In The End Box Set | Books 1-3

by Stevens, GJ

  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?”

  “Gordy's got the shits,” he said, and they broke out in laughter. “Nah, seriously. They got supplies, right? Medicine, food and petrol. Stuff that's worth a thousand times what it used to be, at least while all this shit's going on.”

  I felt Cassie's arm squeeze tighter. There was silence in the other room and I worried somehow they might have felt it too.

  “But won't there be lots of people there?” the short guy replied.

  “Yes, you twat. The weak and the sick and those stupid enough to hang back and look after them. There'll be no one protecting them, except maybe a few old men. It'll be a walk in the park and we'll be king of the castle.” The pair broke into a high laugh. “You look constipated.”

  “Fuck off,” the other voice replied. “What I don't get is why we're getting all the TVs and stuff? There's no fucking juice.”

  “You twat. It ain't gonna be like this forever. We live in one of the richest countries in the world and you think they'll let this stop us? You're more of a mug than I thought. Give it a couple more weeks, maybe a month, this will all be over and we'll have a stock pile of TVs to sell when the internet's back on.”

  There was a pause and I pictured the short guy's expression changing, realisation lighting up his face.

  I hoped he was right.

  His reply was laughter and we went back to listening to the sound of their effort.

  “Shove it on the bed,” the skinhead soon said. “Then we'll have a look in that cupboard. I reckon there's sweet shit hiding away.”

  55

  “What I don't get…” the short guy said, but was interrupted.

  “What do you fucking get?” said the skinhead, as the volume of his laughter tailed off.

  Cramps pulled at my calves, but I feared a stretch would make too much noise. Instead, I tried my best to relax and to keep concentrating on their words.

  “Fuck off. Seriously though, what I don't get is how after only two days of this shit, there's already a field hospital.” His voice got quieter.

  A rush of excitement spiked up through my stomach as I realised they'd forgotten to check our hiding place.

  “Only two days,” the skinhead said, a vein of sarcasm running through his tone. I couldn't make out the rest of what he was saying.

  I tried to stand and felt Cassie's warm hand reach for mine. Ignoring her pleading grip, I raised to my feet, although tentative at first as I searched out their decaying voices and any report from the floorboards under my feet.

  The sound of their footfalls had been so obvious and I knew the same would be for where I stood. Still, I had to take the risk; just had to hear what was being said, despite each of their words becoming less distinct.

  The hospital they spoke of sounded exactly the place we needed for Naomi. She was in no condition to travel, but maybe we could convince someone to come to her; a house call, if we ever got out of this cupboard.

  I crept to the door, clutching the screwdriver in my fist, the voices getting louder than the difference a few steps should have made.

  “Look. There's an evacuation on New Year's Eve. No one explains a thing and then it stops before it gets going, leaving behind whoever wasn't around to get the first call.”

  There was a long pause. I had no idea why. According to the floor boards and their changing volumes, they were back in the bedroom and moving around.

  “Then, this morning, we saw those army helicopters buzzing around with their massive machine guns shooting at the ground. We must have hid three or four times. Right?”

  Another pause.

  “They seem to have stopped, too. Haven't seen any for a few hours. Right? But in all that time, someone's set up a field hospital and stocked it with supplies and found people willing to help. That's what I don't get.”

  The voice changed for the first time in a while.

  “You think it's bollocks?” the skinhead said, his tone showing the first sign of a serious edge.

  The short guy spoke again, finding a new confidence.

  “I've got no fucking idea. I'm just saying it don't seem right, that's all.”

  The skinhead huffed a reply, his voice all of a sudden loud as if on the other side of the door.

  I tried to calm my breath, fearing he was so close he could hear the pounding of my chest.

  “I tell you what don't seem right. When a place like this gets done out like a New York apartment and is abandoned for ten months of the year because their London pad has better internet access and the local shop sells beard oil, leaving people like me, honest and hardworking, priced out of the market.”

  “Honest?” came the short guy's reply, and I heard what sounded like a pained call.

  “Anyway, for once you might be right, but wrong somehow. I reckon there's more going on,” said the skinhead.

  “Huh?” said the short guy, their voices getting quieter.

  I crept up closer to the door, but still I couldn't quite make out the words anymore. I looked back to Cassie, but even though we'd been in here for an age, my night vision needed at least something to work with. I was blind.

  Swapping the screwdriver to my left hand, I found the handle with my right. Slowing my breath, I tried again to listen.

  A hurrying call came from out on the road. I could only make out the tone.

  “It was four or five days ago, I think. It wasn't even mentioned on the news,” came the skinhead's voice, suddenly clear. “Shit. The cupboard.”

  I'd missed the interesting part of what was said, only the last few words coming through, clear as day. The floorboards under the carpet creaked, vibrating with a speed leaving me no time to decide; leaving me no time to hold the handle firm or to lean against the door or move my meagre weapon to my strongest hand before the light poured in and forced my eyes into a squint.

  I wasn't surprised to see the short guy standing there. Wasn't surprised to see him pull up to a stop, his right hand still on the handle as he swung it open, his left empty.

  He looked up from the floor and our eyes locked, our faces sharing the same shocked expression.

  56

  My right fist swung quicker than he could step clear. My flesh connected clean to his nose, crunching the cartilage with a sound I'd remember for a long time.

  He stumbled backward, tripping over his feet, but I passed him by. It wasn't him I feared the most; the skinhead was who I had to deal with. He was the one I knew would run and raise the alarm, changing the odds to somewhere we would never have a hope to handle.

  Surging past the short guy, I helped him stay down on the floor with a push of my hand to his shoulder. As I heard the ruffle of movement at my back, I kept my gaze fixed forward.

  The skinhead had only just turned. Hugged between his arms was the TV once hung from the wall. My biggest fear was if he leapt forward; using the sixty diagonal inches as a weapon, it would be just as effective as the baseball bat lying on the bed.

  Instead, he stood dumbfounded, dropping the TV as I barrelled toward him, pointing my right shoulder square on his centre, adrenaline pushing the pain out of my head.

  The edge of the TV smashed across his black-booted feet. He reeled back, arms still wide, presenting an open target for my shoulder as it barged into his chest and sent us both to the floor.

  The air bellowed out of his lungs, his head slapping back against the carpet, the TV sandwiched between us as I fell on top of him, stars sparking across my vision from the new-found pain in my chest.

  I closed my eyes but soon opened to find his cl
osed, too; long enough for me to hover the screwdriver over his left eye before it opened.

  I thought the skin around his eyes would break as they sprung wide, his pupils darting between the point of the screwdriver and my face as it hovered just above his.

  My concern turned to Cassie, but I couldn't move my attention away, knowing he'd have me on my side if I flinched even the slightest bit. But there was no sound of a struggle. I had to know.

  “You okay?” came her hurried voice, before I had a chance to give my question.

  I lurched the screwdriver down to his neck, pushing just enough so he knew I was serious. I looked back to see Cassie with her foot on the short guy's neck, the crowbar in a double-handed hold poised above her head. We'd got them and all without making a noise, but now we had to do something with our advantage.

  My first thoughts were to tie them up and shut them in the cupboard, but we already knew they were getting impatient outside and would quickly find them, then come hunting for us.

  My second thought was for a more permanent solution, but I couldn't stomach an intentional act; I couldn't take someone's life in cold blood.

  “What now?” said Cassie, her voice matching my worry.

  “I don't know,” I said. “Either way, we're fucked.”

  “We have to kill them,” Cassie said.

  The short guy whimpered, but the skinhead's face seemed to harden at the words.

  “I can't,” I replied. “And nor can you.”

  “Then what?” she said, her voice calm.

  I sensed her gratitude for my words. We all had enough to worry about; already had enough to regret when we closed our eyes.

  “We'll shove them in the cupboard, barricade the door. They'll be found soon enough,” I said. “And we'll be gone.”

  “But they're going to the house?” Cassie said, a new tension in her voice.

  “You going to be a good boy? Leave us alone?” I said, turning downward. I didn't believe him for one moment as he replied with a nod.

  Still holding the screwdriver tight to his neck, I let myself slide from the TV and down to the floor. Keeping an even pressure, I got to my knees, trying to not reel from the pain in my chest.

  “Push it off,” I said, motioning to the TV.

  He slid it to his right, holding his head as still as he could.

  “Put your hands in your pockets,” I said, and he pushed his hands into his skinny jeans. Leaving a thin red mark, I pulled the screwdriver back whilst keeping it poised, hovering and ready to strike.

  A muffled gunshot shook the building. I couldn't stop myself from turning around to the window, my gaze meeting Cassie's at its side.

  I watched her eyebrows rise with alarm, but too late I realised my mistake.

  The screwdriver snatched from my hand, pain searing in the side of my chest.

  57

  As my head swung back, I watched the screwdriver twist in his hand. He'd hit me with the handle and relief rained down; I wasn't about to feel the delayed effect of a puncture to my chest.

  There was still a chance, despite the pain, which was strong enough to force the breath from my lungs and to hamper my fists as they balled. I swung out my left arm, moving to block a second blow.

  His grip was poor and the tool went spiralling under the bed as my arm swung wide against his.

  Smashing my right fist against his cheek, he reacted with only the slightest flinch, barely showing the pain searing up through my fist had been of any worth.

  A second blow and his hand was up at my head, clubbing my temple again and again with a speed I had no hope to match.

  With each strike I felt the weight of my fist lighten, the edge of my vision blacking to form a circle like a Photoshop filter. The blows kept coming and so did mine, albeit slower.

  He angled me side on while I fought to find a soft spot on his skull. His aim went wide, catching the back of my head.

  My legs gave way and I rolled to the side with blackness falling all around, but I still felt the floor rise to jar against my back.

  My eyes were open, but I hadn't missed time. He was rising to his feet, his face bloodier than I remembered inflicting. His features screwed up with rage; anger pouring in my direction but, rather than coming straight at me, he turned.

  I followed his gaze to the short guy on his back. Him and Cassie were each holding the crowbar with both their hands, each trying to turn in the opposite direction and twist away out of the other's grip.

  The skinhead had moved, twisted around and was launching himself away at pace. He was going for the baseball bat laying on the bed.

  My gaze dropped to the floor and I saw the screwdriver nestled in the thick pile of the carpet underneath. I rolled, barrelling my way with my arms tucked up in vain, but still with every rotation, every twist, the darkness closed in around my dizzying vision.

  Stopping only as I hit his feet, I reached out but before I could make contact under the bed, a size ten boot smashed my legs together just below the knee.

  My hands reeled back and I rolled away; a vision of Cassie still locked in battle cycled past my view.

  Hitting the wall, I once again stopped and saw the skinhead holding the handle of the bat in both hands, raised high above his head, one foot in front of the other in my direction.

  I tried to scrabble to my feet but the new pain in my knee just left me lying. Time was up.

  He was close enough and the swing of the bat committed. Instead of lunging forward, trying to get as close to him as I could, I pushed up tight to the wall.

  The bat swung, catching just the edge of my coat. I grabbed for the rounded end as he pulled it back, as he tried to raise it high.

  Instead, he inadvertently helped me to my feet, but not for long. My left knee collapsed and I fell.

  Pushing off the wall with my good leg, my arms grabbing around his waist, I propelled myself forward and him back, sending the bat square to his face as he dropped. He lay still for a moment, his eyes fluttering open and closed. I knew it would be just for a moment and saw the screwdriver glinting under the bed.

  With one last thrust and using all my energy, knowing if this didn't work I would be spent and would leave me wide open for him to do his worst, my finger connected with the screwdriver handle.

  The tip of my index finger touched the wooden end, edging it slowly closer. I looked back and saw him rolling at my side.

  With my fingers clutched tight, I lunged the screwdriver down, only able to aim at his last known direction. Before the driver connected, I saw the bat raised above my head and the screwdriver fell from my grip.

  The bat swung down, hitting my shoulder with little force. Blood sprayed from his neck and I saw the crowbar embedded deep as he fell forward, showering me in his warmth.

  His full, dead weight landed on my chest, leaving only my head uncovered to see Cassie behind him. Her eyes were wide and not able to hide the shock of what she'd inflicted.

  Powerless to help, I watched as the short guy picked up a glass perfume bottle from the mirrored dresser and smashed it against her head, sending her sprawling, bloodied to the floor.

  His eyes fixed in awe as he looked around the room, staring at his pal who couldn't be saved. At the crowbar as he pulled it from the neck dripping with blood. At me as he drew the crowbar high. At Cassie as he swung it down towards my face.

  58

  MACKENZIE

  The first sign was the multi-coloured spotlights going dark, leaving the inside of The White Rock lit only with the emergency lights as they sparked to life over the double doors.

  The music fell away as the spots stopped spinning, just the rumbling groans of confusion left behind as the last cold beer drained down my neck. I had no idea of the time, but we hadn't sung together so there must have been a long while to go before the telly chimed twelve times over.

  The second sign was the long walk home. Mobiles and the landline were dead, no taxis responding and the car park emptied all too quickl
y.

  Leaving with my best buddy and no other choice, we walked, tripping over our feet in the pitch black. Out in the middle of nowhere where we lived, the darkness didn't mean a thing. Halfway to home the road lit with a constant stream of coaches, each in a hurry and none stopping to tell us the news. Before long they were gone.

  Helicopters replaced their noise, the sky filling with blinking lights high above our heads. Between us, we gave up racking our brains through the possibilities. I didn’t take too much note until we reached my house and found the place double locked, Mum and Dad not answering to the hammering. The car gone.

  With nothing else we could do and no one to ask for help, we walked the next mile to Mike's house in a drink-fuelled haze with the flocks of helicopters coming and going over our heads.

  His house was the same, but it's how he'd left it, his girlfriend having already stormed out on Christmas Eve; something to do with spending too much time with his mates.

  The power was off there too and after ten minutes of rifling in drawers he'd never been in, we lit candles and started on the beer warming in the fridge.

  I awoke still in my coat, coughing to clear acrid smoke from my lungs.

  It was morning, I first thought, as I opened my eyes to the brightness in the room.

  Realisation took only a moment. Fire had taken control of the other half of the room, the half where Mike had slouched as we both fell asleep. I couldn't see, but knew he wouldn't still be there. He couldn't sit in the centre of the flames.

  Coughing up my lungs, I fell to all fours and tried to remember the layout; tried twice to navigate in the bright smoke which blocked each way I turned.

  Somehow, I found my way to the door; found my way through the kitchen by the change of flooring. I found my way out to the front of the house in the freezing cold, with the early morning light just coming over the horizon.