Jeff had to blink away the fog. By this stage, being so close to a bottle of mouthwash would bring upon a bout of the tremors, but this … this was causing his entire body to shiver uncontrollably. “What do you want?”
Tom didn’t hesitate. “You have access, Jeff, to certain things that I otherwise do not.” His head titled slightly to one side and he seemed disturbed that the man he was speaking with might not be fully sentient.
“You need potatoes?”
Tom’s eye flicked right, toward his friend, and back. “I need a copper pipe, Jeff.”
Jeff blinked. “What? Where am I supposed to get that?”
Tom altered his voice to sound like he was dealing with an idiot but managed to do it in such a way that it wasn’t completely patronizing. “You have plumbing. Easiest place is likely under the basins.” Again, he tossed the bottle up as Jeff’s eyes involuntarily followed it the whole way. “Check. If not, rip up the goddamned floor. Get me a length of copper piping, anything between eight and twelve inches will do. Bring it and you get the Scotch.”
Jeff’s head jerked, aghast. “I share the kitchen with a wetback and Stott’s always poking his nose in. Others too.” Jeff was pissed at this, that they’d dangle such a prize before him and yet make it impossible to possess. He might as well just break out of the gulag, walk home, and use the black market to obtain something more plausible.
Tom rested the bottle on the table behind him and folded his arms. “Lucky escape you had last night. Be a shame if Ben, Craig and myself weren’t around to stop the next train from impregnating your ass.”
Jeff’s mouth gaped like a fish. “That … that was you?” He shook his head, of course it was. His gaze went beyond Tom to the Scotch. “How do I know it’s not piss? Best you let me sniff it, no, no, better still if you allow me a taste.”
Tom did not betray how pathetic he knew Jeff to sound, instead he held up the bottle for Jeff’s inspection. “The cap is still intact, and I wouldn’t cheat an old friend.”
Jeff scratched his face and turned to leave.
“Jeff?” The call came from over his shoulder. “You might need this.” Tom came to the door and handed over a wrench with some cord tied around it. This was so it could be carried around the bearer’s neck because the overalls had no pockets. “And one last thing…”
“Yeah?”
“I need it by lunch tomorrow.”
Had it been anything more complex than peeling, Jeff would have found it impossible to keep what was left of his mind on the task. The rest of the day provided not a single opportunity to get it done because there were always guards entering, leaving, even lingering, and Jeff decided Rodriguez must own a bladder the size of a watermelon because not once did he fuck off to take a piss. This despite it being a hot day and Jeff was kindly keeping his glass filled with water, to compensate for all the lost ions, you understand.
By next morning Jeff was so desperate he even considered letting the wetback in on the plan, perhaps in exchange for a small swig, just so he could turn his back long enough for the pipe to be filched. What stopped him was the morning’s first hour of activity, which saw four visits by Deacon, two by Stott, two other guards came once each and three Red Blazers entered together, real ones this time because they gave Rodriguez a grilling for almost twenty minutes.
Jeff could do nothing but listen, frustrated, whilst they asked about his employment history before Year 0, his criminal record, voting history from back when voting was a thing and what he thought of the Supreme Leader. Without thinking, Rodriguez gave the standard answer, that he worshipped Him, which appeared to satisfy the three men in red blazers and hats, knee-high boots, Rugers strapped at their hips and the Republic’s symbol of a star over hammer and sickle emblazoned on their armbands. Finally, they insisted on inspecting the strange boot he was wearing, which meant the wetback had to stand at an obscene tilt for several minutes whilst they attempted to prise apart the twelve-inch sole in case it happened to be concealing, what exactly, who could say? Only after they were fully convinced it was a genuine birth defect and not some attempt at whatever mischief they had in mind, they returned the boot without so much as an apology.
Jeff, feeling the cold alloy against his chest, feared he’d be next for the Inquisition, but to his astonishment they just walked out, snorting as they passed. Two minutes later, Deacon bobbed his head inside, sniffed and left.
“Right, I’m off to take a shit,” Rodriguez, boot firmly reattached, strolled out.
The sudden surge of adrenaline was too much, Jeff moved too fast, and on the way across to the basins, he tripped and smashed his face into the tiles, chipping his one remaining front tooth. He held his face whilst scrambling to his feet and threw open the basin door. Standard interior. Yellow washing gloves. Bleach. Cloths. Two pipes, one in, one out. Supply and waste. Take the waste. Easier that way. Just remember to use the other basin until such time as the pipe can be returned. He brought out the wrench, banged his head on the underside of the sink, found the nut, adjusted the tool to fit and began working it loose, not daring to waste a second by glancing back towards the door. What would be the point anyway? If they caught him, he was fucked either way. He probably should have used the interim to come up with a valid reason to be doing this, and for being in possession of a fucking wrench. Too late now. Twist, turn, pop, spray.
Fuck.
The jet was powerful and slapped against his face, drenching him. Somehow he’d got the wrong pipe. Die. Die now. He fumbled about for a cloth and stuffed it down the pipe, continued cramming it further in until the pressure was attenuated. The valve. No! It would take too long and besides, it was done now, the water had stopped. He managed to unscrew the other end without killing himself, a good length, maybe twelve inches of copper for whatever purpose the bastard needed it. Using the string around his neck, he threaded it through and added the pipe to the wrench so that when he stood they were cold against his chest and clanked together.
After that, grabbing the mop and drying the place took about thirty seconds and then he was back at his station, the only evidence of mischief his drenched hair and overalls, though that was hardly uncommon for a working man sweating in a kitchen’s heat. But Jeff could not deny it. It felt good getting that out of the way. Now relax and think about the reward.
By the time he was sitting down for lunch, he could almost taste the Scotch. A bottle of Jack always went down well but it was nothing compared to the real stuff they made in Scotland. Even now, with his rapidly disintegrating faculties, he could remember the last time he’d had a taste, which had been with an old friend who’d risen high in the current regime but who was now estranged, long ago, back in the days before he’d become so dependent. It was all about the warm, smoky, oak taste that came from the barrels. A bottle of Jack is aged seven years, but Scotch is kept in those magic barrels for anything up to thirty years and beyond. It makes the world of difference and he now regretted not enquiring about the age of this bottle of McMurray.
At lunch, Jeff couldn’t locate Shithouse but when tables started clearing and men began to leave, the three men came over with half-empty plates to sit with Jeff, one either side, Tom opposite, so that combined they were almost completely obscuring the frail man from the guards.
“Well?” The carpenter asked.
Jeff thrust a hand down his overalls and jangled the metal together.
“Careful, you idiot,” Tom did not look over his shoulder. “Keep your head toward your fucking food. Eat. Make small talk. Wait a few minutes. Then just snap the cord. Through your fucking overalls. Drop them toward your crotch, down your leg. Tap Ben’s knee when you’ve worked them down to your ankle. Don’t worry, they can’t see you.”
Jeff assumed the man to his left must be Ben, the one whose foot was overlapping his own beneath the table. As for small talk, the only thing that came to mind was what he wanted the pipe for, but he knew better than to ask about that. Truthfully, the only thing on his brai
n was the Scotch, which made his head swirl with a fresh surge of nausea. He pretended to cough, causing Tom to grimace, and thumped at his chest with a closed fist, took a handful of cloth and tugged so that the knot beneath his overalls came undone. The wrench landed on his balls.
“Ugh, Jesus…” he clenched together his few remaining teeth and could do nothing but endure it, wait out the pain.
“You’re alright. Doing fine, Jeff.”
He shuffled and worked the iron down his left leg. Easier. Tapped his knee against the other guy. “Done. Now, where’s my whiskey?”
“Reach down and pass them to Ben beneath the table.”
He had to lean down for this but it was easy enough and then Ben took them. Where they were stashed, Jeff couldn’t say.
Tom took a spoonful of tripe and chewed. “It’s in the bathroom. Stall on the right. But if you want my advice, you’d flush the whole damned lot.”
That made Jeff angry but he managed to keep his voice low, harsh. “Who the fuck are you to give me advice, I just risked my life to get you that and now all I want is to…”
“Quiet, I really couldn’t give a fuck about what you do or how much you poison your liver. Just thought I’d do you an extra favor by giving you a heads up…”
“Yeah? Heads up about what?”
Tom exhaled and turned his palms to face up on the tabletop. “Seems to me you’re suffering withdrawal…”
“Yeah, no fucking shit.”
“What’s it been, two, maybe three days?” Tom persisted as though Jeff had not lost his temper. “You’re already on your way, perhaps even over the worst of it, or soon will be. So why send yourself right back to the start? To have to sweat all that shit right outta your skin for a second time, the constant vomiting, shaking, and we were all watching you have an argument with an empty fucking chair.” His jaw clenched. “Might be you’d think about riding this one out and in a few days, perhaps you’ll be able to think clear again.” He’d said he didn’t give a fuck but there was something there, something in the way he spoke that said different. Tom had once been a Trench brother. For whatever that was worth.
Jeff stared at him hard. “Who the fuck needs to think clearly?” Clear thoughts were bad. They always led to the same place.
Tom’s face tilted and he lowered his voice. “You might, because there’s a chance you’ll soon be getting your wish.”
Jeff felt his lips slightly part. “My wish?” The carpenter couldn’t know it unless he could read minds.
“I remember the news reports. Years ago. Hard to forget.” He reached across the table and grabbed ahold of Jeff’s wrist. “And for what it’s worth, if I were in your shoes, I’d want the exact same thing.”
Jeff’s eyes were going glassy. So Tom knew of Jeff’s history, it wasn’t a secret, but how the fuck could he know of his dreams? “How do you…”
“Because, you silly bastard, you get real mouthy when you’re blind drunk and on the brink of passing out.” He glanced at his companions, they were making a move. “Like I said, you might want to be in control of your faculties these next few days. Something’s coming.” They returned their plates to the trolley, even made a wisecrack to one of the guards, all regular, and then they were walking out, back to wood shaping, their transaction complete.
Jeff waited ten minutes before leaving for the bathroom. It might have been five. The room stunk of piss and shit. The automatic rinsers had been turned off. Saving power. Saving water. Six shitters, side by side. Jeff crashed through the final stall door on the right. Lifted the tank lid. Plunged a hand down toward the bottom. Sifted around. There it was. He pulled it out. Clutched the bottle against his chest. Unscrewed the cap. Inhaled the scent. Stopped.
It was the image of his son. Daniel. A baby. His tiny hand wrapping around Jeff’s finger.
Jeff sunk back against the wall. “Go away.” Brought the bottle toward his lips.
In the park. Daniel was taking his first steps. Laughing. Bubbles foaming at his lips. He lost his footing. Fell. Dad caught him. Told him he’d always be there to catch him.
“Stop torturing me.” He butted his head against the divider. “I couldn’t catch you.”
A voice came from one of the other stalls. “Hey, you alright in there, man?”
“Fuck off!”
Surprising him with a Labrador Retriever. It was happiness, pure happiness. He named him Max. The two were inseparable. Until they were separated.
It was always Daniel who brought Jeff back from the brink.
He wiped his eyes and poured the Scotch down the toilet. Flushed it.
Left.
Everybody knew it.
Immediately, from as soon as Stott entered the dormitory to rouse the inmates, there was a different feel to the day. For a start, the head guard was acting odd and beat only three men for being slow risers. It wasn’t a good mood he was in, necessarily, just different. If the rumors were true then maybe it was excitement for who was supposedly visiting, coupled with nerves and stress because he was the guy in overall charge of making sure no inmate escaped, failed to meet his quota or caused any embarrassment. If anything went wrong, it was Stott’s ass on the line.
“You’re going straight to the main hall today and yes, you all know who’s coming, so when He arrives, you all get down on your fucking knees. You hear me?” He made sure to be brandishing his baton so the threats carried more weight, smacking it into his palm to emphasize certain points. “I see so much as one man who doesn’t kneel, by fuck, you’ll get a beating. And if He chooses to interact with any of you, in any way, though by fuck, I can’t imagine why He’d want to, but if He does, you avert your fucking eyes when you speak, address Him yes, no Supreme Leader, and whatever you do, don’t for one second forget we’re all watching you. One man fucks up and you’re all in for a rough time.”
Of course, much of this everybody already knew, the republic’s reeducation had been ongoing and constant since even before that day seven years ago when California became independent, and had been carried out through various propaganda channels; newspapers, pamphlets, public speakers, and even the TV and internet back before censorship, confiscations and power outages made them impractical.
Whilst the inmates were standing at the foot of their beds, listening to the diatribe, Jeff tried, as subtly as he dared, to spot Tom, but he couldn’t. Probably down the other end.
Usually, the minute inmates were told to stop working, they headed straight for the dorm to crash out, exhausted. Occasionally, there’d be one or two who’d start a game of cards, maybe a fight every now and then, and even the odd fucking, usually in the bathroom away from judgmental eyes, though not always. Most often it was the niggers who were into that sort of thing and it was astonishing how fast after arrival they were willing to drop their pants, the same as they were in prison. The wetbacks, so it seemed, were almost as bad. Almost. Here, however, most people were too beat to do anything but sleep the moment the lights went out. After long days of such physical, thankless labor, a man would retreat the second he could, which is why Jeff thought it odd he’d not seen Tom, or his companions, turning in at the usual time.
They were present though. Jeff knew it because the night before there’d been no trouble. It seemed people had a good idea who’d carried out at least three of the murders the other night and their mere presence in a room had an astonishing effect on discipline.
When it came to filing out the dorm, sure enough, they were all present, just not together. Tom was last to leave whilst Jeff waited his turn and joined the moving line near the back. He felt truly weary this morning, having barely slept, and at several points had questioned his decision to flush the alcohol. During the night, Terrence had sat down on his bed and complained bitterly about his piles, shifted, got up, and sat back down again. Jeff had suggested more fiber and less alcohol, a suggestion which had earned a stiff rebuke, Jeff had insisted, and was then told to shut the fuck up by the man trying to sleep in the next b
ed.
The line stopped because up ahead a large group of Red Blazers were searching every inmate before permitting entry to the hall. Jeff used the wall for balance, scratched at his face, head, neck. Over the next few minutes, he slowly shuffled forwards and was eventually met by a tall, lean, capable looking man in red whose expression never changed as he began aggressively patting Jeff all over. At one point, the Red Blazer even cupped his balls, still no change in expression, then waved him through. Meanwhile, Rodriguez had been pulled aside, had his boot removed, and ushered into another room, through which a sallow looking man in blue scrubs was applying a pair of disposable gloves.
All there was to do now was wait as the hall slowly filled, time which Jeff spent mostly retching in the corner. The tables and chairs had been pushed aside and a raised platform assembled beneath the portrait of the Supreme Leader. Men were entering from the other side of the hall as well, which meant that probably they intended to cram over a thousand inmates inside, the camp’s entire population. Red Blazers were pacing slowly between groups and making it obvious they were looking, chins held unrealistically high, a quantity that was hard to count, with more standing at the walls looking in and even more lining the entrances. A small group went into the kitchens, which for the moment were empty, and came back out again after only a few seconds. Tom strolled into the hall and found an empty spot to lean against a wall, checked his nails, yawned. The other two, whose names had since slipped Jeff’s recollection, came in separately. They did not stand together.
Eventually, people were standing shoulder to shoulder, ass to crotch, all apart from Jeff, who had his own little space by his pool of sick at the back. He ran his tongue across the back of his chipped front tooth, which felt rough from the passing of so much stomach acid, and sharp after his fall.
The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller Page 10
