He felt Barboza edging closer to him on the kerb.
Walker kept his focus on the street and on the houses opposite. “What gave it away?” he said. “Was it my pale blue skin?”
She laughed and slapped him gently on the knee. He almost yelped.
“It was your accent dummy,” she said. “I knew some Scottish people at university.” Barboza sighed and closed her eyes, as if remembering the past. Revisiting old faces and places – Walker had done the same thing many times.
“I always liked Scottish people,” Barboza said. “But I never got the chance to go there. It was always on my list you know?”
“There’s some history between the two nations of Scotland and Brazil,” Walker said. “Football history at least. You know, the English are always quick to claim they invented football and that they spread it worldwide and all that. But it was us – the Scots who took the game to Brazil. A man called Thomas Donohoe, a Glaswegian, organised the first football game in Rio in 1894. And then Charlie Miller, whose dad was a Scot, came along and he organised a team and set up the first football league in Brazil. So there you go, you learn something new every day.”
Barboza raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t know that.”
“I memorised it,” Walker said. “When I moved to England in 2011, I was going to wipe the floor with all the English kids who said otherwise. That was bound to win me some friends in the playground, eh?”
She laughed again.
Walker felt dizzy, as if he’d just waken up in a strange room after being drugged by rhinoceros tranquilisers. She was sitting too close. He hadn’t been this close to another person in a long time. She might as well have been smothering him with a pillow.
“Well I’d better crack on,” he said, getting to his feet. “Things to do, eh?”
“Things to do?” she said, looking up at him. She was shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. “What is there to do in the world anymore? Have you got a job waiting somewhere?”
“Sort of,” Walker said. He pointed to the houses on the other side of the street that he’d been looking at. “I need to find me a fridge. And then if I manage to do that, I’ve got to get it back to my house.”
“Haven’t you looked in these houses already?” Barboza said. “In nine years?”
“Some of them,” Walker said. He didn’t want to tell her that about his overwhelming fear of going anywhere near these houses. She wouldn’t be flirting with him if she knew about that. “Didn’t like what I found.”
He saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“A tomb for starters.”
“Where?”
Walker nodded in the direction of the house with the dead family inside. “Mum, Dad and the two kids,” he said.
Barboza turned around and looked at the house-shaped tomb.
“Oh God,” she said. “That’s terrible.”
“Aye,” Walker said, looking at her – a bronze statue basking in the sunlight.
Whirr-click.
Walker took a step onto the road. He looked up towards the sky, at the sleeping streetlights, and the trees that lined Stanmore Road in odd intervals on both sides.
“Did you hear that?” he said.
Barboza glanced back and forth between Walker and the tomb. “What?” she said. “What did you say?”
“You don’t hear it?”
“Hear what?” she said.
Walker stepped back onto the kerb.
“You didn’t hear that noise second ago?”
She shrugged her shoulders, as if to apologise.
“I hear it all the time,” he said. “It’s like machinery or something, but up there somewhere. It’s nothing natural, like the wind or the birds singing. Damn it, I swear it’s real.”
Barboza looked up towards the sky, searching for the source of whatever he was trying to describe. But she didn’t say anything and it was clear by the blank look on her face that she had no idea what he was talking about.
Walker didn’t press the matter further.
“Hey maybe I can help you today?” Barboza said. “What do you say Walker? Let me help you find a fridge for your kitchen. It’s the least I can do after what you did for me last night. Let me return the favour, no?”
“You’re not too tired?” Walker asked.
She shook her head. Then with a smile, she pointed at the piece of discarded fruit that Walker had left lying in the middle of the road. The discoloured section of the apple that he’d bitten into was festering under the sun like a gangrenous wound.
“It’s not sleep that I need,” Barboza said. “I don’t like the taste of rotten apples any more than you do.”
Chapter 13
KNIFE BUCKET FRENZY GOES GLOBAL!
EntertainmentNewz.Com – Top Stories, July 8th 2020
By Stephanie Chambers
Jinkees Velma! Who on Earth could have predicted that? TFL’s little brother show Calling London! has only gone and started a global phenomenon. Just a few hours after last night’s TFL broadcast, Georgia and Johnny’s one-off stunt has turned out to be more contagious than an outbreak of Spanish Flu in 1918!
Okay. Maybe your head was buried under a rock last night? Maybe you woke up this morning, went browsing on your I-9 news feed and wondered what all the fuss was about? Well this is what’s happening and here’s why you should get on board. The world is working together to bring aid to hundreds of thousands of Londoners trapped behind the M25. Following last night’s broadcast, people all over the world have been getting involved, mostly by posting videos of themselves or their loved ones doing the KBC on I-9.
What is the KBC? The challenge itself is not a pleasant one ladies and gentleman. First of all, participants have to pour a bucket of table knives over their heads. Ouch! Then they have to wolf down a piece of rotten fruit as quickly as possible without throwing up all over the floor. Throw up and you have to repeat! Once you’ve done that, post your clips onto your I-9 page using the hashtag #KBC, and don’t forget to tell people to donate ten pounds (or the international equivalent) to London Aid.
Celebrities from the world of sports, music and movies have been joining in with the fun. Even the President of the United States has promised to post a video over the next couple of days on her I-9 page. If it keeps going like this, the KBC looks set to rival or even top its predecessor, the Ice Bucket Challenge, which raised millions of dollars for ALS back in 2011.
But there are always trolls, aren’t there? Many KBC participants’ videos have been bombarded with negative comments. These killjoys – who affiliate themselves with the long dead Chester George and his band of merry men – suggest (repeatedly!) that little of the money that is being raised will ever get past the M25, blah blah blah!
We’ve heard it all before chaps. Nobody’s listening.
In fact, a group of UK students have already launched a campaign to stage ‘The Biggest KBC Ever!’ The aim here – according to their brand new I-9 page is to get as many students as possible – hundreds, preferably thousands – in one place and to perform the largest Knife Bucket Challenge in the world. Elsewhere people are doing the KBC on mountain summits, beaches, in the water, underwater, and there’s even one scheduled at the North Pole later today. One thing’s for sure – with campaigns such as these, not to mention oodles of celebrity participation, the Knife Bucket Challenge has literally become an overnight sensation. We don’t know how long it’s going to last but climb on board and get posting your vids – ‘cos there are people in London who need your help.
UPDATE: Still on the subject of TFL – an exciting announcement was made this morning on the official TFL website. Due to a heavy increase in popular demand, an attempt will be made to install cameras INSIDE the house of Mr Apocalypse at the first available opportunity. The website states that ‘this difficult decision is deemed justifiable by the increased interest triggered by the recent arrival of a companion in the life of Mr Apocalypse.’
&nb
sp; Keep your eyes peeled for this brand new feature coming soon.
Chapter 14
Walker and Barboza stood in the middle of Stanmore Road. They were staring at the row of terraced houses on the other side of the street from Walker’s house.
It was late morning and the heat was gruelling. Walker knew that it would be intolerable by mid-afternoon. If they were going to get this thing done then they had to do it quick.
Prior to coming out, they had both eaten a little bread, butter and sliced a few strips off the hard block of cheese that would have tasted much better had it been stored in a fridge. After drinking plenty of water, Barboza had gone upstairs and put on a pair of denim shorts and shoes.
Now they were ready to go fridge-hunting.
To Walker’s surprise, Barboza seemed enthusiastic about their upcoming venture - about rifling through the houses that had creeped him out for nine years. Walker was impressed with Barboza’s general resilience. She’d just gone through hell and she was showing no signs of any ill effects whatsoever. Even as they’d been eating breakfast, she was still talking about going after the rogues and getting her own back. Clearly her experiences in London had inoculated her against any form of post-traumatic stress disorder. And to think, he’d been out of action for an entire day after his battle with the rogue at the New River.
“You ready?” Barboza asked.
“Aye,” Walker said. “Ready.”
“So how do we get in?” she asked, pointing at the nearest house.
“Try the front door first,” Walker said. “If it’s locked, then we go around the back and break in through the window.”
Whirr-click.
Walker glanced upwards but didn’t say anything.
“It’s just a thought,” Barboza said. “But my kicks are pretty strong you know. I might be able to break the door down.”
Walker smiled. “I get it. You’re Supergirl.”
She laughed. “Might save us some time rather than going around the back,” she said. “No?”
“Let’s do it my way,” Walker said.
Barboza nodded. “Whatever you think,” she said.
Walker led the way. They approached the nearest house and walked down a small path that was choking under the weight of yet another garden turned jungle. He tried the door handle. It was locked.
“Okay,” he said. “Round the back it is.”
“Let’s do it,” she said.
They walked down the street until they reached an intersection in Stanmore Road, where the row of terraced buildings came to an end. Then they climbed over the five-foot wooden fence that led them into the back garden of the first house. Both Barboza and Walker scaled the fence easily. They landed in something else that had once been a garden, now a stretch of long neglected grass, fenced off on both sides with a small wooden shed tucked away at the bottom.
“We’ll start here,” Walker said. “Work our way down the row. Cool?”
“Yeah sure,” she said, eyeing up the house and backyard. “Jesus, look at this garden Walker. It’s so sad, no? This was somebody’s home once.”
“I know,” he said, walking over towards the back door. He tried the handle and it was locked. Then he searched the garden, looking for something to break into the house with. After searching near the fence, he found some rocks buried beneath the grass. It looked as if a small rockery had once existed there. Lucky for him.
He picked up one of the smaller rocks off the pile and walked back towards the house.
“Stay back,” he said to Barboza.
Then he took a deep breath, stood back and hurled the rock through the window.
There was a crashing sound as the glass caved in. A faint ringing sound, like an echo lingered in the aftermath. Walker stood his ground throughout, even managing to grin at the large hole he’d busted in the window with one shot. He was getting good at this – at least the breaking in part if not the finding the fridge.
He reached an arm through the jagged gap in the glass and opened the window from the inside.
From there, the same frustrating pattern of events unfolded that Walker had encountered in his first search for a fridge. An empty house, the gut-churning smell of rotten food - and it was all for nothing. The first three houses that Walker and Barboza searched were of no use in their suburban quest. They all had a fridge but the interior remnants of the long-since abandoned appliance were a smorgasbord of rotten foodstuffs. They looked and smelled disgusting.
The first three fridges had also blown their fuses. Either that or they’d broken down in some other way.
In short, they were all disgusting and broken.
The third house was the final straw for Barboza. She ran outside ahead of Walker, stopping only at the bottom of the garden. Then she doubled over by the fence and threw up all over the grass.
Walker looked away.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Barboza said, in between large gulps of air. “Filho da puta!”
While Barboza recovered, Walker went back into the third house. He bypassed the kitchen and looked upstairs in the wardrobes and drawers for anything of any interest – clothes, shoes, tools, but there was little there that would have been much use to him. This house was particularly empty, as if everything had been stripped meticulously prior to evacuation. He did find a digital Star Wars clock in one bedroom and was surprised at how much pleasure and sadness this object brought to him. Sitting down on the bed, he wasted a few minutes trying to get it working, hoping that the clock might play the theme music from the film. He tried plugging it into one of the sockets but nothing happened – no flashing lights or music. His disappointment was profound.
With a sigh, he put the clock back where he found it. Then he went back downstairs to check on Barboza.
She was standing at the back door waiting for him. Her skin looked yellow and dry, like it was in the early stages of shrivelling up.
“You alright?” he said.
“Sure thing,” Barboza said. “Sorry – I guess my stomach can only take so much of that fucking smell.”
Walker nodded. “I’ll do the next house on my own. You sit this one out.”
Barboza shook her head. “No way man. I’m okay now.”
“You sure?”
She nodded. “Let’s do this.”
They climbed over the fence and moved onto house number four. This was the house directly opposite Walker’s home – the first one they’d tried before moving around to the back of the row of terraced houses.
Walker tried the back door and to his surprise, this one was unlocked. He turned to Barboza, who still looked a little green around the gills, and smiled.
“Why didn’t they lock the doors?” Barboza asked.
Walker shrugged. “Maybe whoever lived here, they knew they weren’t ever coming back. Who stops to the lock the door when you’re running for your life?”
“Who did live here?” Barboza said. “Do you remember?”
“No.”
Barboza took a tentative step towards the door. She was looking past Walker, as if she’d just arrived outside Count Dracula’s castle – the special guest who’d just been delivered to the castle courtesy of a riderless carriage that had found her in the middle of a Transylvanian forest, full of distorted and twisted forest trees.
“What if someone’s in there?” she said. “Maybe that’s why it’s unlocked.”
Walker laughed softly. “I doubt it,” he said. “I’ve lived here for nine years remember. You think I wouldn’t have noticed somebody living directly across the street?”
Barboza sighed. “Fine. Let’s just do it, huh? This is creepy, no?”
“How about a moment before we go in?” Walker asked.
She smiled. The colour returned to her face.
“I think my stomach would appreciate that.”
Walker took his hand off the door handle and stepped back. While he waited for Barboza to get ready, he looked over the garden. There was a steel shed located near t
he bottom, surrounded by an abundance of wreckage – mostly old plant pots and plastic tubs. The pots were spewing out thick monstrous weeds but despite the ruin, Walker could envision that a well-tended garden had once lived here.
He turned around to check on his companion. Barboza was sitting on the doorstep, looking at him thoughtfully.
“Stanmore Road is your sanctuary,” she said. “Isn’t it? I mean, given everything else that’s going on in this city – this life you have here, it’s okay. No?”
Walker walked over to the back door.
“Sanctuary?” he said. “It feels more like a prison to me.”
Barboza shook her head.
“Believe it or not Walker,” she said. “You’ve got it pretty good here. You’re alive at least.”
Walker felt the heat pouring down onto his face. Considering that it had been an unusually hot summer, he wondered if they would start putting sunscreen in the supply parcels? God knows, with his white skin he could use it. Or was it more convenient if people in London died off with skin cancer? He thought about how hot it had been this summer and wondered what was going on with global warming and all the panic he recalled from the time before 2011. Was this heatwave a sign of things to come? Was the world already dying?
“Aye, I’m a real success story,” he said, turning back to Barboza. “Some kids grow up wanting to travel to outer space. Some want to be a footballer. Not me, I got this – a half-life locked inside the walls of a high security city-prison.”
Barboza smiled. She got to her feet and pinched her nostrils shut with her thumb and forefinger.
“Ready,” she said.
Walker opened the back door and stepped inside the house. He braced himself for the inevitable smell, but when it didn’t come he relaxed and grew concerned at the same time. The air inside the house was mouldy, but it was far from the horrors of what he’d been expecting and nothing like what he’d encountered in all of the other houses so far.
He moved further into the kitchen. To his left, there were several white oak cabinets sitting over a long granite countertop. The countertop was covered in a combination of dust and a small assortment of dead insects. Even so, it was still an attractive and compact kitchen with a modern cooker and besides that, the Holy Grail and the Golden Fleece all wrapped in one – a tall fridge freezer.
The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London) Page 31
