In The End (Book 1): In The End

by Stevens, GJ

  51

  Our hands released as we fell to the ground, both of us scrabbling to turn and get sight of what was coming.

  Peering low around the wide exterior chimney breast, I moved back, raising up on my knees so I could make out the road over the side of the squat front-garden wall. The spaces between the houses were wide, giving a view of the road, which meant whoever was coming would have a great view of us.

  I jerked my head around, spotting a half-rotten wooden trellis collapsed against the neighbouring house. In-between the diamonds formed by thin diagonal strips of wood, old, long-dried vines ran in all directions. It was perfect. With the engine building to a great fuss, I stood, grabbing the trellis, yanking hard to free it from the brittle bounds.

  With it released, I swung the wood out, leaning it against the brick stack and settled back in my place as my heart pounded against my efforts to calm my breath.

  Most of the dead and dried vegetation had fallen, taking with it the great barrier it would have been. The foliage spread across the path, but it was too late; a pickup truck and a Land Rover Defender had rocked to a halt right in front of us.

  Cassie went low, shuffling under me.

  I crept in closer, my front against her warmth. She shifted. I pulled away, whispering an apology for getting so close.

  She shook her head, dismissing my worry.

  Like two meerkats I raised higher above her and watched through the great gaps in the wooden slats as each of the four doors of the bright red pickup swung open.

  With the engines left running, four men jumped from the cab. Still taking in the sight, two more jumped from the Defender behind, each somewhere between eighteen and thirty, only one older by ten years, but he dressed the same age as the others. They wore a thin covering of facial hair, not unlike my own, but with tracksuits zipped up to the neck. In each of their hands they held a weapon of sorts; baseball bats, crowbars, long lengths of iron.

  The driver of the pickup came around the front. In his hand he swung a long knife, the end curved and much wider than the handle.

  I felt Cassie lean back towards me, her head making a slow turn as if to check I was watching. Both of us flinched but forced ourselves not to dart into hiding as six pairs of eyes scoured the view, both knowing it was easier to see movement, so did out best to stay still.

  They hadn't seen us yet. Their gazes fixing on another target; the first house in the row of three on the opposite side.

  In unison, each member of the group drifted, apart from two, one hanging each at the front and the back of their little convoy. The others headed to the door of the house they'd paid the most interest to.

  We didn't hear the knocker go, only the smash of the glass repeated, once, twice and then some more, over and over. The strikes soon hit wood and I felt the warmth of Cassie's body rattle, start and repeat until the wood gave way and the group disappeared inside.

  With just the pair left, we stood our best chance to do something; do anything but wait to be found. We didn't know much, but knew it would be just as bad, if not worse, than if we were found by the soldiers.

  Despite all I’d seen in these last few days, death wasn't the worst I feared for Cassie.

  We did nothing but listen to the chaos ensuing, the racket pouring from the little cottage. Glass broke. The front windows smashed. Cupboards banged. Bags flew out of the door and the newly-made openings, the loot collected by one of the remaining pair in turn; the only time they’d take their eyes off the road.

  We knew what they were looking for, but it wasn’t the same things as us.

  The racket continued for a few moments more until the sentry at the front raised on his toes. He was a tall man with no hair, his blue and white tracksuit stained a murky brown across the front.

  We watching as his eyebrows pointed towards the sky, the baseball bat slapping as it swung into his cupped left hand.

  We followed his look and then his slow smiling walk, the bat slapping to and forth, but we couldn't quite see what he walked towards because our angle was obscured by the house to the left.

  The racket continued as he walked out of sight, the hard slap of wood echoing as it hit over and over against something we could only guess.

  He was back in view, carrying a self-satisfied grin, wiping the end of the wood against his trousers. He looked up, stopping dead in front of us.

  I felt Cassie's body stiffen; her right hand sought my leg. I grabbed her cold hand and squeezed.

  Something had caught his attention. We'd heard the noise too, a distinct sound coming from inside the house we were leaning against.

  The guy's smile had gone and he turned in our direction, his eyes squinting, settling on the trellis and gave a great, elongated call.

  “Boss.”

  52

  The machete-wielding driver came out first, his eyes fixed with a question to our guy with no hair. His attention soon followed in the direction the baseball bat motioned.

  Neither had seen us, despite his stare in our direction. At one point I was sure he'd made eye contact, but it was clear their interest lay in the house. They were welcome to the surprise on the other side of the door.

  The noise came again before they'd all come out of the first house, throwing bags and high-value goods into the back of the pickup. Each followed in the footsteps of their leader, their weapons at the ready, whistles and calls of excitement running through the air.

  This time they knocked with a gentle wrap of knuckles at the front door as each walked into the house's shadow and out of sight.

  This was our chance and we had no choice but to take it. Cold air plumed around me once more as I pulled away from Cassie, with my hand still on the top of hers.

  I led her, both of us bending over, running down the side of the garden whilst trying to keep our footsteps light. The fence stood six-foot-tall at our side and ran a long way out.

  The search for safety ended too quick, the garden devoid of anywhere to hide with grass rolling out to the fence at the back. The only feature was a moss-covered wooden bench nestled to the side of the fence line, half way along.

  Still we ran, Cassie behind me as I pulled her along with my hand at my back, not daring to slow or look around at the repeated smack at the front door.

  I dragged her past me, pointing at the bench and motioning my instruction.

  Her raised eyebrows confirmed she knew my plan but matched my fears; the bench looked as if it would collapse as we climbed.

  Still there was no choice and we were upon it. I slowed. She didn't, instead leaping into the air with her foot on the arm as the wood complained.

  It was too late; her hands were on the fence, legs carrying over as she disappeared the other side to a soft landing.

  Not being able to match her momentum and commitment to the move, my feet slid across the moss as I climbed on the seat, resting a foot on the arm, feeling it sag under my weight.

  Grabbing my hands onto the top of the fence, I chanced a look back and saw net curtains in the windows lift. Landing on the other side, I held Cassie back, my eyes wide as I chanced a whisper.

  “There's someone alive inside,” I said and, as if to confirm, we heard the definitive sound of the front door swinging wide, rattling as it hit the wall behind, followed by a woman’s shrill scream.

  Cassie’s eyes grew wide, matching my concern. We'd both thought the noise was from someone long-dead roaming around where the previous inhabitants of the body had lived. One of those creatures wouldn't care to lift the curtain to see what was going on in their garden.

  We held there for longer than we should, both of us deep in thought, shaking our heads.

  What if it was a family, or a group of decent people like us? What if it had been us, our friends inside?

  The racket from before started up again; this time there was shouting, an argument, and we ran. There was nothing we could do, but we didn't race away, instead without either of us guiding, we ran back towards the houses,
diagonally along the new garden and were soon in front of the neighbouring house.

  I held Cassie back and peered around, inching forward at a snail's pace. They'd left no-one out the front.

  I did a quick scan, seeing only the farmer dead again in the middle of the road, only knowing who it had been from the clothes; the head caved to a pulpy mess.

  Grabbing Cassie's upper arm, I ran across the front garden, leaping the small fence no taller than my knee. We ran across the road, turning only when across the opposite front garden and leant against the wall as we looked back the way our friends were, whist pulling deep breaths to regain control.

  Cassie saw it first, nudging my arm with her elbow. I don't know whether we recognised it from before.

  It didn't matter; it had seen us and veered from the bend in the road, heading in our direction.

  The creature was slow and we should just have run away; should have just taken care of ourselves, but someone needed our help, even though we were in no place to give it.

  Cassie was first to head into the garden, jogging around the house and slowing as we came around the second corner. She stopped, retreating to the safety of the brick. The two sentries were walking back to their posts.

  Shouts were going on in the background but aimed elsewhere. I ran back the way we'd come and saw the creature still heading in the direction it would have last seen us; the direction I'd just shown my face again.

  Back around the house I saw Cassie looking out. She stepped back and met my eye.

  “They've seen it. The skinhead's heading its way,” she said, her breath still coming fast.

  I looked around, only just managing to pull back as the guy turned in our direction, his round head tilted at an angle. He wasn't as thick as his looks. He'd realised the direction the creature was taking and had altered his own course around the house to cut it off.

  Our one chance was if the creature had locked onto the new threat, or promise of food, or whatever the motive of those animals could be.

  I motioned for Cassie to follow back the way we'd come, but rounding the corner our shoulders sank as we saw the creature on us, having ignored the thug who was about to score himself three for the price of one.

  53

  The metal claw dug through the creature's bright-white shirt as Cassie drove home a high swinging blow, its features unchanging as it staggered back against her push to free the bar from its flesh.

  I turned away, screwdriver out with the shaft pointing down from my fist. I was ready as I ever would be to defend us against the other animal about to appear from around the corner.

  It wasn't the first time I'd wished I'd taken time to find a bigger weapon. Cassie's shoulders knocked at my back and I turned, watching the end of her swing, pulling the prongs from beneath its skin. My gaze caught the back door and its brass handle, all of a sudden fixed on why neither of us had tried it.

  Cold in my grip, I held the handle hard like my life depended on what happened in the next few seconds and as it pivoted, the door swung open.

  I stood in disbelief for longer than a moment. My breath fell away and I eventually turned, still without saying a word.

  My hand leapt forward to Cassie at my back, just in time to pull her out of the arch of a sweeping clawed attack. I yanked so hard she tripped backwards over the concrete step, the air rushing out of her lungs as I struggled to lessen her fall.

  Still, I dragged her further in, only letting go to leap back to the door; pushing it closed with my shoulder and pulling back a split second before it could slam.

  We still had a chance. The creature was the other side, his hands batting useless against the glass.

  I dropped to the floor with my back at the door, leaning hard in case it gained sentience and pushed the handle.

  Cassie had the right idea and scurried up against the kitchen counter, staying low. Together we listened to each other's breath and the excited thud, thud, thud of beech against once-human flesh; listened to the satisfying crack of bone against concrete, our eyes fixed hard on each other.

  I broke away for a moment, flinching to the lock only to find it empty. No key in the door.

  The thing was down, at rest again. This time as it should be. Permanently.

  The one who'd done the deed was not. He stood on the opposite side of the thin wooden door and all he needed to do was push the handle.

  My gaze darted around the room. We were in a modern, open plan kitchen, a breakfast bar at my side, tall stools not so far away. Across all but one wall were dark granite-doored cupboards. I couldn't see any more detail and was too low to catch if there was anything of use on the counter tops. A long knife or a cleaver sat in a knife block would be my preference; still I'd have to get in quick. Get in quietly, like the SAS, minus the years of training and the balls of steel.

  I heard footsteps, feet scuffing on the concrete behind. Cassie's eyes told me she saw shadows moving closer. There was no time to form a plan, to figure out the best course of action.

  Slowly moving from my butt to my knees, I watched Cassie roll from where I'd let her fall; watched her walk on all fours, scrabbling with me at her back to the carpeted hallway.

  The hall was bright and I continued to follow, continued to take her lead as she rose to her feet, jogging across the short gap to the stairs before carefully lowering to each step as she rose.

  With my first step from the ground floor I heard a smash of glass and leapt up higher, pushing her on. She'd heard the sound too, the twinkling of the glass to the tiled floor from what we knew was the business end of the baseball bat raking around the rectangle of glass.

  We were up the stairs and in the front bedroom, the floor creaking wild with each step as we took in the straight-edged double bed in the centre. A wardrobe ran across the far wall and a door tucked in the opposite corner.

  A call came from outside, but we couldn't get the detail. The skinhead replied. He was in the house, his bat dragging along the worktops and knocking over whatever had been in its path, according to the constant shatter.

  “Give us a hand. We've hit the jackpot.”

  54

  Hoping it was the promise of the plush interior, the high-end kitchen, the mirrored chest of drawers, the flat-screen TVs we'd seen in each room and not the promise of our bodies for sport which gave rise to his excitement.

  Motioning to Cassie, I stepped slow and cautious across the thick-piled carpet, heading towards the door I hoped held a secret escape hatch to a hidden basement.

  Pulling the door open as fast as I dared dashed my hopes that the owners were paranoid, obsessed with their safety. At least they kept their hinges well oiled.

  Inside stood a dark, narrow walk-in wardrobe with rows of shoes shelved on one wall from floor to ceiling. On the opposite side, clothes hung down from a pole, the floor piled with plastic boxes; everything neat, spick and span.

  Stepping with care, we walked along the centre, bathing us in total darkness as I pulled the door closed. By touch we felt our way to the far end, pausing with each lull in the commotion below.

  Our breath held as another voice joined in the laughter but resumed as the chaos increased in volume. The floor creaked as we arrived at the end and Cassie crouched as, wordless, I took an armful of clothes from the rail and scattered them across the floor. With a second armful, I sat pulling the clothes on top of our heads and trying my best to cover us both before moving only to pull the screwdriver back into my fist.

  Cassie shuffled closer beside me as we heard the footsteps on the stairs directly below. Her breath stopped, if only for a moment, as their voices grew louder, their excitement cutting clean through the walls.

  I tried to visualise the pair. One we knew; one we'd seen too much of already, his bald head fixed in my mind, probably forever. The other I could only guess, but it was the weapon my mind fixated on.

  Now they'd reached the top of stairs, the gently warping boards underneath confirming. Their voices soon moved to our si
de; they were in the main bedroom and right next to us.

  My concentration fixed on their words, seeking their intention. Were they really such a threat? We'd only seen the skinhead defend himself.

  The two voices were distinct, the skinhead's much lower. Still, the second had morphed into the sentry who'd stood at the back of the pack, a short guy with an iron bar in his hand. I knew it was wishful thinking.

  Howls of animal excitement bounded through the walls, Cassie jumping as a window smashed and some feral chant rang out. A distant joyous call came back.

  I reached across with my left hand and, finding Cassie's, I squeezed, wordless to reassure her they were looters only out for the prize; they weren't hunting us.

  I didn't reassure myself. She squeezed back. I had no idea if I'd helped, but I stopped worrying as they started to talk.

  “You hear where we're going next?” came the skinhead's voice, edged with concentration as I felt myself shaking, the first signs of my body thawing; warm for the first time in days.

  “Yeah,” came the slightly higher-pitched reply. “It's bullshit, right? Some hospital in St Buryan?”

  “It's true,” the skinhead said. “Some do-gooder set it up like a field hospital. Takes in those who can't look after themselves. The ones who didn't get out. Once we've done the houses down the road, that is.”

  I turned to Cassie, felt her hot breath on my face. Her hand moved, her arm curling around my mine, squeezing tight.

  “I don't get it,” came the other voice. “Pass the screwdriver.” There was a long pause. “Fuck's sake.”

  “Careful,” said the skinhead. “You damage it and I ain't protecting you.”

  “Shut up,” came the reply. “Go on then, tell me the secret. Why the fuck are we going to a fucking hospital? Someone ill?”