Joe listened to her as if from a distance. Dulled and exhausted.
Despatching the kid had been too much.
Hey Joe, nice phrase. Despatching. Like it. Nicer than murdering. Much nicer than nearly decapitating. How about nearly lopping off his noggin or arranging a virtually total state of separation between bonce and body?
A bridge too far.
That was what it was. One bridge too far.
A shade beyond the pale hey Joey? What to do when your bridges are going up in flames?
He felt empty and yet full of tears. Dull and tired. So tired.
A dark part of him, the meaner piece, really wanted the fat woman to shut up, to be quiet. On even this briefest of acquaintances he could sense waves of need radiating from her.
I can’t protect you. I can’t protect my fucking self for Christ’s sake, let alone anyone else.
“Is this your place?” she asked, indicating the restaurant.
“No ...I got here earlier. Last night actually. Fleeing London. Like you I suppose,” Joe replied absently.
He didn’t want to explain about Sebastian.
She started to say something else and he held up a hand to silence her. He was sure he’d noticed activity on the lane. And there it was again. Between the bushes that largely obscured the road, he could detect movement in several places.
“My eyesight isn’t awfully good I’m afraid, but is there something out there? Is it them?”
He blanked out her voice and tried to concentrate.
Looked at the two vehicles. They were both gore splattered and disgusting, the BMW much worse in fact. He’d prefer that though. It was a big old chunky lump of metal. Jesus, given the option, he’d prefer a Sherman tank but the BMW would have been better than the runty little runabout. Toyota. It was a Toyota.
Excepting of course that the trusty old BM was now missing the driver’s window after Sebastian had decided that there were more ways to exit a vehicle than through the doors. Did he really want to go riding around the country, wading through mutated monsters, without at least a pane of glass between him and the very, very mad, mad world?
“Where are the keys?” Joe asked the woman.
He couldn’t see them in the car.
“Keys?”
“The keys for your car. That car, the car you got out of when you stopped here.”
“Stephen.”
She gestured forlornly in the direction of his body.
“He must have them.”
Oh how fecking great is that Joey old boy? Go on, a little rummage through a corpse’s pocket won’t hurt you. Not just any old corpse either. One that’s been pretty seriously punctured, spread about a bit, chewed up and mangled.
“Get in the car,” he told her quietly. “Now.”
He saw a figure move past the entrance to the car park and then another. The second one stopped.
A flutter of panic and heart beginning to pound in his chest. He didn’t have time to be squeamish. He edged over to Stephen, what was left of him, and reached his hand into a fluid sodden left hip pocket, eyes on the figure in the entrance.
Nothing. Shit, shit, and fuckshit.
Over to the right pocket and bingo, there we go.
Spotted the pistol and grabbed that as well. A little Brucie, a little bonus. Reward for his filth slimed hand and the barely suppressed urge to vomit.
More of them now. Oh wow, lots more. A veritable pack.
Joe slid into the driver’s seat of the small Toyota and slammed the door as they began to scramble towards the car. Nearly stalled it and then nearly collided with the miserable BMW as he peeled around in a wide circle and aimed for the least densely populated portion of the exit. Kept hitting the gear stick on the woman’s ample thigh. Slammed and hammered into bodies as he made it onto the lane and turned right, heading west. Hoped the damage to the car wasn’t as bad as it had felt.
Glanced into the rear view and gasped at the sheer number of them. The lane was full. There must have been hundreds. Hundreds.
Joe checked the fuel gauge and wasn’t that just great into the bargain. Wasn’t that just about right as well. They were practically out of gas. The engine wasn’t sputtering yet but it wouldn’t be long. Oh no, not too long at all.
Running on empty, Joey Joe. Oh yeah baby, that’s about spot on isn’t it? Running on empty.
He brayed laughter. Loud and hearty and only slightly hysterical.
“What’s wrong?” Miriam asked.
“We’re almost of out petrol,” he replied.
The laughter tapering off as he attempted to get a grip on himself and keep them alive.
“Oh yes, I think Stephen mentioned something about that,” she said.
He couldn’t stop it then. The laughter bubbled up again, wild and uncontrollable.
<><><>
Once the laughter had emptied out of him, bubbled out like so much bad gas, Joe felt as flat as a day old pint of lager. If it was possible to feel flat and wound up at the same time, because Joe was also feeling so strung out that he thought he might just snap like a rotten old elastic band. It turned out that fighting for your life and killing people that had mutated into monsters really did seem to be quite stressful.
Yep, all this monster-alien-zombie crap seems to have a good firm grip on that old stress ratchet. Especially when it isn’t just some words on the ereader. Especially when the blood’s gummy in your scalp and drying under your fingernails. Who’d have thought, hey Joe?
He was driving slower than he wanted because he was on the lookout for a gas station. Maybe another vehicle, something heavier and tougher. They’d already had a couple of close calls when they’d hit pockets of creatures and nearly been swamped with them. The back windscreen was cracked after the last encounter ten minutes before. He was worried that if it suffered any more punishment, they’d find themselves with a backseat full of teeth and claws. And if he didn’t refuel the car soon, they’d be marooned wherever it stopped and the thought of that event coming to pass had caused an unlovely little ball of dread to coalesce in his gut.
Yep, gotta get some petrol Joey-boy. If not, you’re liable to find yourself and your latest companion ending up as luncheon for the runners out there. A fucking running buffet. Hahaha. Geddit? Geddit?
And hey, if you’re gonna juice up the motor, why not juice yourself up as well. Been a few days now fella and I reckon you’ve earned a coupla beers and a scotch and coke or three.
Jesus God, if ever there was a situation that needed the edges rubbing off of it, this is it Joey-Joe. Mary mother of Cod and all the brave fishermen, if ever anything ever did, surely the fecking end of the world as we know must qualify for a tad of edge reduction therapy...
While you’re at it, ask Miriam if she likes a tipple. The pair of you could find somewhere peaceful and kick back. A bit of rest and relaxation away from the madding hordes. And boy-o-boy are the hordes madding these days. Good God, good golly miss-fucking-firing molly, the world has never seen such madding.
Sometimes Joe dearly wished that loathsome voice in his head would just shut the fuck up. Wished with all his heart that it would just feck off, go away and die a whispery rasp of a lingering death and leave him alone. Let him think without interruption or suggestion.
“Miriam, do you know if there’s a petrol station anywhere around here?” He asked.
She’d been virtually silent since they escaped the Trooper, the happy old Trooper with Pink Lemonade ever welcoming in the lobby. Miriam had merely whimpered when they’d encountered the packs of creatures, shrinking back into her seat. Futilely trying to get the upholstery to absorb her, to swallow her up and make her invisible, as she and Joe sailed into the snarling groups of humanity gone monstrous, and scythed through mutated flesh and bone.
“Oh, I’m very sorry, no I don’t. I’m afraid I’m not very good with directions and geography.”
Apologetic and meek. Just what he needed at this point, just what the doctor ordered
.
Joe was pretty sure that Miriam would turn out to be good at something, but, as of yet, he hadn’t figured out just what that might be. He silently chided himself for being uncharitable. She actually seemed like a nice woman. Ridiculously overweight, not particularly useful and maybe a heavy millstone round his scrawny neck, but a nice person for all of that. One of those people that you were probably better off for knowing. One that made you feel like it was just feasible that you yourself were not quite as bad a person as all the evidence suggested. An aging aunt who had an eccentric charm and rarely a bad word for anyone. Kind. Gentle.
His foot feathered the brake and he slowed to a halt.
“I know this,” he said.
He’d stopped the car a hundred yards short of a foliage-shrouded road sign that proclaimed the village of Stovington Graze. The stretch of road they were on was tree shadowed and green which should have left him feeling vulnerable and blind but he didn’t get any immediate sense of threat. He’d opted for minor roads in an attempt to escape anything that even smelled of dense population.
The sun dappled the road. A soft breeze rustled branches. On another day it would have been a moment to savour. A beauty that was awesome in its natural simplicity.
He’d neglected to mention it to Miriam, but he’d had next to no idea of what direction they were going in. He’d just hoped it was towards his destination.
“I’ve been here before. It’s a long line of nothing, a few overpriced cottages and a village green, but on the other side there’s a filling station and a shop. Better still, we’re going the right way, going in the right direction.”
He was conscious that his relief was disproportionate to the discovery but he couldn’t help feeling that he’d caught a break. Been given at least a slim shot at getting a handle on things.
“Batten down the hatches Mimi, we’re gonna roll on through here and see how things look at the garage. Perhaps take a breather and stretch our legs. Get ourselves set for the last leg of the journey with any luck.”
Take a breather and stretch our legs? Jesus Joe, what are you on? This isn’t some fucking fantasy daytrip with the non-existent, long gone family?
“Oh. Good. Yes, that is good. We definitely ought to get some petrol,” she replied absently.
He glanced to his left and met her kindly vague eyes. The moment stretched and her smile didn’t falter in its oddly dis-focused intensity.
“Miriam, I know this must be tough on you. I’m finding it tough, God, I can’t tell you how tough. I’m not going to try and explain it either, not here, not now. Some of it’s a long old story. A long old story that I don’t necessarily understand myself.”
Joe turned away in exasperation at his own digression and turned back to her just as quickly.
“Miriam, all I want to say is that I’m doing my best and I think we’ll be okay. You know, we’ll get somewhere safe where we can ...”
His voice trailed off. He didn’t genuinely know where somewhere safe was. He hoped the immediate answer lay in the grounds of his old friend’s house in the country but who knew?
What was he doing really?
You’re doing the same as you always do, little fella, the same as you’ve done since you were knee high. Spinning the wheel without knowing the stake or the prize. Mebbe it’s what we all do. If we’re speaking the heart-held truth. But feck, you seem to fall to it with a purely natural tendency, as fast and as natural as the leaves fall in autumn.
He had no concept of what the future held, only the thought that he needed to reassure Miriam that he could look after her.
She smiled and this time the smile seemed more animated, more genuine, like the sun shining amidst the trees. It spread across her absurdly round face like a promise of happiness. Lighting her eyes and hinting at the woman beneath the progress of the years and the mask of fat.
“You’re a good boy Joe. Like Stephen and Timothy,” she said. “I appreciate your help but don’t let me hold you back. Don’t let me be a burden to you.”
Joe was momentarily at a loss.
The names aside, which he guessed were the guy whose gun he had and another who’d also helped her in some fashion, it was like she could read his mind. The less wholesome aspects of it anyway. As though she’d detected the least generous slice of his spirit and spoken to it without rancour or disapproval.
“You don’t need to worry about that, about being a burden, we’re going to be fine.”
The words dropped from his mouth automatically and they sounded hollow and insincere, even to his own ears. He hoped Miriam took some comfort from them, those easy words, nearly as much as he hoped they turned out to be true.
He fixed his gaze on the road and paused with his hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. He wanted to get this right. He knew this village and it was a definite stroke of luck. He actually meant what he’d said, it might just be the ideal place to prepare for the journey over to Andy’s house. The village was small, not exactly blink and you’d miss it, but not far off that. There couldn’t be many residents and he was hoping that there wouldn’t be a big pack of those things perched ready to pounce.
With a bit of luck, any monsters that had been there were off hunting elsewhere. If that notoriously unreliable luck of his held up for more than a few minutes, he might be able to slip through unnoticed and slide up to the garage without any unwelcome attention. He started the engine and tried to keep their progress as quiet as possible as he drove on.
The main street was as deserted as he’d hoped for and even crawling along at a speed that kept the engine noise to a minimum, they were at the filling station in no time at all. He pulled up in the forecourt and let go of the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
The place was located at an intersection. On the corner of a road that branched at ninety degrees from the one they were on. Opposite the garage was a convenience store. Both places appeared closed and unlit.
Joe sat and scanned their surroundings. The petrol station wasn’t big, four pumps in front of the doorway and glass window of a squat low structure. Theirs was the only car in the forecourt. Across the way, two vehicles sat in front of the store. One of those fun and funky crossover jobs and a white van. A Ford maybe, one of the smaller courier style ones. Writing on the side of the van that matched the name above the shop.
Kenright’s.
Joe looked back at the station. It looked like it had been purpose-built, maybe fifty years ago, but purpose-built nonetheless. Joe couldn’t imagine it had ever been anything else but a petrol service station. The store was a different story. Much older despite the new frontage. The shop only seemed to occupy a portion of the building. It looked to Joe as if the owners lived above and around the shop.
Apart from the faintly eerie tranquillity of the setting and both businesses giving the impression of being closed, it could have been a normal day. A relaxing tootle in the countryside and a stop to gas up and buy some reading matter and nibbles. There was no discernible sign of danger in the area around him and he nerved himself to leave the relative safety of the car.
“Miriam, do you want to stay put until I’ve seen the ...the ...the lie of the land?”
She looked at him and then looked around at their surroundings as if she’d only just noticed them.
“Oh yes, that’s probably best, isn’t it. What a nice spot. Don’t you think? Beautiful and green. And so peaceful. Lovely really if it wasn’t for all of the trouble.”
Joe studied her closely for a few seconds and then nodded and returned to more pressing concerns. Such as refuelling the car without being torn to shreds. He examined the handgun he’d taken from Stephen. Stephen’s corpse.
Good old Stephen hey Joe-boy. Gobbled up and gone, but not forgotten.
He wasn’t an expert with guns by any stretch of the imagination but he’d been a member of a shooting club at one time. He recalled now that Andy Pells had been part of that scene too. Joe wasn’t infatuated with
weapons or anything like that, it was simply part of the business-social whirl that he’d been party to at the time. You hung with the crowd and the crowd kicked work each other’s way. If you wanted to keep the pennies rolling in, you embraced the group interest whether or not it floated your boat.
As it happened, he’d kind of liked shooting. What had prevented him pursuing it had been the thought that he might come round after one of his drunken jags and find he’d shot somebody whilst soused to the eyeballs.
He thought the gun might be an old semi-automatic A Browning. That would make a certain sense. He was fairly sure they might have been standard British army issue once upon a time. If the guy, Stephen, had some sort of association with the forces it was conceivable that he’d have come across something like this and kept hold of it. God knows, there had to have been plenty of weapons come bobbing back home under the radar after various overseas conflicts.
Origin aside, he hadn’t test fired it and didn’t even know if it worked. He awkwardly slid the pistol into a pocket and picked up the machete. He could rely on the simplicity of that and if push came to shove, he’d find out soon enough if the gun was functional.
He cautiously got out of the car, smiling at Miriam with as much reassurance as he could dredge up in the circumstances. The car was a petrol engine and he had stopped nearest to a petrol pump. Lifting the handle he tried it in the tank.
Nothing.
Clacking the paddle against the handle didn’t do anything. Looking up, he registered that the gauge on the pump was blank.
No power.
Should have checked that first genius-boyo.
Jesus. Too good to be true. This had all just been trundling along too well, hadn’t it? Too fucking smooth by half.
He could feel the thin line of his luck becoming attenuated and taut. Yep, that line was getting thin alright. He glanced at Miriam but she didn’t meet his gaze, her eyes off in the distance. Busily considering whatever thoughts were important to an overweight, aging woman who was caught up in the midst of Armageddon.
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