Class Four: Those Who Survive

by Duncan P. Bradshaw

  What does that mean do you think, Steve? Hmm ? Okay, I’ll continue.

  Sorry.

  So, the day after, we’re packing up. It’s a couple of hours drive back to our house, and we hear this thudding from the decking outside. It gave me quite a start. Donald put his arms around me and calmed me down, said he would go and see what it was, that I was not to worry and things would be okay.

  I continued packing, I remember I was putting all the vitamins and tablets back into one of my bags when I heard Donald curse. That in itself was odd; Donald never swore. Well, only twice, but that Doctor really was being quite nasty to me.

  I called his name but had no reply, so thought I best go and see what had got him so angry. Donald never normally got angry with other people, it just wasn’t in his nature. Well, there was that time with that Receptionist, but she was a nosy busy-body.

  I walked through the cottage and, as I reached the living room, I could hear Donald, well, grunting. It was unsettling. So I picked up this walking stick which always lived in the umbrella stand in the hallway. No idea whose it was, but every year we went, it was always there. We used to joke, ‘The old man is still here then, watching us from the wardrobe.’

  Clutching the stick I walked into the living room and looked towards the patio doors and there he was, my Donald.

  Except, he wasn’t alone. There was another gentleman there with him, outside. The door was wide open and we were losing all the heat from the radiators. As I got closer, my eyesight isn’t the best, another useless thing that doesn’t work properly, I could see they were fighting.

  I shouted something. Think it was, ‘Excuse me, leave my husband alone or I’ll call the police,’ or something, I can’t remember. The other gentleman didn’t seem to pay any attention, and I thought he must be one of those Polish people we read about. The ones that Donald always talks about.

  You know the ones.

  Donald grunts again, and I edged my way towards them. I remember then it sounded like Donald was gasping for air, like he was being choked. Well, it put the fear of God into me, so I held the stick tighter and moved past the little coffee table and headed for the doors.

  He saw me then, my Donald. His eyes seemed to ignite as if he was a boiler and a little pilot light had come on. He balled his fist and punched the man on the side of his head, which made him release his hold on him. Donald’s face, which was nearly the same shade as the sky the night before, started to turn back to its normal colour.

  The man spun from the impact and knocked into the little patio table and chair set on the decking. He must have landed awkwardly as his arm caught the table and the rest of him folded onto the floor. There was this terribly loud snap, like someone had just pulled a big Christmas cracker. He just lay there on the floor.

  Donald rubbed his throat, and his knuckles; he used to do that when…

  Anyway, he walked across to me. I asked him who the man was, and he said that he didn’t have a clue. He saw I had the stick, though, and took it from me. I remember I must have been holding it really tightly as it hurt my hands when he took it.

  He started to circle round to the other side of the table where the other gentleman was lying. I walked out onto the patio. The garden and fields looked so beautiful; morning dew was making the tall crops bend over so that they looked like tiny little catapults.

  It was then I looked down at the gentleman that had attacked Donald. His arm was still resting on top of the table, but as I looked down to the body that joined it, I saw a large point sticking out where his shoulder should be.

  I got closer, and could see that it was the bone from his arm. It was glistening in the morning sun, like the dewy crops. I thought that it was very strange, at least until I looked down at the rest of him.

  He was trying to stand up. He seemed drunk or something; his legs were wobbly and unsure, his boots kept slipping as he tried to get purchase on the decking. He was wearing a tracksuit top, silver I think, but there was a gaping hole in the side. Through the tear, I could see lines of red running down his body.

  It was then I saw the gentleman’s face. It was the same colour as we had just painted the study in. Garden Folly, I think it was called. It looked most unnatural, but it was his eyes that put the willies up me.

  They were white, except for a small black fleck in the middle. His face was dirty and bruised, he didn’t look very well at all.

  Donald was standing over him by now, demanding to know what the hell he was doing and why he had attacked him without warning. The man didn’t say anything, he just kind of growled. Those Poles, eh? Don’t bother to learn our language. Or that’s what Donald said at the time.

  Donald was shouting at him so much that he didn’t see the man’s free hand reach for him. By the time he knew, it was too late. I’ve never…

  …never…

  Sorry, just need to compose myself for a moment.

  Ahem.

  I’d never seen someone bite another person. You’d think it would be the same as when you bite into a roast chicken.

  Which we always had on Sundays.

  But it’s not. The man grabbed Donald’s ankle and pulled him to the ground. He seemed so strong.

  Donald was caught off-guard and landed with an almighty thud on the wood. I was in shock I think, just a watcher. It was like it was on television. You know, that show they have with that Sheriff and his son, fighting those monster things. The man pulled Donald’s leg towards him and just bit into it, trying to chew through his socks; the man’s jaws locked onto his ankle and just tore away.

  The first couple of bites came away with nothing but mouthfuls of white fluff. The fifth I think it was.

  Yes.

  The fifth.

  That was when I saw the blood. Donald screamed again, worse than before. The man, the thing, chewed on whatever he had torn away. He had barely started when I saw the stick smack against his skull.

  The force made the thing spit out whatever he had, then the second smack came, and I heard the crack again. From then on, I remember hearing the sounds and the cracks, but I don’t remember what I saw. Or if I did, I can no longer recall the images. I think that’s a good thing.

  Yes. A good thing.

  I came to, with Donald yelling at me, telling me to help him get his belt off. I didn’t understand, so he yelled some more until I did what he asked.

  It was always easier if I did what he asked; I couldn’t mess things up then could I?

  I took his belt off. His hands were covered in these little flecks of blood. It was really noticeable against the white of his skin.

  So white. Just like this room really, I suppose. I passed him the belt and he tied it tightly around his calf, said it would do as a tourniquet for now.

  Silly me, I should’ve know really. I don’t know what else he would’ve used the belt for, hmm?

  He crawled back inside the house, told me to lock the doors, and to call the police. As I reached the phone, he turned the television on, flicked through the channels onto one of those dreadful twenty four hour news programmes, you know the ones. All lies and nonsense, that’s what Donald says.

  Said.

  It’s still strange saying it like that.

  I tried calling the police, but I just got some message on repeat, over and over again.

  When I went back through to tell Donald the bad news, he had managed to haul himself onto the armchair and was just watching the television. He looked down at his leg, then at me, and shook his head. He said, ‘The bleeding has stopped, Syl, don’t worry. It’ll be okay, but I don’t think I’ll be able to drive home just yet, plus, it sounds like there’s more trouble everywhere anyway.’

  I looked outside at the gentleman who was lying in a big puddle. Donald saw this and said I better close the curtains; it’ll help to keep the unpleasantness out, he said.

  After that, I felt much better. So I made us a pot of tea, sat down on the sofa, and we just watched the news reports, over and ov
er again.

  Home Comforts – Part Two

  I’d only heard the word zombie before on the television shows or films that we used to watch. Never really liked horror films; don’t like all that blood and gore. I seem to be so scared of real life that Donald said it would be silly of me to watch something which would do the same thing.

  A few days had passed since Donald had been attacked. His leg was still sore, so he told me. We had discussed driving home, but I’d only taken a few lessons, back before we met, so I wasn’t comfortable with driving all that way, and neither was Donald.

  Donald had started to work his way through the drinks cabinet by then. His mood had gotten dark, like he was prone to from time to time. He said that it helped numb the pain from his leg, but when he was drinking the cooking sherry in the second week, I knew that he had just fallen back into old habits.

  The cottage had enough food for a few weeks; the owners always made sure that it was well stocked. With the regular power cuts they experienced out there in the middle of nowhere, we had those cartons of UHT milk for tea. It wasn’t too bad. Plus, the news channels were now telling people to stay put if they could, and if not, to make for the nearest safe zones that were being set up.

  Donald said that it would be pointless to make a move to our closest safe zone as it was too far away. That was in the early days when he was on the whiskey.

  That was the worst. That stuff always made his mood darker. There were days where I didn’t dare be in the same room for too long, not unless he was shouting for food or for more bandages for his foot.

  I remember when the news stopped. Day sixteen, just like the amount of years we’ve been married for I thought. We had just had breakfast, dry crackers I think it was. The news channel now was just a couple of people, more or less repeating the same information over and over again. We had put the television on mute by then. It was becoming boring listening to it and Donald said it made his head hurt even more.

  So we were watching, and it just went off, like a switch had been tripped. Nothing but blackness. Donald tried going through the other channels and aside from some show about a man fighting food, or something, there was nothing else on. He muttered some more, and got back to his drinking.

  I had to tell him a day or so later that we needed to go out soon, as we didn’t have much food left. I never ate much anyway, especially after that time with the hospital, when, you know, oh of course, you don’t. Well let’s just say that something stopped working.

  Women’s things.

  Sorry.

  Donald was only eating in the mornings now, and sometimes at night, but even then it was just some pasta with tomato ketchup on. He said that the pain made him not want to eat. He said his ankle was better, but it still caused him trouble. Helping him get to the toilet was becoming nigh on impossible, so he told me to find a bucket, and he just did his business in the living room.

  Hmm? Yes, I did have to. Usually only once a day, but sometimes, it was two or three times. Almost like looking after a child I suppose, though we never had children.

  Well, because of…you know.

  Those women’s things I mentioned.

  Day twenty two. That was when the food ran out. Always prided myself on being able to cook on a budget; had to since we got together. Donald used to give me a weekly allowance which included all the food for both of us, so I had to make it last.

  I never worked, not after we got married, Donald said it wasn’t befitting of a woman, that I was his princess and deserved to stay at home and keep the place all nice for him.

  For us.

  Sorry.

  I crept in that morning. The sherry had gone. I knew the cabinet would be bare, so thought that he might be having one of his…migraines. I saw he had done his ablutions already. He was asleep. As I got near, he stirred, and an empty bottle of mouthwash fell out from his cardigan.

  Poor Donald. Never was able to stop once he got the taste of it. Well, there was that one time, where he had to go away for a few weeks, but we don’t like to talk about that.

  Hmm? Where did he get the mouthwash from? Hmm. I don’t know; never thought about it really. It would’ve been in the bathroom cabinet upstairs.

  You don’t think?

  No.

  He wouldn’t, he could barely move.

  He couldn’t have got it. I must’ve brought it downstairs for some reason.

  As I snuck away carrying the bucket with the…you know, in, he stirred, asking me what I was doing. I told him that I was just going to tidy up. He grunted and started to nod off. I knew there would be no better time, so I said that we needed to go somewhere and find food, that if we stayed there much longer, we were going to go hungry.

  He nodded, said we had to get out of the cottage, find some more supplies. Said his ankle was much better. I had tried to change the dressing over the past week, but he didn’t let me. It did smell funny.

  Like marzipan.

  There was a little village shop about five miles away. I cleaned him up the best I could, but he still couldn’t walk properly. I loaded our cases in the car, and Donald got in the driver’s seat. Ten minutes later, and after trying to put the gearstick into number one, he got out and said that I’d have to do it.

  I wasn’t very happy about it, but smiled and said I would give it a go. Took a bit of doing, but I managed to get us moving. Donald said to keep us slow. There was no one around at all, so I didn’t get beeped once, which was a relief. Wouldn’t want to be holding people up.

  We drove into the village, and it was like something off the television. There were a few cars around, just left in the middle of the road. Some had their doors open and there were these, erm, trails leading off. I thought it was blood, but Donald said to not look and keep on driving.

  One of the cars we went by had a couple of people in. They looked like the gentleman that had attacked Donald; he stared at them as we drove past, and he looked angry, but also a little afraid. They were pawing at the glass like a puppy locked in a car on a hot day.

  That was silly of me too, wasn’t it?

  We finally got to the little shop. Well, it had a post office inside, too. Something for everyone. It looked quite dark inside, so I parked up, though I did stall the car whilst doing so. Donald didn’t even seem to notice. He was breathing heavier. I had to prod him to tell him that we had arrived, and he jolted like he’d been stung. He always preferred touching me rather than the other way round.

  I opened the car door for him and I helped carry him towards the shop. I tried the handle and was relieved when I found it wasn’t locked. I pushed the door open and we walked into the gloom.

  Home Comforts – Part Three

  The shop was in a frightful state; there were bits and pieces strewn all over the place. I rested Donald on a stool which was behind the counter, just by the entrance. Donald said, well, panted, that I should close the door. He didn’t look very well at all; I wondered if I should’ve just left him at the cottage and gone on my own. He wouldn’t have liked that though.

  No.

  I closed the door and said that I’d have a look around, but I don’t think he even heard me. Thought there wouldn’t be much left. Luckily for us, though, as Middle Hazeltree is so out of the way, most people hadn’t had a chance to strip it bare. I was filling up a basket rather nicely. Looked like there had been a struggle of some kind, like a rocket had gone off.

  The back of the shop opened up to a flight of stairs and a door. Looking through the window with that criss-cross wire glass, I saw it led to a storage space out back. I could see big boxes of Cheese and Onion crisps on some shelves. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was curious what was upstairs. I stuck to the edge of the stairs; learnt that from…well, anyway, managed to get to the top without making a peep.

  Up there was a little two bed flat. I had a check in each room, but there was no-one there. It looked like whoever lived there had left in a hurry, as there were clothes on the floor of one of
the bedrooms, and the picture frames were empty.

  I looked out of the window, and thought how wonderfully quiet it all was. There were no cars, no alarms, not even a bird in the sky. I closed my eyes, just for a moment. And then…then…and then I heard a loud thud and a whimper; it sounded almost pathetic.

  I dropped the basket on the floor. It sounded so loud. I stood at the top of the stairs and called down to Donald, but I didn’t hear anything except a mewling, just like the puppy made when he was lying on the policeman’s coat.

  You know, after they broke the car window.

  Hmm. Poor thing.

  Anyway, I made my way downstairs, stuck to the edge of the stairs again, needed to be really careful. The mewling was getting louder. There were these smaller thuds as things bounced onto a hard floor. Crashes of glass. I got to the bottom and peered into the shop, to see if Donald was okay. I couldn’t see his silhouette by the counter.

  I was getting scared now. I heard the sound again and it was coming from behind me, in the store room. I was sure the door had been closed, but there it was, wide open.

  Silly me, must’ve opened it earlier and not even remembered.

  I took off my shoes and tiptoed really quietly into the room. A light was flickering on and off, like it was a candle. And that’s when I saw him.

  He must’ve been trying to reach the box of Bell’s Whiskey from the top shelf. The silly so and so didn’t pull it right and as he tried to get the box down he pulled too hard and a crate of Newcastle Brown Ale had landed on his head.

  Oohh, it was terrible; there was blood everywhere. He was sort of kneeling against the shelving unit. The crate had bounced off his head and landed on the back of his legs, pinning him to the ground. I could see his bandage was bulging from his ankle, and this thick black goo was coming out.

  I did chuckle, as to one side lay the box of whiskey. Looks like that had been the final straw as it was all smashed on the ground, and he was looking at me, like he was drunk.