s truck was close enough, the twins threw open the gates on the count of three and ran to jump up into Basir’s cab and slammed the door. Basir, revved his engine, let a couple of blasts go from the air horns and the truck started moving forward, bumping, and crushing the first zombies already piling onto the property.

  Basir swung a left and headed back towards the M4, the rest of the convoy following.

  49

  Day 28 – 15:00

  M4

  They’d managed forty kilometres in just over two hours, reaching the interchange where the A34 met the M4 and a signpost highlighting a place called ‘Worlds End’ a few kilometres to the North.

  Mamba had laughed and said ‘fuckin’ World’s End, would ya believe it?’

  Ahmed had worked out that they had another seventy kilometres to go before they reached Heathrow. It had been hard going, even allowing for the unusually clear hard shoulder.

  There seemed to be minor accidents or shunts every few hundred metres and there had been a big pile up at the junction with the A338 at Shefford Woodlands when they passed through earlier. Mamba supposed that it was to be expected that the main junctions would be busier with thousands of idiots trying to flee to god knows where. They should’ve just stayed put at home and might now be still alive.

  Basir had managed to deal with most of the blockages, either ramming single cars at speed or edging up to a group of them and nudging them out of the way. Mamba was quietly pleased that Basir was up front and seemed to know what he was doing, instead of that idiot Dev, who was safely tucked in behind him. Although, there had been one occasion where the stupid bastard had nearly rear-ended Mamba’s Range Rover when he wasn’t paying attention, looking at fucking cows or something in the adjoining field. Mamba had ripped him a new one over the walkie talkie, threatening to cut his nuts off if he even scraped Mamba’s car.

  It had been a boring journey, and more was to follow. Mamba had suggested a game of ‘I spy’ and Ahmed had told him to ‘fuck off’. There was no way he was playing stupid games with Mamba, especially after the last time when Mamba just cheated the whole time.

  Ahmed had tried the radio, going through all the frequencies to see if there was anyone out there. As suspected, there was nothing but static. He’d rummaged through the glove compartment and found some de-icer and several CDs, but neither of them had heard of John Denver or Johnny Cash, and they both understood why when they sampled the music.

  “Driver of this car musta bin a right wanker,” Ahmed surmised.

  “Yeah. Ya know what ‘Johnny Cash’ is?” Mamba had asked.

  Ahmed was non-plussed, not sure where Mamba was going with the question. He couldn’t believe Mamba might know something he didn’t. He assumed Mamba was going to say Johnny Cash was a born-again Christian or Muslim or something. No, that was Cat Stevens…or maybe Leo Sayer. Both fucking pricks, anyway.

  “The change ya get from a rubber machine,” Mamba had quipped, laughing at his own joke.

  “Poor one, man,” Ahmed had replied. “Anyway, ‘em machines don’t take coins no more, they only take credit cards.”

  “What?!” Mamba had said, clearly shocked.

  “’Course not, ya prat,” Ahmed said pleased to get one over him.

  “Ain’t funny, bro.”

  He thought about it some more.

  “Can ya imagine gettin’ ‘Ragin’ Horny Rhino’ or some other shit on yer monthly statement ‘n havin’ ta explain it ta the missus? Be like gettin’ caught payin’ fer’ a pro or payin’ fer porno off the ‘net.”

  “I shouldn’t worry. Ya ain’t even got a missus or a fuckin’ credit card,” Ahmed pointed out.

  “Ain’t the point,” Mamba replied. “Anyways, I only ride bareback so don’t need no fuckin’ rubbers. I’m jus’ makin’ a point.”

  “But then ya’d miss out on all the flavours.”

  “What?!” Mamba almost shouted.

  “Yeah, man. They got flavours. Banana or cherry cola ‘n shit.”

  “Nah.”

  “They have,” Ahmed insisted. “Ya can even get edible ones.”

  “Now ya really are fuckin’ wiv me.”

  “Nah, man, ‘s true.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “OK. Ribbed or sensitive?” Ahmed asked, laughing at the joke.

  “Fuck off, homo,” Mamba retorted. “How’d ya know all this shit anyway.”

  “Read ‘bout it.”

  “Yeah, man, ‘course ya did,” Mamba said, sarcastically.

  “I did!”

  “Prob’ly from some porno mag. I bet ya bin savin’ all yer shrapnel ‘n then sneakin’ off ta the pub bogs fer a bit of fruit salad.”

  “Ya gotta read summat while yer takin’ a dump. Ya know why they call rubbers ‘wellies’? No? So ya can ‘fill yer boots’! Get it? Wellington Boots…fill yer boots.”

  “Ya jus’ made that up,” Mamba accused him.

  “Mebbe.”

  They were quiet for a few minutes.

  “Hey, get this,” Ahmed said, looking at the listings on the Johnny Cash CD, “says here one of these songs is called ‘Ring of Fire’.

  “Must’ve bin a fuckin’ good curry when he wrote that one, then,” Mamba said, and they both laughed their heads off.

  “Put it on,” Mamba ordered once he had stopped laughing.

  Ahmed did as he was told and they both listened for a few seconds.

  “Load of shite. Give me Men at Work any day,” Mamba added, and they both started laughing again.

  The miles went by, mostly in uneasy silence. Both men seemed to be at odds more and more over recent days, their usual unbreakable partnership fraying at the edges over differences of opinion.

  Ahmed, as usual, felt he was probably to blame. He admitted to himself that he was getting fed up with Mamba’s antics and the almost constant moving around, never stopping in one place long enough to put your feet up. The zombie virus had given them so many opportunities, all of which had been wasted by Mamba’s blinkered determination to get revenge on the people at Heathrow. Ahmed didn’t understand why Mamba couldn’t just leave it alone and move on. He knew Mamba was stubborn, but the lengths they had already
gone to were ridiculous, and Mamba showed no signs of letting up.

  On the other hand, Mamba had no doubt at all that it was Ahmed’s fault. He hadn’t changed, so it had to be Ahmed. As far as he was concerned, the only goal was to take out Heathrow, and that had never changed. A few birds and beers along the way just helped ease things along. It was just that Ahmed was turning into a pussy, forgetting what it was all about, forgetting who he was and where he came from. He had this stupid belief that he was going to find Ayla and they’d run off together and live happily ever after, like some sort of fucking fairy tale. But Ahmed wasn’t no Prince fucking Charming, more like the Beast and he needed to be reminded of it from time to time. But Mamba was sure that Ahmed would come around eventually. He always did. When push came to shove, Ahmed could be relied upon. Blood brothers stuck together through thick and thin.

  Mamba was brought out of his reverie by the brake lights flashing on in front of him, and he slowed down himself in anticipation. He quickly eyed his rear-view mirror, his hand hovering over the horn in case that idiot Dev was staring at fucking cows again, but he saw that Dev was also slowing and relaxed a bit. ‘What now?’ he thought, imagining yet another roadblock.

  The walkie talkie crackled into life.

  “Boss, looks like we’ve got a problem,” Basir said.

  “What problem?”

  “Lynch mob.”

  50

  Day 28 – 15:15

  M4

  Mamba looked at Ahmed and saw the same surprise he felt. Lynch mob? More like party time! They both smiled at the same time.

  “Fuckin’ smash through ‘em,” Mamba ordered.

  “Can’t. The road is blocked.”

  “How many?”

  “Dunno. A lot.”

  Mamba heard Basir counting, then starting over again.

  “Jesus Christ, Basir, I don’t need a fuckin’ census, jus’ a rough number’ll do.”

  “About fifty.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Yeah, some.”

  Mamba looked at the roof of the car and took a deep breath.

  “Like what?”

  “Too far to see, but at least some have got guns.”

  “Can we get past ‘em?”

  “No chance.”