by RR Haywood
‘Paula,’ I nod in formal greeting when she steps away from the group over to where I’m standing.
‘Mr Howie,’ she nods back formally.
‘Glad you’re with us,’ I say, ‘I couldn’t do this without you, you know that, right?’
‘Yeah,’ she grins wryly, ‘I know that. So I’m still the personnel manager then?’
‘Yes,’ I laugh, ‘I’ll lead, Clarence and Dave will train but everything else is all yours.’
‘Sounds good but I want a pay rise, my own office, weekends off and a company car.’
‘I can give you a rifle,’ I say with a shrug, ‘crap food, probably no sleep…a bigger team to look after and a whole heap of shit to go with it.’
‘Fine,’ she snaps, ‘I’ll take it. You and Marcy okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I lean round to look over at Marcy laughing with Clarence and Charlie at Blinky making a beeline for the lads, ‘yeah I think so…we almost lost back there, in that house…’
‘Yeah?’
I nod, serious now, ‘she came through though, was right behind me the whole time…we got stuck behind a door and just about kept them out with our legs. I’d got knocked senseless by some animal but she kept them out while I recovered.’
‘Really?’ Paula says turning to look at Marcy, ‘she’s genuine then.’
‘Yes,’ I give the reply instantly, ‘yes she is…’ I think back to the kiss we shared as we prepared to die and the outpouring of grief she gave, and how she tried to get me to leave while she held them out, ‘no doubts,’ I say to Paula.
‘I like her,’ Paula says quietly. The sixth sense of being watched prickles Marcy who turns and offers us a puzzled grin at the way we’re looking at her, ‘she’s stunning too.’
‘Is she?’ I ask lightly, ‘can’t say as I noticed…’
‘You fibbing…’
‘Right,’ I call out quickly, ‘we’re moving out to find somewhere for the night. Get your kit, get the bags Paula assigned and be ready in five. The light will be fading before too long and we don’t want to be here when it does.’
‘I haven’t done the bags yet,’ Paula says, ‘we got talking right after getting cleaned up. Give me five minutes. Nick and Roy, get the torches and batteries into one pile. Marcy and Charlie, can you make sure each bag is assigned antibacterial cleansing wipes, a first aid kit and spare socks, make sure Clarence’s bag gets the big socks…Cookey, water bottles…Reginald, we’ve got safety whistles on lanyards, can you make sure everyone gets one please and make sure they’re wearing them…’
‘Once we get back to the Saxon I want everyone loading their bags with ammunition and rifle cleaning kits…’ I add to her orders.
Organised chaos ensues with everyone moving between the bags of pilfered goods to get what they want but there’s method to the madness. Reginald has to join in and sort through the whistles which means he doesn't get to stay on the outside. Blinky works with Cookey getting the water bottles sorted while Charlie and Marcy go through the wipes and first aid kits.
‘Can everyone listen for a sec,’ Nick calls out holding a strap in his hand, ‘this is a head torch, it goes on your head…’
‘Really?’
‘Fuck off, Cookey. Turn on,’ Nick pressed a button at the top, ‘turn off,’ he switches it off, ‘batteries last for ages but there’s spares in the bags, ‘these are normal LED torches,’ he flicks the hand held torch on and off, ‘very bright…very fucking bright.’
‘Can everyone listen for a sec,’ Cookey stands up holding a water bottle, ‘this is a water bottle,’ he plays to his audience with a straight face, ‘inside will be water…to access the water you flip the lid and…’
‘Such a cunt,’ Nick laughs.
‘On with it,’ Paula calls through the bedlam.
‘Wipes and first aid kit in each bag.’
‘Thanks, Charlie,’ Paula says, ‘Cookey are those water bottles getting themselves into those bags?’
‘Yes, Paula…I mean no, Paula…I mean I…fuck me, we’ve got a Dave a Clarence and a Paula now,’ he groans, ‘can I take it back about you going?’
‘No,’ Paula says.
‘Marcy, will you stay nice or you gonna be all bossy like them?’ Cookey asks.
‘Thank you, Alex.’
‘Sorry, Dave.’
‘Whistle, Mr Howie,’ Reginald appears in front of me holding out a bright orange whistle on a lanyard.
‘Cheers, mate,’ I tug it over my head and feed the whistle under my top, ‘you okay?’
‘Yes yes, of course, thank you, Mr Howie.’
‘Reginald,’ I call him back as he goes to walk off, ‘you don’t sound very convincing.’
‘I simply have no skills to offer this group, Mr Howie,’ he says stiffly, ‘everyone else can fight. I cannot fight. Everyone else can run. I cannot run. Everyone has a part, Mr Howie but I am unable to provide any essential needs. Forgive me if I sound ungrateful because I am eternally grateful for the heroic endeavours of Clarence and Dave, especially Clarence, but I fear I will hold you up should something happen…’
‘It will happen, mate,’ I say, ‘it’s not a case of if but when. You and Marcy are integral to this. You were both infected and unlike Lani you were fully turned…but you aren’t now…’
‘That is what I am and not what I can do. I can do nothing to assist your team.’
‘Have you seen your eyes?’
‘They are lessening, yes I saw in the washroom. Again, Mr Howie, and I say it with the greatest of respect but I am terrified out of my wits and my fear is not something that can be trained away. The mere thought of picking up a weapon fills me with as much dread as being eaten alive or…oh my word, I cannot express the fear that grips me…and I am wearing black. Black. I am wearing clothing designed for outdoors when I detest the outdoors…’
‘Okay, what can you do?’
‘Nothing, I cannot do a thing. I have no transferable skills. There is nothing I can bring to this group.’
‘There will be,’ I say with a firm nod, ‘wait and see.’
‘Your confidence is inspiring and yes, I will admit that after seeing you in action as it were today, yes I see why you lead and why they follow but truly I fear I will get in the way and cause you delays and trouble.’
‘I don’t know what to say, mate but everything we’re doing seems to be for a reason so…stick with it and see how it pans out.’
‘Indeed,’ he turns away and stops briefly, ‘and may I ask, politely of course, that we do not stop and undertake an embarrassing situation of getting shirts and ties on the way out. It would be patronising and…’
‘Course,’ I cut him off but feel the sting of his words as he walks away.
‘We’re ready,’ Paula says, ‘your bag, Sir.’
‘Cheers,’ I take the rucksack and push my arms through and start adjusting the straps so it cinches tight enough for the axe to slide down and be held in place, ‘perfect.’
‘Can’t carry the world, Howie,’ Marcy says quietly. I look up to see her smiling softly and nodding towards Reginald, ‘he’ll be okay.’
‘Christ, you got the hearing of a bat or something?’
‘Maybe,’ she laughs, ‘but I didn’t need to hear it, I know Reggie and can guess what he said.’
‘Aye,’ I shrug and pick my assault rifle up, ‘he’s lost in the size of the team.’
‘Aren’t we all? So what were you and Paula discussing earlier that warranted such interesting stares?’
‘I was telling her how mean you were today.’
‘Mean?’
‘Yep, how you shoved spam in my mouth and then bragged about your boobs and legs.’
‘Really?’ She arches an eyebrow at me and hefts her rifle up, ‘we’re doing that again?’
‘Maybe,’ I take in the sight of her wearing the black clothes and carrying an assault rifle and her hair pulled back in a ponytail, ‘suits you.’
‘I know,’ she quips.
> ‘So vain!’
‘I was joking.’
‘You were not joking…’
‘I was joking…but seriously? Does my bum look big in this?’
‘Oh my god,’ I start walking off towards Dave.
‘Seriously, Howie, does my bum look big in this?’ She calls out as everyone else looks over and starts laughing at her turning on the spot trying to see her own arse, ‘does it? Mr Howie…does it?’
‘Dave, would you please get them formed up and ready.’
‘Oh that’s below the belt,’ Marcy gets in quick before Dave barks the order.
‘Form up and be ready to move out, bags on, weapons ready, eyes up. They are ready, Mr Howie.’
‘Thanks, Dave. Right, let’s get the fuck out of dodge…Dave on point with me…everyone stay together.’
We load up with the left over goods from the stores and head up the escalators and round the circular walkway to the main aisle back down to the entrance. I ignore the suit shop and hear a few comments behind me offering for Reginald to get new shirts and ties but he replies stiffly and makes it clear he doesn't want anything.
Time to switch on and the banter ends. Eyes up scanning the entrance, the others slowing down on signal from Dave who moves out to view both sides with Meredith sniffing the ground. The rain is still heaving down in a torrential downpour that sounds an orchestra of drums and pings into the air.
‘Straight in,’ I open the rear doors to the Saxon and move out to provide cover while the rest run from the shopping centre and into the back. More bags, more kit, more things that fill the limited space and we need to organise and find a way of storing it all, but not now and not here.
I’m drenched in seconds, we all are but the clothing does the job and doesn't soak the water up like before. I climb into the driver’s seat with Clarence up front and we pull away moving down the High Street and away from the town centre.
Early evening but it seems later with heavy clouds lying low in the sky. The end of the High Street is already submerged from a natural dip in the ground that stores the run off from the pavements and gutters.
‘It looks weird,’ Nick says from behind the front seats, ‘like normal.’
‘Normal?’
‘Yeah, like…when it was raining like this before…everyone would be at home anyway, so it looks normal now.’
‘Shit,’ I realise he’s right. The scene is normal. Like the rain has taken everyone off the streets. The blood smears and stains are hidden from view and the few bodies we see are already partially obscured by the deep puddles and water rushing along the gutters. For a minute I feel a deep pang of homesickness. A desperate desire to be at home watching the rain from the window and drinking tea, or at work watching the soaked shoppers coming into the store. Everything is gone. Everything is changed. Even if the infected all dropped down dead right now we’d never be able to return to what it was before. Families, friends and people we knew. Gone. Then it hits me even harder at how Reginald must feel. At least we’ve got each other but he must feel desperately alone now with a self-perceived image that he can’t bring anything to the table.
I shake it off and focus on the task at hand, which is driving out of the town and finding somewhere to stay for the night.
‘We cannot stay like this,’ Paula huffs from behind, ‘we can’t move and Meredith hasn’t got any space.’
‘We’ll tidy up and sort it out when we stop for the night,’ I call back.
‘Won’t do any good,’ Marcy says, ‘all the cupboards are full…it’s the ammunition boxes taking up the room.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to do.’
‘Can’t we find a bigger one of these?’ Paula asks.
‘They don’t come bigger,’ Clarence turns round to join the conversation, ‘in fact they made them smaller after these…we’d need a lorry or something but they’re not armoured, the next ones up are tracked and…’
‘Tracked?’ Someone asks.
‘Like a tank, with tracks,’ Clarence explains, ‘the fuel consumption is terrible and the speed is nothing like these things.’
‘Poor Nick is standing up and the girls are wedged in at the end,’ Marcy says.
‘I don’t mind standing,’ Nick says.
‘We could try and find another Saxon?’ I call back, ‘or something else.’
‘I had a van before this,’ Roy says adding to the clamour of voices, ‘we could get another van.’
‘No protection,’ Clarence says, ‘thin body, the tyres will blow…no, they’d have that in seconds if they saw you in it.’
‘So we try and find another Saxon then,’ Blowers says, ‘but they stopped making these and most of the vehicles were deployed overseas.’
‘We can look for a training vehicle like this one,’ I suggest, ‘but it’ll take time.’
‘Howie, have you seen how bad it is back here?’ Marcy says.
I try and twist round to look and struggle keeping a straight line until Clarence reaches out to grab the wheel, ‘go on,’ he says, ‘I’ll hold her steady.’
Turning round I look down and can’t help but laugh at the sorry sight. Ammunition boxes stacked everywhere, bags and rucksacks jammed into any space available. Rifles, axes, people, a dog, legs stretched out or tucked up and everyone staring back at me with red faces from the build-up of heat.
‘Okay,’ I take control of the wheel again, ‘we’ll find something…dunno what but we will.’
Through the rain we drive. Monsoon conditions but no wind. Just water falling straight from the sky and adding yet another worry to the many we’ve already got. One thing at a time though. One task at a time. Find somewhere to stay.
Easier said than done.
Thirty-Two
Day Seven
‘PARK!’ The boy bounces on the seat clapping his hands, ‘look, Gregoreeee…look…a park, Gregoreee…canwego? Canwego?’
‘What park?’
‘That park!’ The boy squeals pointing to the right and the play park beyond the brightly coloured looped metal fencing.
‘No park,’ Gregori grunts.
‘THERE IS,’ the boy works quickly to unclasp his seatbelt and stand up from the seat close to the windscreen, ‘that park…there it is…’
Gregori looks round, looks up, looks left and right at everything apart from the park, he grunts disdainful and nonchalant, ‘no park.’
‘Gregoreeee,’ the boy laughs, ‘there…stop and I’ll show you.’
‘Stop? Stop where?’’
‘Stop here.’
‘Where? There?’
‘No here!’
‘I stop over there.’
‘Noooo, Gregoreeee, stop now we’re going past the park….stop…’
The van stops and both doors open, one faster than the other as the boy drops down to sprint flat out over the road and down the fence line searching for the gate, ‘here,’ he shouts back and pushes through.
Gregori walks slowly with his hands at his sides. Sniffing the air, scanning every window and door of the surrounding houses. Turning to check entry points, escape routes, the distance from the park to the van, trip hazards and parked cars. Into the park he goes, pushing through the gate and taking in springy rubberised matting at the base of each piece of equipment. A roundabout, slide, swings, ropes, climbing frames, seesaws and an area set aside with benches for picnics complete with corpses rotting in the hot sun. Swarms of flies lift from the several bodies strewn about the benches and a wide dried pool of blood writhing with fat white maggots.
‘Push me,’ the boy on a swing kicking his legs to and fro, ‘push me, Gregoreee.’
The Albanian heads over and moves round behind the boy. Placing his hands on the back edge of the swing he pushes out to glide the boy forward.
One of the chains rubs against the fitting. A squeak that sounds with each swing. The boy laughs and demands to be pushed harder. Gregori pushes and stares round at the park, at the houses, at the street, at t
he area they are in. Back to the boy and he pushes out, taking steps back to let the boy swing further on the reverse.
Everything so clean and nice. The rubber floor laid down to protect the children who played here. The metal fencing designed to entrap the children and stop them running into the road but painted in different primary colours so it blends with the environment of play and fun.
Mothers with children came here. Fathers too. Families that laughed and loved. The houses nearby are nicely fronted with clean windows and pretty little gardens full of flowers. The cars left in situ are shiny and new.
‘Push me harder…’
Gregori pushes harder with that growing sense of unease spreading through his mind. Houses. A play park, nice cars, nice everything. Why aren’t the infected things attacking the boy? Why couldn’t he kill the boy last night?
‘Harder!’
He pushes harder and the boy sails forward to rise on the swing with his legs kicking out and his small hands gripping the chains as the funny sensation in his stomach lifts and sinks.
The squeak. Again and again. The boy laughing. The houses so nice and clean. The bodies writhing with maggots and a big black bird that falls from a tree to land in the pool of dried blood to feast on the fat maggots.
‘Again!’
The chain squeaks, the boy laughs with delight. Gregori tenses, his face showing emotions that bubble from the core. Of a life denied and a life lived.
What he never had. What he could never have. What he would never have. Nice houses and families laughing. Shiny new cars. Kill the boy. A play park with coloured fences. His breathing gets harder, his frown showing and the corner of his mouth twitches. The bird pecks at the maggots and feasts on the death. Why couldn’t he kill the boy?
What he never had and what he was. Life and death. The bodies are what he was. He gave that death and made the flies swarm to lay their filthy eggs so the maggots would feast and grow. He did that. Hundreds maybe more. Men. Women. Children. All cut down by his hand and yet he cannot do what must be done.
