by RR Haywood
‘Are we?’ Paula asks curtly coming to a stop next to Marcy. ‘What’s that then?’ she demands with a glare at Howie. ‘He’s disobeying constantly…Blowers is like this far from snapping,’ she adds, holding her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart.
‘Like I said, we are doing something,’ Howie says.
‘What? What are we doing? It’s not fair on Blowers to let it get so bad he snaps.’
‘What do you suggest then, Paula?’ Howie asks with an edge to his voice.
‘I don’t know, Howie,’ Paula retorts.
‘Christ,’ Clarence groans, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Look I’m sorry,’ Paula says, still terse but clearly trying to back-pedal, ‘but I hate him…’
‘Try sitting in the Saxon with him,’ Marcy says. ‘Should have heard what he said before Reggie…’
‘What?’ Paula asks quickly. ‘What did he say?’
‘Some shit about Mo being accused of rape by a girl that fancied him…’ Marcy explains, ‘he was making a point that people lie…’
‘That’s it,’ Paula fumes, folding her arms as the steam plumes from her ears. ‘Seriously? He actually said that? What did you say? I hope to God one of you told him to shut up.’
‘What could we say?’ Marcy asks, as bewildered as everyone else. ‘Blowers tried but then Maddox asked if they’d break his fingers?’
Paula doesn’t reply but lifts her eyebrows in that gesture of hers that suggests she really is not very happy right now.
‘I am really not very happy right now,’ she tells them.
‘It’ll come to a head one way or another,’ Clarence says heavily after a few seconds of silence.
‘We can’t leave him at the fort,’ Howie says.
‘Er, mind if I?’ Roy asks, hovering a hand towards the sports shop.
‘Yeah carry on mate,’ Howie says. ‘Listen, we’ve just got to stick it out with him…’ he tells everyone else.
‘Yes,’ Paula states pointedly.
‘Argh,’ Roy calls out from inside the sports shop.
‘You alright?’ Clarence asks as they all turn.
‘Cobwebs,’ Roy calls out.
‘So what next?’ Marcy asks, sagging on the spot.
‘You look hot,’ Howie says.
‘I am hot. I’m very hot. I stink and my skin is sore…’ she wipes her hand across her forehead to show Howie her glistening hand. ‘See that? I’m sweating…I’m hot…my skin is sore and getting dry and we’re running about all over the place again…’ she stops suddenly with the sudden memory of what Howie did back at the equestrian centre and closes her eyes with a pained look, ‘I’m sorry…’
‘What for?’ Howie asks.
‘Moaning…you okay? I mean…you know…after that.’
He shrugs, nonchalant and casual but the flash of darkness is there in his eyes. ‘Is what it is.’
‘Don’t let Maddox get to you…ask Dave to beat the shit out of him. Dave? Will you please beat the shit out of Maddox…’
‘No,’ Howie says quickly before Dave runs off and commences beating the shit out of Maddox.
‘This sounds weird but it’s like we all did it,’ Paula says quietly, looking at Howie then over at Clarence.
‘Did what?’ Clarence asks.
‘What Howie did…back there…like it feels like I did it but Marcy did it too…like we all did it. Ah, doesn’t make any sense.’
‘No that’s how it feels,’ Marcy says before looking back to Howie.
‘It’s done,’ Howie says blasting air out his nose and thereby showing he wishes the conversation to end. ‘Reggie? What’s next? Why aren’t they attacking?’
‘I have no idea,’ Reginald replies, his hands clasped behind his back as he stares round at the street. ‘Truly,’ he mutters to himself.
‘You think they’re here?’ Marcy asks.
‘Oh undoubtedly. We are under observation as we speak…but by how many and where from I am unable to say. As I explained before I wanted to see if the other side made the connection to our gathering of essential supplies but the lack of opposition at the equestrian centre already disproves that theory.’
‘BLOODY COBWEBS,’ Roy shouts from inside the shop.
Paula shudders at the thought, glancing at the shop with distaste.
‘What’s after here then?’ Marcy asks, looking at Reginald.
‘I would suggest we locate somewhere remote to spend the night while I plan ahead…’
‘That is exactly what we need,’ Marcy says wistfully. ‘Somewhere with a bath so I can lie in cold water for a few hours…’
‘Now that,’ Paula says. ‘is the best idea all day.’
‘Boss, it’s Blowers, looks all clear up here…’
*
‘BLOODY COBWEBS,’ Roy shouts, plucking the strand from his face as he looks up and round for the offending spider that’s no doubt growing fat from all the flies also growing fat from all the bodies lying everywhere. An image swims into his mind of an obese fly trapped in a web huffing and puffing with red cheeks as a fat spider waddles towards it. Roy’s mind works differently to other peoples. What bothers them does not bother Roy. Zombies do not bother him. He can handle the heat too. He is fit, lean and blessed with an ability to withstand the changes in temperature. He’s irritated by Maddox but not to the extent of the others. He feels bad for what Howie did but also knows it was the right thing to do so therefore there is no need to keep thinking about it.
Instead he hovers between that state of utter calm where nothing in this world affects him, and a state of near on blind panic of knowing he is dying right this second from being infected with the virus.
Of all of them, Roy absorbed the understanding the deepest of all. He never said anything because to give it voice would have seen him drawing his pistol and blowing his own brains out.
Long years of therapy kicked in. The cognitive behaviour therapy asserted itself from the hundreds of hours and many well-meaning therapists that tried, and mostly failed, to ease his fears and obsessions of imminent death. He takes stock of the facts he knows. He uses those facts to reassure himself and just about stave off that panic attack bubbling away under his skin.
It’s Marcy that prevents the fear manifesting. Marcy’s hair, Marcy’s nails, Marcy’s skin tone and complexion. Roy doesn’t fancy Marcy. Roy can see the attraction for Marcy, who wouldn’t? She’s stunning but what Roy sees is beyond that. What Roy sees is a woman that has the thing he now apparently has and that woman looks absurdly healthy. Reginald too, in a geeky, stay-indoors and never do any exercise kind of way. Marcy was taken early too which means she’s had it for a while, and not only is she not dead but she looks great, and seems perfectly well.
That’s it. Just that. That is the dam holding the waters back. The simple fact of Marcy’s appearance.
It’s a funny world and it’s made up of funny people. People who all feel fears and have hopes and dreams the same as everyone else so whatever it takes to get through the day is all that matters.
He nods to himself, takes a deep breath and pushes the panic away. Besides, there is nothing he can do about it and also, there is strength in numbers. Whatever he has got, the others have got too. Clarence, Howie, Dave, Blowers…all of them. And they all look healthy too. Really healthy.
Yep. Keep that dam in place. Stay calm and carry on. Anyway, this is a nice thing, a good thing, he is in a sports shop that specialises in archery supplies.
He looks round the gloomy interior and tuts at the display stands knocked over then tuts again at the cash-register lying open on the floor. Looting a sports shop at the end of the world is fine, it’s to be expected in fact, but there’s no need to make a mess and why get the till open? For what? To steal money you can’t use?
He spots the now empty crossbow section and smiles at the memory of the joke Blinky made. That was nice. Being included in the banter like that. He wouldn’t want it all the time. That would be annoying and besides, some
people can say the most awful abusive comments and get away with it. Like Cookey and Blinky. If Roy told anyone to go fist themselves it would sound like a real sexual request.
He tuts again at the wire cutters left on the floor that must have been used to snip the security wire holding the crossbows to the display wall. Why leave decent wire cutters behind? He crosses over to pick them up, nodding at the weight and decent craftsmanship of the tool. He’ll keep these. You never know when you’ll need wire cutters. Actually, they should get more tools, and that hot water idea from earlier too. They should do that. Roy likes working with Nick when they tinker and fix things.
He moves further into the store, spotting the football team shirts and clothing racks. The cricket supplies and then the empty sections where the cricket and baseball bats would have been stored.
‘Ah,’ he says, seeing the untouched bows left on the display wall. ‘Urgh,’ he says at the cobweb brushing his face as he walks forward. ‘Oh,’ he says on seeing within one glance that the bows are all mid-priced low-end quality things.
He picks the first compound bow up and adds another tut at whoever left it strung. Why do that? Just so idiots can come in and pluck the thing a few times and feel like Robin Hood probably.
He picks the next one up, a recurve bow and barely adult sized. Weak and lacking power. Another compound bow. Another recurve. All cheap and no good for the demands of the apocalypse. Still, it’s nice to pick them up and have a few minutes of examination and study. The compounds operate with pulleys and wheels to lessen the effects of the draw and increase the power but these are too cheap. The pulleys snap, the wheels jam up. The recurves are the best out of this lot and look like an old-fashioned gentleman’s moustache with that curved shape. They do look nice. Very artful and pleasant but oh no, no no no, too light and this one has awful balance. Probably mass-produced from cheap materials.
‘Boss, it’s Blowers, looks all clear up here…’
Roy pauses for a second at the voice in his ear and for a second he wonders why they aren’t being attacked yet. Maybe the things aren’t here. Ah now what’s this one like? He reaches up to grab the recurve bow on the top plinth and has a second’s worth of hope that is dashed the second his fingers brush the cheap wood.
‘Sod it,’ he mutters, looking round with another tut. He’ll get some arrows from the stock-room and bugger off. He’s got his current compound which is functioning. It’s not great but it does the job. He thinks back to his van that he ditched when he saved Paula. Maybe it’s still there? They could go and see. He had everything in that van, plus his Kindle was in there and he does miss having a book to read. Not that they have any time to read now.
He wanders through the store, idly musing on this and that while avoiding the thought that he has a deadly, awful, filthy disgusting disease in his body. A second of panic hits. A thudding in his heart. Think of Marcy and Reggie. Think of the lads and how healthy they all are. Think of how his bow use, aim and rate of fire have all got better since he started fighting with Mr Howie. Think of how much stronger he feels. Think of those things. Ah but the magical thinking is there too, the worry that if he doesn’t worry enough he will die. Okay, so have some worry but not too much. Enough worry to keep the bad things away but not too much worry that you can’t do anything.
‘Argh,’ he yacks again at the light graze gliding over his nose then the sensation of a sticky strand on his cheek. ‘Fat spiders,’ he mutters, reaching for the light in the stock-room before remembering there is no electricity. ‘Arse,’ he carries on muttering, pulling his pocket torch out to flash the beam over the shelves.
He finds the arrows. The distinctive packets stacked up neatly and gives thanks they are the bigger two-dozen packs instead of the smaller dozen sized ones. He drops his bag, opens the top and starts ripping packets open to slide the shafts in. These are pre-fletched too. He prefers fletching his own but that takes time and his skill is such that he can adapt to a slightly imbalanced arrow. In fact, that makes it more interesting sometimes.
He shoves a few dozen in and grunts in approval at having his ammunition now restored. The rest of the packets he will take into the van for re-supply.
The shelf empties and in the gloom he spies more on the next section that he reaches for without paying close attention. Only when the first packet is lifted does his mind snap to the contents in his hand. He pauses, standing stock still while staring. The packet is too long for recurve or compound arrows. He draws it closer, feeling the weight and balance even within the packaging material. Longbow arrows. These are longbow arrows and bloody good ones too. He pushes the torch into his mouth and uses both hands to open the pack and draw an arrow out. An oak arrow. A perfectly balanced beautifully straight thirty inch oak arrow with threaded and glued fletches. Steel tipped with a wicked barbed point. Hunting arrows without a doubt. Longbow arrows are fired by longbows. There must be a longbow. He rushes out back into the store and over to the bow section. No longbows. Just the cheap thing he casted aside.
‘Roy? We’re going up to Blowers,’ Paula calls through.
‘Longbow,’ Roy shouts back.
‘You what?’
‘Longbow arrows…’
‘Right, okay…er…’
‘They’ve got longbow arrows.’
‘That’s nice. We’ll be up with Blowers if…’
‘I can’t find the longbow though.’
‘You’ve got a bow.’
‘I’ve got a compound but…’
‘Okay, listen we’re going up the road. Howie, Clarence and Dave are here.’
‘Where is it?’ he mutters, rushing through the aisles. Why stock so many arrows if not the bow to go with them? He comes to a stop at realising it’s what he used to do. He used his local archery shop to order and stock his longbow arrows for him. They never had any actual longbows, just the arrows. ‘Bugger,’ he huffs, sags and walks back to the storeroom and underneath the glass fronted display cabinet holding the handmade longbow fixed to the wall over the counter.
‘Longbow,’ he whispers frantic, excited and running backwards to trip and stagger over the till on the floor. He doesn’t care for falling or tripping but keeps his head turned and fixed up at the cabinet. ‘Longbow…bloody longbow,’ he reaches up but his fingertips only brush the underside of the cabinet. A yelp and he rushes behind the counter looking for a chair or stool. Nothing. He goes into the store room, spots a chair, grabs it and runs back out. Chair down and he jumps up to stare at the cabinet with eyes full of hope.
Hinges at the top of the cabinet and with almost reverential poise he lifts the front up to reveal the bow resting on two big hooks. It looks good. It looks great. Must be yew. Has to be yew. Is it yew? It looks like yew. He almost doesn’t want to touch it for fear of ruining the hope but touch it he must and so, with the caress of a lover, the tips of his fingers brush the warm dry wood and the world is full of calm. All the noise vanishes. All the panic fades. All the fear and worry simply is not there. Instead, there is a yew longbow lifted carefully from the cabinet as he drops lightly from the chair.
He holds it one handed in the middle, feeling the weight and balance which are just…just…well, not even perfect because to be perfect suggests a thing manufactured or made and a bow is neither of those. A bow is crafted and a yew bow is born from the yew tree.
He turns it over and brings one end down to the ground. Six feet. An inch taller than he. A great thing. A long thing that holds power far beyond the appearance of the slender wood that, unslung, is almost straight with only a hint of a curve.
While the sweat slides down his face he finds string and commences, quietly and with laser focussed attention, to string the bow. The calm radiates from his core. A quietness within his soul. One end attached. He braces the bow and flexes the bend to fit the other end and in so doing he feels the suppleness of the wood and the resistance being offered to his hands. Like a living thing that gives consent to bend and allows the string to be f
itted. He even murmurs a thanks when the stringing is finished and the bow takes shape.
Then he stands and looks at it. Just looks. Just looks for the sake of looking and as the heat builds and the tension rises and the pressure grows so he smiles and feels warm inside.
*
‘Have you been inside?’ Paula asks, coming to a stop with Marcy at the entrance to the shopping centre. Glass fronted, with multiple sets of doors all smashed through with small chunks littered across the entranceway. A corpse lies twenty feet in. Old and rotten. Dust, leaves, litter and filth all blown in by the wind and rain. Past that initial section the floor and windows look clean.
‘Went to the end of this section,’ Blowers says, staring through the doors. ‘Meredith hasn’t reacted…she’s sniffing like crazy but…’ he looks round for the dog still trying to discern the tracks of the things she can smell. ‘Did see that though,’ Blowers says, pointing to the first shop on the right inside the doors.
‘What?’ Paula asks, trying to see what he’s pointing at. ‘Oh…oh I see…a coffee shop.’
‘If we get the vehicles up here I could run a power supply in from Roy’s van,’ Nick says as Paula realises they’ve already discussed it, ‘if we find an extension cable,’ he adds.
‘Think Howie would like a coffee?’ Paula asks Marcy.
‘After today?’ Marcy says as though the question caught her off-guard, ‘I think he’d attach a drip if he could.’
‘Okay,’ Paula says, ‘get someone down to bring Roy’s van up…’
‘Roger,’ Blowers says, nodding at Nick who sets off back towards the road at a steady jog.
‘We’ll go in and start getting supplies,’ Paula says, sighing with discomfort at the same feeling they all suffer of wet clothes soaked through from sweat and hot feet, sore skin and irritation levels rising.
‘Mo, stay with them,’ Blowers says, ‘Blinky, in the main aisle with line of sight on Mo and the door. Cookey on the door with line of sight on Blinky and Charlie…Charlie, you head up that end away from the road…if anything happens we all fall back to this doorway first then down to the others. Everyone got it?’
