by Gary McMahon
But that imagined rule was about to end.
Beyond the grove of trees he came to a clearing that allowed him to look down into a valley. There was a shopping centre located at the base of the valley – large prefabricated sheds containing rows and aisles of foodstuffs and clothing and every other kind of knick-knack everyone had thought they needed; the separate components that together were meant to construct a happy life.
The mall was surrounded by scores of the dead. They stood in unmoving rows, circling the buildings, following some instinct that had brought them here to the places they once haunted when they were alive. The place was far enough away that Rick had no fear he would be seen, yet still he stayed back in the shadows, cupping his hands to his eyes to examine the pathetic scene.
The dead had returned to their old stomping grounds: shops, supermarkets, city centres. That explained why huge swathes of the countryside remained clear of their presence. They had begun to mass in the only places they could remember, the churches of capitalism, the prayer grounds of a lost world.
He heard the sound of distant gunshots. Someone must be hiding out in the shopping centre, thinking it a good place to sit out a siege. There would be plenty of food there, and all the things they had ever wanted before the world went tits-up. It was what Rick’s generation had been taught all along: there is comfort in stuff, safety in the pursuit of objects. This was the living end of that empty philosophy, and Rick pitied the fools who had believed it right up until the last cash register had rung up its final sale.
He watched the dead as they swayed in place, moving to some unheard rhythm. They stood facing the shopping centre, most of them simply standing and staring. When Rick concentrated, he could hear the sound of their moaning: it was a sad song, a lament for everything that had been lost.
He turned away, feeling emptier than before.
Trudging back to the camp, he wrestled with the thoughts he had experienced when he’d watched them, grouping together for the World’s-end Sale, the Last Great Shopping Spree of the Century.
Sally had not moved when he got back to the camp, but Tabby was now lying down, perhaps even sleeping. He hoped that she was at least getting some rest. All of this had been so hard on the girl – first she had lost her parents, and then the old man. Rick was all she had left, and even he was uncertain how much he could do for her or how long he might be around.
He heard the sound through his babble of thoughts: a low stuttering roar, like bees swarming around a hive.
Rick turned quickly and dropped to his knees, shouldering the rifle and looking along its sight.
A small moped struggled up the hill, heading towards the roundabout. A scrawny man sat astride the machine, leaning into the climb. The bike was festooned with bags and plastic containers, which probably contained food and fuel. Rick could make out no heavy artillery either on the bike’s frame or strapped to the man.
He stood, but did not lower the rifle.
The moped halted a hundred yards away. The rider sat staring at Rick, and at this distance he could not make out the stranger’s face. The man raised a hand in greeting, then he turned off the little engine. The silence filled the space between them, pouring in like flood water into an open grave.
Rick kept his sights on the man.
The figure climbed off the bike and started to walk towards the roundabout, his hands held out from his body. He had a rather feminine-looking bag on his back, the straps hanging loose at his shoulders, and unless he was mistaken the kid was wearing an ill-fitting pair of women’s leather gloves. As the visitor drew closer, Rick could see that he was smiling, but the expression didn’t seem to fit his face. It was sickly, like something painted on in haste.
“Hello. I’m unarmed.” His voice was slightly high; he sounded like a small boy rather than a fully-grown man.
Rick kept the rifle on him, not ready to trust anyone, even a seemingly harmless young man with a girl’s rucksack on his back.
“I’m alive... not one of those dead things. I’ve travelled a long way. I could do with some company, if that’s okay by you.”
There was something off about the kid, a certain insincerity that niggled at Rick’s keen combat senses. None the less, he lowered the rifle slightly, nodded.
“Thank you. I’m saddle-sore from that thing. If I could just rest for a while by your fire, I’d be grateful.”
“Come on up,” said Rick, finally dropping the gun. He took his finger off the trigger and let the weapon hang at his side. “I have some hot tea if you’d like. A few biscuits.”
The kid clambered up the side of the raised roundabout, his thin arms and legs scurrying for purchase on the soft ground. “Thanks. That would be wonderful.”
They stood not quite face-to-face; Rick was at least three or four inches taller than the younger man and so much broader at the shoulders. If the little fucker meant trouble, he figured that he could overcome him in seconds.
“My name’s Daryl,” said the kid, sticking out a small hand.
Rick shook the hand, feeling briefly like he was missing something, some vital element that he needed to complete the picture. “Rick. You’re welcome here, in our camp.”
“What happened to them?” Daryl tiled his head towards Sally and Tabby. His eyes shone, but Rick thought it was just the reflection of the camp fire flames.
“My wife was badly burned. Our daughter is in shock. We were attacked yesterday and her grandfather was killed. I had to deal with him; make sure he didn’t come back.” Rick walked towards the fire and made sure that he positioned himself between Daryl and the girls.
Daryl nodded. He obviously had his own story, and Rick thought that everyone’s tale would be much the same: dead friends and relatives, lost loves, abandoned homes and lives.
“You look like you’ve been through some stuff yourself, Daryl.” He lifted the tin pot from the fire and poured some tea into battered mugs.
“Yes. I used to live with someone. She died and came back. Just like you, I was forced to deal with her.” He stared into the flames, his eyes empty and reflecting only the brightness from the fire.
Rick felt that the kid was leaving something out of his brief account. It wasn’t a problem, but the whole thing rung false somehow. He was sure that what he was being told was the truth, but with certain elements excised, or perhaps altered for public consumption. There was something about this Daryl... something unpleasant. He didn’t come across as a complete person; for some reason, the kid seemed more like an actor playing a part. He said all the right things, paused in all the right places, but it was all too studied, as if he were striving for an effect rather than being open and natural.
They sipped their tea in silence. It was too hot and too weak; there was no milk or sugar. The sky felt like a vast canyon yawning above them, as if everything had been turned on its head and somewhere up there was the earth. The effect was disorientating, and Rick tried not to dwell on it.
A breeze moved through the foliage at the side of the road, ruffling the tops of trees and disturbing the night birds. Something cried, far off and moving away from them; from somewhere inland came the muted sound of a single scream. Rick looked in the direction of the sound, but he knew that the awful cry was being carried on the wind, and whoever had made it was perhaps miles away.
Daryl did not even glance away from the fire.
Send him away, baby. I don’t like him. He isn’t right.
Rick tried to ignore Sally, but as usual her voice cut right through his brain and into his very core.
He wants to hurt us.
How could she know that? On the surface, the kid was harmless: a skinny little runt in search of some company. But underneath the performance, at the heart of the matter, he might be very dangerous indeed. Long ago Rick had learned never to trust the image a person was attempting to portray. Initial instincts were usually correct; whatever you felt about a person within the first five minutes of meeting them was all too often clo
se to the mark. In the field you learned to read people fast or you died... it really was that simple.
What he read in Daryl was an empty page, a space waiting to be filled. There was no real person here, just the reflection of how he thought a real person should act. In the silence that hung between them there was an absence; rather than a companionable lull, this was a shocking emptiness, a lack of contact at a fundamental level.
“I think you should go now.” Rick grasped the rifle. He did not raise it, but he did enough to inform Daryl that he was ready to use it if necessary.
“But why? What have I done? Or is it something I failed to do?” The kid’s eyes were stones, pieces of mineral stuck into a hunk of flesh. There was nothing behind them; no personality to tie everything together into a whole human being.
“Cut the fucking act and leave. Move or I’ll take off your head.” Rick stood, slipping his finger beneath the trigger guard.
Daryl finished his tea. It was still hot, but he took it in one large swallow. Then he stood and turned away without speaking, heading back towards his silly little moped. He climbed onto the bike, scratched the side of his face, and cocked his head like a dog. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said, and then before Rick could answer he fired up the engine and put-putted away, his back held straight this time and presenting the perfect target.
Rick raised the rifle and took a bead on that slim back. His finger tensed on the trigger.
Do it.
One round. That was all he needed. It was an easy shot.
Kill him, baby.
He blinked hard, aware of that white noise behind his eyes again. Then he lowered the rifle and went back to the fire, where he took some more of the weak tea and wondered what had held him in check. It would have meant nothing to have killed the kid; just another dead man among the many who now inhabited the world. Maybe that was why he hadn’t done it. Perhaps the lack of meaning in the act had stayed his hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DARYL WAS EXPERIENCING a rush like he imagined a sky diver must feel. Adrenalin powered through his body, making his extremities tingle. His vision possessed a clarity which he could not quite believe and the moped bucked beneath him like a stallion as he roared towards the coast.
After returning down the hill he had doubled back, just to ensure that Nutman didn’t realise he was being followed. But Daryl was no follower now; he was the leader.
He still could not believe that the policeman had left the maps in full view. Granted, that wasn’t the reason why Daryl had approached him – it had been more of a personal dare, a test to see exactly how far he had come on his journey and how much he had changed from the fearful runt he had been before Mother’s death had freed him.
No, the maps were an added bonus. All laid out at the fireside, with red pen marking the route. He’d probably seemed rather suspicious as he pretended to stare into the fire, all the while trying to peer at the maps, but that did not concern him. He did not plan to be face-to-face with Nutman again – not until he killed him, of course, prior to reclaiming the lovely Sally.
Sally. She had been so close – near enough to touch. To cut. To bludgeon.
God, how his mind raced. He went through a hundred different methods of killing her, each one more extreme than the last. He could kill her again and again, as long as he protected her brain.
He could even have killed her then, in front of the bastard she had married, his love rival.
But then had not been the right time. He must wait until he could take her with the minimum resistance from her dangerous husband; perhaps their destination would offer up the perfect opportunity.
The Farne Islands.
Daryl had even been there before, on a school trip years ago. As far he could recall the place was a bird sanctuary; the only people who stayed there were ornithologists who dedicated their lives to the study of certain breeds of wildfowl. He remembered a lot of terns, guillemots and puffins. Back then, the puffins had made him laugh, even when the school bullies had forced him out onto a rock ledge and left him stranded there.
He wondered what was there, why Nutman was heading for the sanctuary. Was it something to do with the old man – the girl’s grandfather? It amused him that Nutman had referred to the girl as his daughter: he was either delusional or spinning a yarn to cover his tracks. But why would he even need to fabricate a cover story? He had no idea that he – or, more precisely, his wife – was being stalked.
The salt air grazed his nostrils as he approached the coast. The stench of rotting fish and seaweed accosted him as he swung into a tight curve and the sea finally lurched into view. The sky was huge and wide above the flat line of the sea; sea birds hovered far out, dipping towards the waves to pick at whatever scraps they could find floating on the surface.
Daryl grinned. He actually hated the sea, but it was worth putting up with if it meant that he could spend time with Sally. If he could get to the island first and identify where they were going, he could prepare an ambush. Then it would be plain sailing – and he’d certainly intended the weak pun.
The air was harsh; the temperature was even lower here than it had been inland. There were no vessels out to sea; the expanse of faded blue water was empty, bereft of the boats or yachts or working ships which usually cluttered the horizon.
A few dead people roamed on the dull yellow sand, stumbling around like wind-up toys. One of them had wandered into the surf and fallen to his knees. He was unable to get back up because of the waves, which kept tugging him off balance as he attempted to right himself.
“Stupid,” said Daryl, appalled at the sight. “Fucking stupid corpse.”
He pushed the moped along the empty coast road, heading towards what appeared to be some kind of small private dock. There were boats anchored at a jetty – expensive looking crafts and smaller, cheaper working boats. He did not have the first idea how to sail, but it would come to him. He was capable of anything lately, even things he’d been afraid of in the past.
He stopped at a huge weather-worn National Trust sign that offered local information, climbing off the moped to inspect it close up. The sign gave brief details of all twenty-three separate Farne Islands, and listed all the endangered species – sea birds and seals – which made their homes there.
Daryl remembered walking across guano-spattered rocks as a child, afraid of the birds yet fascinated by their natural beauty. When he returned home and told Mother all about the trip, she’d claimed that God was present in places like these – His work evident in the birds and animals, even the tiny rocky islands themselves.
She had never missed an excuse to invoke the name of her lord. It was habitual, her way of coping with the world and of codifying everything within it.
According to Mother, everything was God’s will, even the bad stuff. Especially the bad stuff. It was meant to test us, or so she said.
“God moves in mysterious ways, all right.” He smiled, placed a hand on the large wooden sign, feeling a thrum of latent energy. Or did he just imagine that? He could no longer be sure.
Birds called out far above, their screeching voices a constant backdrop to the sound of the surf. White bird shit covered everything like spilled correction fluid: evidence of God’s typist correcting the errors in the ongoing script of creation.
Daryl brandished the digital camera, taking a shot of the information sign, the unruly sea, the ugly beach... the scattered dead who walked there, unable to leave the sand, like machines stuck in grooves. Maybe they’d keep going until they ran out of steam, and then simply keel over and stop. Didn’t sharks do that? Just keep on going until they stopped swimming, and when they did cease moving through the deeps, they just died on the spot.
Or was that another myth, a piece of misinformation?
Nothing was certain these days. Everything was in flux.
The idea of sharks seemed somehow fitting. The dead were like land sharks: eating machines, roaming across the earth and consuming anyone
they encountered.
He got back on the moped and headed towards the jetty. There were a lot of spaces between vessels, probably caused by people frantically taking to the sea to find somewhere to wait out the apocalypse. Daryl imagined hundreds of them, sitting on small land masses, running out of supplies, trying to summon a voice on a failing radio set.
The damn fools. Did they not realise that it was all here for the taking?
Daryl strode along the timber boards, looking down past his feet at the gaps and the water beneath. The sound of water lapping at the rotting timber pilings was hypnotic. He glimpsed movement down there: darting shapes, sharp little waves caused by something shifting in the water...
So caught up was he in the water’s weird movement that he failed to see the dead woman as she lunged at him from behind a boat. Just at the last minute, Daryl glanced up and managed to back away so that she caught hold of his jacket rather than his skin. She was quick, strong. The skin of her face hung in tattered strips from the bone of her skull and her tongue lolled snake-like from the black cavern of a mouth.
The woman’s skin was waterlogged; it sagged on her bones. Her eyes had been mostly eaten by fish or seagulls and her reaching fingers flashed bone-white as they tightened around his collar. Her clothes were sodden, hanging heavily around her.
Daryl lashed out and caught her on the side of the head. She barely moved, just tightened her grip and shuffled towards him. He kept backing away, trying to keep his balance so that they did not pitch over into the water.
The dead woman made a hideous gurgling sound deep in her throat. That tongue flapped at her chin, far too long, the colour of raw liver.
“Get off!” He back-peddled furiously, terrified of losing his footing, yet desperate to be away from this ravenous creature. Her jaws snapped shut like steel pincers, severing the tongue. It slid down the woman’s flattened chest and dropped to the timbers, where it slid off the edge and into the restless water like an eel returning to its natural habitat.
