The Outcast's Journey

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “What’re we waiting for then?” Kit asks in excitement.

  “First, we’re going to find a log burner and get it back to the hide,” he says gesturing to the sled Kit drags behind him. “That’s today’s job. Remember?”

  “Sure,” Kit replies and Deacon smiles at the brightness of hope that sits in his eyes.

  Chapter 6

  Murray swings his arm back, slamming it into Carl’s stomach as the two men round the corner and walk up the hill towards the top of the road.

  “Ugh! What the hell was that for, Murray?” Carl grunts.

  “Shut it and look!” he returns pointing up the road to the disappearing figures. A man, bundled up against the cold, beard full and dark beneath a black woollen hat, strides massive next to a younger one at his side. Behind them they drag a child’s sled, its red plastic stark against the snow.

  “Who’s that?” Carl asks, surprise strong in his voice.

  “How should I know?” Murray snaps back, the bubbling anger of the scene with Saskia this morning still grinding in his gut. She’d get it one day. He rubs at his cheek, still smarting from her slap, a cut from the diamond of her ring sliced across the skin.

  “Saskia’ll be pis-”

  “Never mind Saskia,” he blurts. “It’s me they’ve got to worry about.”

  Carl grunts.

  “You got something to say Carl?” he spits.

  The man lowers his eyes and looks down at the snow. “No, Murray,” he replies. “It’s just-”

  “Shaddap!” Murray snaps and looks again to the figures as they disappear out of view. “C’mon,” he says and steps out from the bush and back onto the path hugging the side closest to the building then follows the road up the hill. As they walk past what had been the doctor’s surgery the two men cross over to the building at the top of the hill where the road intersects with the main drag through the town. A sign hangs, still in the brightness of the day, topped with snow. It reads ‘George III’.

  “They’re at the pub!”

  “Maybe they want a pint?”

  “Stupid!”

  “What? Murray, I’m getting sick of you doing this. I don’t like you calling me names and I-”

  “Jeez, Carl, will you shut your yap? Always whingeing on! I call you stupid because you are stupid! It’s a fact and that’s your name,” Murray says with spite. “Now, c’mon, Stupid and find out what those idiots are doing!”

  Carl mutters under his breath. Murray rounds on him. “Got something to say, Stupid?”

  Carl mutters again and stops, raises his eyes to Murray’s and clenches his fist. “I said don’t call me stupid!”

  “Yer what?” Murray asks in dramatic indignation.

  “You deaf? I said don’t call me stupid.” Carl’s fist clenches again and Murray laughs as the stocky little man frowns at him. Carl’s eyes flicker as his cheeks redden.

  Leaning into Carl’s nearly purple face, he smiles. “Stupid!” he says with a hissed whisper.

  Thwack!

  The force of Carl’s arm as it smacks into the side of Murray’s head sends him reeling and his boots tread hard into the deep snow as he flails his arms to keep balance.

  “Whaaa!” Murray shouts as he tumbles back.

  “Don’t call me stupid!” Carl shouts as Murray steadies himself and clutches at the side of his head.

  Deacon looks back down the road as the shout rings out, its echo dampened by the snow. Turning he sees a skinny man, his head covered with a bright red bobble hat cowering from a shorter, stocky man in what looks like a donkey jacket and flat cap.

  “Inside, Kit. Quick!” he says as the skinny man raises his fist and brings it down on the shorter one.

  “It’s them from the warehouse!” Kit exclaims staring at the fighting men.

  “Looks like it. C’mon, get inside before they see us.”

  “Yeah, just a minute.”

  Deacon yanks at the boy’s jacket and pulls him up the steps and through the swing doors of the pub’s entrance. The smell hits him first, a waft of stale smoke and beer mingled with the mustiness of trapped air. Opposite is a staircase and either side a door. Each door bears a plaque. He turns left and pushes the door marked ‘LOUNGE’.

  “Hah!” he exclaims, unable to keep a broad smile from his face.

  “Yes!” Kit says stepping out from behind him, the sled tucked under his arm. “And there’s even wood ready.”

  Deacon walks across to the fireplace and places his gloved hand on the black surface of the cast iron stove. It brushes a wide track through the dust that has gathered there since the summer. He grasps the corners with his hands and lifts. The stove doesn’t budge. He looks down at the stone hearth, checking to see if the stove is bolted to the floor. The legs, curved prettily with moulded tendrils, stand freely on the stone. He grasps the corners again and pulls. The stove moves a fraction and the aluminium tube that disappears into a black board inside the chimney creaks.

  “I don’t think that’s going to be any use, Kit,” he says gesturing to the flimsy plastic sled clutched beneath his arm.

  “Oh,” says Kit, his voice downcast as he stares at the wide stove. “Then how’re we going to get it back to the hide.”

  “I don’t think we are,” Deacon replies.

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Let’s look in the bar,” Deacon placates, “perhaps there’s a smaller one in there.”

  “Perhaps we can get a drink too, ey?”

  “Sure,” Deacon laughs, glad of the boy’s renewed spirit. “I’ll have a beer, you can have a cola.”

  “What? No. Why?”

  “You’re just a kid. You’re not allowed in the bar—too young to drink,” Deacon says, holding his face stern.

  “But—I’m old enough!”

  “Got to be eighteen, lad.”

  “I am!”

  “Prove it,” Deacon laughs pointing to the notice requesting ID.

  “But—it’s—the world’s ended! There’s no police no more. I can do what I want,” he says staring into Deacon’s eyes with bemused defiance.

  Unable to hold back any longer, Deacon winks and reaches behind the bar for a bottle. He reads the label, ‘Real Ale’, and throws it across to Kit. “If you can’t have an underage drink in the apocalypse when can you?” he says dryly as he knocks the pinched metal top against the bottle opener screwed into the ledge of the bar. Kit snorts with good-humoured indignation as he catches the bottle.

  Taking a swig of beer he looks around the room. Against the side wall is a raised platform covered in a carpet of darkly swirling leaves and roses with a microphone stood between two speakers sat against the wall. Small, round tables with mismatched and ornate chairs fill the room. On the far wall a wide chimney breast dominates, the hearth swept clean with an arrangement of gaudy plastic flowers at its mouth. Behind the flowers sits a metal basket arranged with logs.

  Deacon turns as Kit sighs. “Sorry, lad. It’s just an open fire.”

  “We can come back tomorrow perhaps?” he replies staring at the flowers in the hearth.

  “Sure,” Deacon agrees. “Gonna finish my beer first though.”

  “Me too,” replies Kit holding the beer to his lips. “Ugh!” he exclaims as he takes a mouthful, spitting the liquid to the floor. “It’s off!” He holds the bottle up to the light and peers in at the contents.

  “Let me see,” Deacon offers and takes the bottle from his hands. He sniffs at the pungent odour of fermented hops and smiles. “Nope! That’s just what beer tastes like,” he chuckles handing the bottle back.

  “Oh, well …”

  Deacon watches him takes another swig, the boy’s face a tight smile as he swallows.

  “You’ll get used to it, lad,” he laughs as he sits down on a massive chair. He leans back and sags into its firmly padded seat, the tension leaving his body as he takes another sip. A whisky chaser would be good! “Kit. Get me a whisky,” he says lifting his leg over the carved arm of the chair. A ro
aring fire in the hearth would make it perfect. He stops, looks at the bottle, then stares at the silver engagement ring on his smallest finger, and lets the pain of Jules’ memory seep through him. No! It will never be perfect. Life will never be perfect again—not without her. A moist film of tears blurs his vision as he takes another glug from the bottle.

  Outside, voices sound and Deacon sits up, drops his heavy boot to the carpet, and puts the bottle down on the table. Dust eddies around his ankles as he leans forward and listens.

  The voices grow louder.

  Chapter 7

  “I told you to get rid of them, Murray!” Saskia hisses as she walks up to the pub’s doors, the gun now in her possession. “Since when did it become a woman’s job to rid us of rats? Eh?” she asks turning to him. The snivelling idiot looked even more of a fool with his eye purpling where he’d let Carl belt him. Catching his eye, she holds his gaze, and almost feels sorry for him as she remembers the ring tearing his flesh this morning. No! Don’t go feeling sorry for the wretch. Treat ‘em mean. That’s what Aunty Sharon had told her anyway and now that the shit had hit the fan she needed to keep him properly under control. Well, for now! He was proving to be next to useless. Couldn’t even get it up this morning. Skinny twat—only half the man he used to be. Her thoughts pause and and stares at him. Perhaps he was sick? They had plenty of food. Her lips purse and she grimaces. He’d best not become a burden!

  Fully loaded, but with the safety on, the gun is ready to fire. She doesn’t intend to use it – there just isn’t enough ammunition left to use it without good enough reason. She’d try the soft touch first. And if she did need it she wouldn’t miss like Murray with those kids.

  She pushes hard at the doors and they open then swing shut as she strides through. A dull thud and a grunt tells her they’ve caught Murray. Ignoring his protestations, she kicks open the bar door and stands in the doorway, shakes her blonde hair, and looks straight ahead to the men turned to greet her. Her jaw drops open and a thrilling, unexpected ache pulses hard between her thighs as she looks at the grizzly giant of a man staring back at her. Her heart seems to stop before pounding again in her chest. Aunty Shaz had said there was no such thing as love at first sight, but …

  “I—we …”

  Murray, lurches behind her, knocks her and she stumbles forward. Alert again, she raises the gun and turns, pointing the barrel at Murray.

  “For Pete’s sake, Murray,” she seethes scowling at him as she recovers her balance. Flicking back to a smile, she turns to the newcomer. “Hi,” she says, breathing deep, pushing out her chest just a touch, and giving him her most alluring smile.

  “Hi!” he returns, his bemused look turning into a grin.

  He wants her she can tell.

  “Saskia,” she says by way of introduction and wets her lips.

  “Sas-”

  “And this is Murray,” she says gesturing to the man behind her as he pushes at her shoulder. “One of my men.”

  “Your men?” the giant asks.

  “Yes. I have the supermark-”

  Pressure from behind jerks Saskia forward again and Carl pushes his arm along her side, his hand held out to the bearded man.

  “Carl,” he offers. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” the man replies. “I’m Deacon,” he says taking Carl’s hand and shaking it, “and this is Kit.”

  Hell! Even the timbre of his voice excites her.

  “As I was saying,” Saskia continues giving Carl a surreptitious glare, “I have the supermarket on the other side of town—with Sergei.”

  “Sergei?”

  “My brother,” she adds quickly. “Sergei is my brother.”

  Murray coughs. “And mine—the supermarket—not Sergei—I’m an only child,” he rambles, “and she’s mine too,” he continues, slipping his arm around Saskia’s waist.

  Saskia tenses and sparks of revulsion tingle down her back. She grits her teeth as his arm pulls her closer and he nuzzles into her neck. “All mine,” he mutters, his eyes, she’s sure, on Deacon. Smiling through gritted teeth, she pushes down her rage. A flush spreads to her cheeks as she recognises the mirth in the man’s eyes. She takes hold of Murray’s wrist, and finds the soft spot on his inner arm, and digs her nails deep as she removes it from her waist. She feels him tense. He’ll pay for this! Oh, he’ll pay.

  “The supermarket you say?” Deacon asks looking at the boy then back to her.

  She smiles. “Yes, we’ve been taking care of the supplies there, for the survivors,” she simpers. Carl snorts. Ignoring him she continues. “Perhaps, if you’re in need, we can share some with you.”

  “Sas-” Murray’s words falter as she presses down hard on his toe with her boot.

  “Well,” Deacon replies with raised eyebrows. “That would be good of you. We’re certainly in need.”

  Saskia’s heart skips a beat as the man smiles at her, the skin crinkling around his eyes. An image of him bending towards her, searching for her lips, his naked and muscled torso pressing against her breasts, flashes in her mind. She gasps at the sudden desire and steps towards him, hooks her arm through his, realises with a thrill that she barely reaches his chest, and turns to look at Murray with a steel gaze. His face is flushed and he glares back.

  “No time like the present,” she simpers, ignoring Murray’s anger and squeezes Deacon’s arm in hers.

  “Do you have coffee by any chance?” he asks.

  “We sure do,” she smiles back to him. “Dark and full-bodied, just the way I like it.”

  He looks down at her and rubs his beard and she can see the desire for her in his eyes. Oh yes, he wants her, probably just as much as she wants him. Murray can do one! With a satisfied smile, Saskia steps out back onto the street, Deacon on her arm, and lets him lead the way back to the supermarket. She’ll be taking home more than a tin of beans tonight.

  “Murray,” she says as the supermarket comes into view. “You’re on guard duty until tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  Stepping into the kitchen, Rick looks across to Cassie as she bends to put another log on the fire. He takes in the curves of her body, she’s even slimmer than when he’d found her in the city and the gloss of privilege has gone. He watches as her white-blonde hair, now with dark roots showing, swings across her neck as she reaches for the iron poker and stokes the fire.

  “It’s cold out there,” he says rubbing his hands together and stands next to her. He never tires of taking in her aroma, the sensual softness of her smell. He resists the urge to slip his arm across her back and pull her to him and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

  “Yes,” she replies as she lays the rod back down on the hearth.

  She runs her hand across her brow and turns to him with a smile. Black soot streaks across her forehead.

  “You look like you’ve been down the mines!” he laughs. Unable to resist, he wipes at the sooty mark with his thumb. Her eyes open wide and she grasps his wrist. “Just wiping it away,” he says holding her gaze, his voice gentle.

  She looks at him with a questioning frown, keeps a gentle grasp on his wrist and lets him wipe away the dirt.

  “Thank you,” she says, a blush rising on her pale cheek and turns back to the fire and the mirror overhanging the mantle. His hand trembles as he lets it fall. She catches his gaze in the mirror then lowers her lashes.

  “Do you ever think of going back?” she asks looking at him again through the mirror.

  “No!” he says with a bemused laugh.

  “I do.”

  “But we have what we need here,” he says reaching out, placing his hand on the small of her back.

  She stiffens. “I have to find Dan!” she whispers and takes a step closer to the fire, a step away from him.

  “Of course,” he says, keeping his smile fixed.

  “And Lina! I think of her all the time. How do you think she’s doing?”

  “Those kids are resourceful, but yeah, I worry about her to
o.”

  “Can we go back to the town, Rick? One day?”

  “Sure,” he says, his voice soft. The thought of finding Dan makes his heart sink. “Perhaps in the spring—once the snow clears and we’ve got enough provisions to make the journey back.”

  She turns to him now. “Thank you, Rick.” Her voice is filled with relief.

  “Rick!” Justin calls as he opens the door. A blast of cold air sweeps along the floor and swirling snowflakes settle then melt on the red tiles as he stands in the doorway, snow crusted on the shoulders of his black jacket.

  “Justin! Close that flippin’ door,” Becca chides as she walks back into the kitchen.

  “Sorry, love,” he replies stepping inside and pushes the door to. “Rick,” he repeats. “We’re going to have to make that trip into town—before this snow cuts us off.”

  Cassie turns and looks with wide-eyed apprehension from Justin and then to Rick. “But I thought—after what happened—aren’t they still in the town?”

  “If Justin says we need to go, then we need to go, Cassie, whether those thugs are there or not.”

  “Do you really have to go, Justin?” Becca adds.

  “You know we do, Becca. We just don’t have enough supplies to get us all through winter.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We go into town and check through the houses. See what we can find there.”

  “Stealing from people?”

  “No, it’s not stealing. The people are dead—they don’t need the food that’s in the cupboards.”

  “No, we do.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What if that gang are still there?”

  “Then we deal with that when it comes to it.”

  “I’m coming then.”

  “No, Cassie. It could be dangerous.”

  “I can take care of myself, Rick. Please don’t treat me like a child.”

  “I’m not—I-”

  “I fought those men in the department store and sorted out Ray. Perhaps you need me? Perhaps I’ll be an asset?”