The Outcast's Journey

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Chapter 17

  Rick yawns then throws back the covers and swings his legs over the bed. The cold air of morning sweeps across his chest and back. He shivers, shrugs his shoulders then stretches and looks out through the open windows. No point in closing the curtains at night up here—no one to see in—and anyway, he liked looking at the moon and the stars as he settled down to sleep. Looking out across the still white fields and undulating hills he notices movement. He stands, walks to the window, and peers across to the cluster of trees that stretches in a narrow band between the river and the outskirts of the town. A road cuts through it leading to the farm. On the hill, pointing in their direction, is a snaking row of vehicles. He frowns and looks again: a lorry, and behind it two cars and what looks like a jeep, are making their way through the thick snow. Well, trying to. At the front of the lorry there look to be people moving about and yes, they’re digging at the snow with shovels. He scans over the farmyard—the cobbled area lies under an even thicker covering of snow this morning.

  Frowning he turns back to the room and walks to the dresser. A bowl of cold water sits on top and he picks up the cracked bar of soap in the dish next to it. He shivers, dips the soap into the water then lathers it. Looking at his reflection in the mirror he barely recognises the man with the overgrown beard and straggled hair. He forces his cheeks to a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkles with deep lines, the tan of the summer still lingers. Distinguished his mum would have called the thick silver that streaks through his hair from his temples. Perhaps if he tidied up Cassie would take more notice? He reaches for the drawer’s handle. No. No time. He has to alert Justin to the convoy stuck on the hill.

  Dipping into the water again he soaps his armpits and shivers again as the freezing water shocks his warm skin. Man up! Grabbing a clean cloth, he wets it, lathers it, then washes at his torso and down to his crotch, washing away the sweat of the night. He turns, looking at his profile in the mirror, tightens his belly and clenches his biceps. The muscles are even more defined now. Working on the farm is hard work and the small rations have made him leaner. Strange that he should feel stronger now than before. He dries his body, brushes his teeth then pulls on a clean pair of jeans, t-shirt and jumper, thankful for the comfort. He’d make sure Becca knew just how much he appreciates her, and Cassie, he … well, he wanted to show his appreciation to her with more than a thank you and a peck on the cheek.

  A rap at the bedroom door.

  “Yeah?” he shouts back as he pulls the buckle of his belt a notch tighter.

  “It’s me,” Justin replies. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  Rick strides to the door. “I’ve seen. I was just coming to tell you.”

  “Not sure if they’ll come this way yet, or are just passing.”

  “That’s a bit hopeful,” Rick returns as they take the stairs to the kitchen.

  “Yeah, I know. I can’t see where else they’d be coming other than to the farm.”

  “Perhaps it’s someone who’s lost?” Becca suggests as she walks from the hall to the kitchen, a cup of tea in hand. “Sit down and have a brew first anyway. They’re stuck on the hill so it’ll be a while before they get here.”

  “Hah! No one can get between you and your brew, Becca.”

  “Nope,” she says smiling back at him.

  “What if it’s that gang come back?”

  “The vehicles are different,” Rick replies. “Looks to me like they’ve come up from the town.”

  “We should go down and shut the gate whatever.”

  “It already is.”

  “Did you get it fixed.”

  “Yep. They won’t be able to get up the track unless they’ve got a bolt cutter to get through those chains.”

  “And the posts are sturdy?” she asks as she passes Rick a steaming cup of tea. “No sugar, Rick. Sorry!”

  “That’s fine,” he replies with a nod of acceptance and takes the mug from her hand. “And the posts are sturdy, Becca. Don’t worry.”

  “They can still get in though—if they are coming up here—they’ll just have to come up the track on foot.”

  “Yep,” Rick says his voice calm though he blows his tea to quicken the cooling process, anxious to check on the convoy and talk to Justin in private. His thoughts spring back to the incident in the town yesterday. “Did Ruth settle in OK last night?” he asks as Becca busies herself about the kitchen.

  “Yes. Sounds like she’s had quite an ordeal with her … her boyfriend.

  “So I gathered. And Cassie … is she OK?” he asks.

  “Ask her yourself,” Becca returns with a nod to the door.

  “Ask me what?” Cassie steps into the kitchen, her right eye puffed and bruised, but otherwise fresh and as pretty as ever.

  Rick turns back and looks into his mug, the dregs of tea orange at the bottom, and takes a final swig as Cassie walks up behind him. A gentle hand rests on his shoulder and a thrill, a wave of electric, sparks through him at her touch.

  “I was just asking Becca if you were alright—after yesterday. Those men—the way they treated you.” His anger begins to rile. “I wanted to ki-”

  “I shouldn’t have left you and Justin,” she says squeezing at his shoulder. “It was stupid of me.”

  “Ironic isn’t it—how the world is even more dangerous now there’s hardly any people,” Becca adds as she hands a mug to Cassie.

  “Thanks Becca,” Cassie says and pulls out a chair next to Rick.

  Rick watches as she sips the steaming tea. She flinches as the hot liquid burns at the split on her lip. He winces and the anger grows again. The thought of those men touching her. Why hadn’t he realised she’d wandered off? Why wasn’t he there when she needed him? He grips the handle of the mug and stares out of the kitchen window, Cassie in his peripheral vision. Red blurs the white of her skin as she lifts the drink to her mouth and he turns back to look at her.

  “Your hands,” he says looking at the raw mess across her knuckles. “They’re pretty beat up!” He takes hold of her free hand and strokes his thumb across the skin beneath the scrapes.

  “Oh,” she says, “I think that’s where I punched him.”

  “You were brutal,” Justin adds. “We’ll have you on the front line when we check on our visitors.”

  “Visitors?” Ruth asks as she enters the room.

  “Yes,” Justin returns. “There’s a convoy of trucks and a lorry coming up the hill.”

  Rick watches Ruth as she pales and her eyes flit anxious to the window. He shifts in his seat and looks to Justin.

  “It’ll be Benson,” she says with certainty. “Come for me.”

  Cassie straightens in her seat and Rick lays her hand on the table as Justin steps forward, a frown deep across his brow.

  “What makes you think it’ll be him?”

  “He always said he’d never let me go. Said he’d find me and bring me back if I ever left. It’s not the first time-”

  “What?” Cassie blurts.

  “No,” Ruth replies, a flush beginning to form at the base of her neck. “I’ve tried to leave before. He found me and brought me back. After that I didn’t try again—it wasn’t worth the …”

  “If it’s him, he’s not on his own,” Rick says standing and walking away from the table. “Justin, will you come outside,” he says grabbing for his coat off the hooks at the back door.

  Outside, in the brightness of the morning sun, Rick walks across the yard with Justin to the brick shed that forms part of the farmyard, a square of single storey brick outbuildings that serve as storage barns, tack rooms, garages, and feed stores. Stepping inside, the dinge of the room is brightened only by the natural light that filters in through the grimy, long-unwashed windows reflected off the white-washed walls. The smell of earth and damp, mingled with petrol, is strong and paint bubbles in patches, the floor and shelves littered with speckles of white. Along the far wall, industrial shelving stands from floor to ceiling, and to the side t
here is a wooden workbench, an iron vice clamped to one end and an array of saws, wrenches and screwdrivers laid out across its surface. Beneath the bench stands a row of large metal cannisters, their paintwork dull and scratched from years of use.

  “If Ruth is right, we need to put our plan into action,” Rick says looking around the room.

  “We should take defensive measures now, then. It’ll take time to get things set up.”

  “Agreed,” Rick returns and bends down to pick up a cannister from beneath the wooden bench. The petrol swishes inside as he scrapes it along the floor. “Tell Becca and Cassie to get the kids up. I’ll get Zak and start putting up the barricades.”

  “Sure thing,” Justin returns and grabs a long and thick screwdriver from the bench.

  Chapter 18

  The massive double doors locked and bolted from the inside, Deacon puts the final screw into the final shutter. He stands back to survey his work as he wipes at the sweat on his brow, hot from the effort of dragging the huge metal grids out from the garage at the back of the compound and screwing them into place. He’d damned the apocalypse at least ten times as he’d caught his fingers or his wrist tired of twisting at the screws. There was a lot to be said for electric screwdrivers even if his dad had turned his nose up at the devices – lazy buggers’ tools he’d called them.

  “She’s all done,” Kit says standing level with Deacon.

  “Yep,” he replies taking in the flush on the boy’s cheeks. “We did good. Now, let’s get in and see about those fires.”

  An engine revs in the distance and Deacon exchanges a questioning frown with Kit.

  “Saskia?”

  “Could be. C’mon. I want to get this place warmed up and secured at the back before we go back to the hide to get our stuff.”

  “Do you think the bike will run after all this time?”

  “Depends on what charge is left in the battery. It’s a kick start - shovel head - so it’s got a chance.”

  “Shovel head?”

  “Yeah, it’s an old Harley.”

  “Oh.”

  “The new ones have an electric starter. It’s got a full tank.”

  “Great so we can ride back here on it then?”

  “Hah! No chance. It’s too heavy to get through the snow. We’ll have to leave it covered over until it melts.”

  Kit groans.

  “What’s up?” Deacon asks. It wasn’t like Kit to complain.

  “I dunno really. Just feeling … I dunno … fed up!”

  “I get it,” Deacon replies.

  “It’s like—we’ve spent all this time surviving, and now—is this it?”

  “Aww, come on, man! This isn’t you. Listen, when we get back from the hide, we’ll see about looking up those kids at the shop.”

  Kit brightens.

  “Yeah? I’d like that.”

  Deacon nods. He enjoyed their solitary life, the daily struggles were a grind, but they were OK and he was loathe to bring other people into their circle. Look what happened when they’d had to spend time with Saskia and Murray. He shudders at the memory. But - and it was a big one - it wasn’t for him to keep Kit from having a life. Perhaps, one of the girls would suit him—that’d give him back his spark.

  “Let’s go then. I don’t want to be having to find our way back in the dark and there’s no way I’m spending another night freezing my knackers off in that shed.”

  “Hah! Saskia spoilt you,” Kit laughs and Deacon clips him over the ear.

  “Spoilt!” he laughs. “That’s not what I’d call it.”

  After the fires are lit in the hearths, and the bedding from the rooms is draped over the backs of chairs to warm, Deacon locks the back door, fixes the back gate with a padlock found in the garage, and they make their way through the town and back out to the hide. They’d deal with the bodies they’d found about the place tomorrow.

  Finn holds the pack in her hand and slaps the card down on the carpet. “Snap!” she shouts as a whorl of dust eddies around her fingers. “I win,” she smiles triumphant and collects in the splayed playing cards into a neat pile, tapping them against the floor to straighten them out.

  “Again,” Lina laughs with mock despair. “That’s the third time.”

  “You’ve got to be quick to beat our Finn,” Kyle says as he pulls the blanket up against his chest, then groans.

  “You OK,” Lina asks with concern.

  “It’s just …”

  “Just what?” Finn asks looking across at the boy-man sprawled on the settee.

  “It’s just so boring!” he says with exasperation.

  “You’ve got to sit there so your leg can mend.”

  “Yeah, sure I know that, but there’s nothing to do! No telly, no internet, no gaming, no-”

  “We’re going to have to make our own entertainment.”

  “Right! And snap’s the best we can come up with?”

  “Charades?” Lina says hopeful.

  “Charades!” Kyle responds with light exasperation. “Ugh! Shoot me now.”

  “With pleasure,” Finn responds. She could understand Kyle’s frustration; his energy wasn’t being spent. She was bored too, and the thought of their days spanning on like this brought her down. There came a point when surviving just wasn’t enough.

  “Nothing’s going to change, is it!” Kyle continues, morose.

  “Oh, come on Kyle. Don’t be so bloody miserable.”

  “I’ve got a right to be bloody miserable. It’s the end of the world as we know it, the shit has hit the fan, it’s the bloody apocalypse for Pete’s sake.”

  “Who’s Pete?” Lina asks confused.

  “Pete is—oh, never mind.”

  “We know that, Kyle, but-”

  Crash!

  “What the?”

  Crash!

  Vibration makes the windows chatter in their frames as banging sounds from downstairs.

  “What the very hell is that?”

  “It’s coming from the shop. Someone’s trying to break in!”

  “Well,” Finn says dryly, “there’s your excitement, Kyle—just like on the telly!” she finishes as she jumps up from the floor and grabs her heavy boots. “Get your coat and boots on you two,” she urges, ties her laces deftly then runs through to the hallway. Grabbing her coat, she checks back into the living room, sees Lina help Kyle up, then grabs a hammer and the crowbar from the kitchen. Whoever it was would have to deal with her.

  The sound of breaking glass fills the stairway as she runs into the front bedroom to take a look outside. The room is dark and the curtains still drawn as she walks at the side of the unmade bed. The room smells of sweat and mildew. She peers through the side of the curtain to the road below. A red car, its tracks the only mark on the snow behind, sits in the middle of the road. Its doors are closed but three sets of footprints lead from the car to the front of the shop. She peers down to the path and sees the blocked head of a hammer rise then arc towards the shop’s door.

  Chapter 19

  “Sergei, get the can out of the boot,” Saskia commands as she stands at the front of the shop. The heels of her boots stick deep into the snow, giving her balance. Loz hammers at the shutter that covers the shop’s frontage, an impenetrable steel mesh. “Break the lock,” she commands as Loz steps next to her. He crouches, hammer and chisel in hand, and fixes the sharp end of the tool onto the padlock then slams at it. The lock slips beneath the chisel, unbroken. “Try again,” she demands. He lifts the hammer and knocks at the chisel.

  “Try this,” Sergei suggests handing him a long-handled bolt cutter. Saskia’s face breaks into a grin as the sharp blades of the tool cut through the padlock and it falls away to the ground.

  “Lift it up,” she commands and watches as Loz and Sergei pull at the grey mesh, lifting it to the top of the window. Vinyl stickers block any view into the shop.

  “They’ve seen us,” Sergei says with a smirk. “Up there.” He points to the window directly above the sho
p. The curtains twitch as Saskia takes a step back to look up.

  “Good!” she sneers. “And I hope they’re shitting themselves.”

  “It’s open, Saskia. Now what,” Loz asks as he pushes at the door. It rattles but doesn’t budge.

  “Break it down,” Saskia returns. “Did you get that can?” she asks as Loz picks up a long-handled lump hammer and swings his arms to lift it high.

  “Yeah,” Sergei returns.

  She takes a step back. “For crying out loud, Loz. Get your back into it,” she shouts. The hammer arcs then falls shy of its target. “How the hell did you miss that?” She steps forward, her teeth clenched and shoves him. “Give me that. I’ll do it.” She grabs the wooden handle. The head drops to the floor. It’s heavier than she imagined it would be, but she’s not going to let them see that. With a heave, she lifts the head up and rests it in her other hand. She wobbles on her heels and widens her feet to steady herself then swings the hammer. She wobbles again and the hammer slams to the floor. Loz coughs.

  “Shut up, you!” she riles, catching his eye. He won’t mock her when she’s slammed it into his face. Her anger gives her strength and she raises the hammer again to waist height then slams it at the door. The door judders and the glass cracks. She pulls the hammer back and slams its wide head at the door again. The glass shatters, but doesn’t fall. “What the hell is wrong with this glass?” she shouts at Sergei as he steps next to her, placing the jerry can of petrol at his feet.

  “It’s toughened glass. Like they use in cars so they don’t shatter, they crackle instead—it’s less dangerous if you have an accident and go through the screen, also, if something hits the screen when you’re driv-”

  “OK, spare me the science lesson,” she interrupts leaning on the lump hammer’s handle. “Just break it down. I’ll wait in the car until you’ve done it.” She passes the handle to Loz then returns to the car. She wasn’t going to freeze whilst they did their job. She slips into the passenger seat, slams the door shut, then presses the CD player off.