Class Four: Those Who Survive

by Duncan P. Bradshaw

  You know, like the night we met.

  He had this big cut on the top of his head and one of his hands was trying to feel where it was. Ha, you should’ve seen it. He was patting his head and it kept slapping against the wound and this blood would fly up into the air. The only thing missing was him rubbing his tummy.

  Awww. He looked so silly.

  By now, he must’ve worked out I was there, but his breathing was becoming more shallow. He stopped patting his head and just looked at me. His mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I moved closer and could see that it was an effort for him to breathe now. I tried to move the crate off his legs, but it just made him worse.

  He beckoned me with a finger covered in blood. It nearly made me retch. You know I don’t like blood and gore. So I get closer, and he looks at me, well, tries to. He managed to get three words out: “You. Silly. Cow.”

  And then he sort of shook, his eyes went up and his head fell down against the shelf with this sort of wet slap. I remember that noise. I’ll never forget that noise. Heard it before. Hope I don’t get to hear it again. Well I did recently, though, didn’t I, Steve? Hmm, guess that’s why I’m here.

  I just knelt there for a bit. I felt lost without my Donald. I remembered how I felt when Princess Diana, God bless her soul, went, and I closed my eyes really tight and I prayed to God.

  The strangest thing happened.

  All those years, when…when I was silly, and Donald had to show me that I was silly, all those years I prayed that I would stop being so silly and Donald would be like he used to, and He never listened. Not once.

  But this time, he did. I heard a little moan.

  Barely believing my luck, I opened my eyes and there he was. My Donald. Alive again. His eyes were like the gentleman’s we had seen, but I didn’t mind, he was my Donald.

  He would be like he was.

  Better.

  The man he used to be.

  I knew what he was, though; I’m not that silly. But I knew that I could look after him properly now. I would be his princess and keep the place nice for him. Just like I promised I would that day, in front of all of our friends and family.

  You know, in the church.

  And the hospital.

  That one time.

  So, I locked the door to the store room, found the keys to the front door and locked them up good, too. Pulled the blinds down and made the place all nice for him.

  For us.

  Sorry.

  It was all so perfect until they turned up. Until they came along and took my Donald from me. We were just fine. Why did they do that to me?

  To us.

  Sorry.

  Chapter Four

  Steve placed a conciliatory hand on Sylvia’s shoulder as she finished speaking. She closed her eyes and leant in, nuzzling it against her neck. “Thank you, Sylvia, that was beautiful. I really think we got a window into your life today, I want—”

  “Yeah right, that her husband was a complete and total wanker to her,” Anton snorted, his harsh features bristled. Steve looked across and peered down the rim of his glasses at him. Anton held his hands up in deference.

  “Well, fuck-a-doodle-doo, that was magical Steve. Don’t mind me if I don’t come back again,” Dee cooed. Steve slowly retracted his hand from Sylvia’s shoulder; she remained motionless, lost in the physicality, stroking her inner arm.

  Steve walked back to his chair, but remained standing, hands across his chest, the notebook held tight to his bosom.

  A strange smile birthed across his face. “Okay people, let’s get one thing straight. This meeting is not voluntary. You will be here, each and every goddamn fucking week until I get told that it’s not required. And you know what? I get the distinct impression that I’ll be doing this until those walking bags of shit and guts break down the fucking fence and eat every one of you sorry sons of bitches.”

  Dee realised her mouth was open the same shape as a Cheerio. “Erm, you fucki—” she began to say. The notebook flew through the air and slapped firmly against the side of her face, silencing her. She was left trembling at the sudden spike in violence. Where the pen and binder had caught her eyebrow, a small trickle of blood ran down her face. She made no attempt to staunch the flow.

  Steve removed his glasses slowly, rubbing a lens with the bottom of his t-shirt again. “You think you’re so fucking important, huh? Well, you’re not, that’s why you’re here. Why you’re all here. You are a liability to this entire camp. You’ve all done things which necessitates you being here. With me. And I want you to know that I wish you weren’t. You think I don’t have better things to do than nursemaid a bunch of gimps?”

  Steve peered through the lens. “Finally, looks like I’m not in stage one of Macular degeneration.” He slid the glasses back on and walked over to Dee. As he bent down to retrieve his notebook, he shot her a look that told her what would happen if she were to speak right now. He nodded and smiled.

  “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. Just…I didn’t want to go back to doing what I did before the dead started walking again. I was done with it. I’ve got my own baggage to deal with. But, of course, he asked me to, and if The Gaffer asks, well, you all know you don’t get a say in the matter,” Steve said solemnly. He walked and stood behind his chair before casting a glance at his wristwatch.

  He looked back up quickly, beaming. “Wow, good session today guys, really well done. I’m glad we all know each other now; even in a camp this size, you never truly know anyone, eh? We’re done just in time for us to all head over to the floor for the public Remedial session.

  “Shall we?” With that, Steve bowed his head and held his arm out to the door. The group started to stand from their chairs. As they filed out of the room, Steve called out, “See you all next week.”

  Chapter Five

  A throng of people stood shoulder to shoulder at the far end of the factory floor. The machinery had long since been sold. ‘Netzach’s Biscuits’ had gone tits up during the ’08 recession. Too many lines with dubious chocolate quality, coupled with the rather unsavoury Bexley Heath Cub Scout poisoning incident, sounded the death knoll for a company that had been around since the reign of Queen Victoria.

  Once the administrators had picked the bones clean and sold anything of use, including every single plastic cup used for the imbibing of cooled water, the building was locked up and sealed behind its barbed wire-trimmed stainless steel fence. Its location did nothing to appeal to prospective investors.

  Netzach’s factory was in the middle of nowhere. The train line that it used to take advantage of had closed in the sixties. The town it supported had withered away to a puckered up old hag’s teat.

  Yet, the reason why it didn’t appeal to those looking to make money became a beacon when the dead stopped staying dead.

  The world had gone to hell in a heartbeat, and those who were left were exceptionally keen on staying out of built up areas.

  Netzach’s was a godsend.

  The military had set up a safe zone in each county, utilising the many mothballed bases which had been closed down over the years due to budget cuts. But those who couldn’t get to them, or who wanted to remain…independent, needed to find alternative accommodation. One such man now looked out of the manager’s office windows, across to the forest, which straddled the concrete road leading from the main gate like a pair of hairy legs.

  He looked down to the imposing bastions of metal, the sole thing keeping them out. He saw a number of shapes bump and scrape against the chain-link fence. A cough from behind him jolted him back into the room. “Gaffer, it’s time,” Jones reported, not wishing to disturb, but realising that timekeeping was as important to this man as keeping them out.

  The Gaffer turned to Jones, who looked to the floor, unsure whether he had caused displeasure. It seemed an eternity before he spoke. “Andy, thank you. Tell me, who is on Heads-Up detail today?” His cockney accent was laden with honey on the surface,
yet an undercurrent of venom bubbled beneath.

  Andy looked up. One hand rested on the rapier tucked into his belt. “Is something wrong, Gaffer?” he asked cautiously.

  The Gaffer turned his sizeable frame back to the window and gestured for Jones to come closer. “We have stragglers, Andy. Heads-Up is responsible for ensuring that we do not have a build up at the gates, because if we have a build up at the gates, Andy, where does that leave us?”

  Andy mumbled a reply into his hand.

  “Pardon?” The Gaffer asked forcefully. His round, well-built face turned to look at Jones directly.

  Andy cleared his throat and replied, “It leaves us at home to Mr Fuck Up. Gaffer.”

  “Precisely. Now, I’m going to ask again, and you know I hate repeating myself. Who the fuck is on Heads-Up detail today?” The Gaffer’s eyes seemed to emit a shrieking sound which burrowed into Andy’s skull.

  Andy’s eyes rolled up and to the left. “It’s Jackson and Coates today, Gaffer. They’re new, though. They don’t know about the rules, do they?” No sooner had the words left the safety of his oesophagus, his brain demanded that they were taken back; his buttocks clenched in disapproval.

  A T-bone steak of a hand rested on Andy’s shoulder. The digits closed on his scapula like a multitude of adjustable pipe wrenches, the pressure started off slight and rose, seemingly with no effort exerted by the operator.

  Andy’s sphincter was clenched so tight that not even a quark could have escaped. He felt the hot, clammy breath being expelled on his cheek. He stared at the floor, hoping it would deposit him into a bottomless pit of doom.

  A hearty hand slapped him on the back. “Ha, this is why you’re my number two, Andy. Good man. I think I’ll let them off this time. Besides, I’m sure after Remedial, Jackson and…”

  “Coates, Gaffer,” Andy spat out, followed by a small squeak of happy gas from his relieved cheeks. The Gaffer waved a hand and turned his nose up.

  “I thought you were lactose intolerant, Andy. Stay off the milk, okay?” The Gaffer patted Jones on the shoulder again and turned towards the door which led to the factory floor. He pulled a sheepskin coat from a hook on the back of the door and swung it on. Andy followed in quick pursuit.

  The hubbub on the factory floor fell to an instant silence the moment the formidable form of The Gaffer strode from his office and onto the top of the balcony which crested the stairs leading to his office. He had a bandolier of shotgun shells over one shoulder; over the other was a leather strap which was affixed to the top and bottom of a parking meter, the coin end of which was scratched and pitted.

  “Good evening everyone. I trust your day has been one of joyful servitude for our happy little camp, down here in the spleen of our fine country.” The Gaffer’s voice carried out easily into the vacuous space, enveloping all who craned their necks up to see him. He turned and started to walk down the metal staircase. Jones followed five paces behind, his face a welt of concentration on not tripping up.

  The small procession made their way to a small raised concrete area just in front of the floor where the inhabitants of Netzach’s biscuit factory stood and shivered. The raised area was flanked by four men dressed all in black. They wore masks, body armour, and each cradled a double-headed fire axe.

  The Gaffer reached the middle of the concrete stage and looked out into the crowd. His voice boomed around the masses. “Friends, we all work hard to keep this place safe. We grow food, we wash each other’s clothes, babysit our neighbour’s children, keep watch and make sure that the chompers don’t tear down the wall and rip asunder all that we have worked for.”

  He gave it a moment to let the words sink in. “But with that safety, with this FREEDOM, we must have a code, one that is unyielding, yet fair and true. So if your neighbour steals from you, if they fail in their given duty, if they do not keep the chompers from forming en masse at the gates or if they FUCKING FALL ASLEEP WHILST ON SENTRY DUTY, then they know they will be punished.”

  Hushed murmurings ran through the crowd. People covered their mouths and talked to their friends, trying to work out who was missing and who was in deep shit. It didn’t take long before they were revealed.

  “Grimm, if you please, bring them out, let them look the people in the eye who they could’ve gotten killed. Bring them out now,” growled The Gaffer. He moved to one side. His fists cracked as they formed into orbs of rage.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a red windowless door opened into a forbidding chamber. From the murk skulked two men covered in sweat and soot; it looked like they had been left in a toaster for too long.

  Pushing them out into the pallid light of the factory floor was a rotund man, his bulk barely able to squeeze through the doorframe. He wore a black jumpsuit, a silver mask similar to the guards, and two lump hammers tucked into the front of his belt.

  The two men were forced onto their knees. Both looked on the edge of exhaustion. The transition from dark to light forced squints into their eyes. The Gaffer moved behind them. “Both of these men were caught sleeping when they were supposed to be keeping watch over you and your neighbours. We all know that all it takes is one lapse and those bastards will get in here. Some of you here will remember when we first made this our home, and what Douglas’ neglect of duty caused.” The Gaffer pointed to a makeshift memorial on the wall behind him.

  “We lost seven people that day. Seven people who would be here, standing with you now, if only Douglas had done his goddamn MOTHERFUCKING JOB.” Strands of spittle laced his lips.

  The Gaffer cast a steely gaze around the room. Nodding to some of the old guard who remembered those times, he continued. “Since that day, I decided that if anyone, no matter who, was remiss in their duty, they get one strike. If you get three strikes, then, well, to coin a phrase from our friends across the pond, then you’re outta here. Luckily we don’t get too many of these little Remedial sessions anymore.”

  Some people started to clap and holler. The Gaffer raised his hands to stifle their excitement.

  One of the kneeling men was hauled to his feet. His weedy dirty arm was held up by an uncaring gloved hand. The Gaffer turned to him. “Ian, this is your first strike, you know what that means don’t ya?”

  Ian nodded weakly. “Yes Gaffer. I know what it means. I’m sorry. Everyone, I’m sorry,” he stuttered. A tear cut through the grime on his face, making his pale skin show through in one small streak.

  The Gaffer turned to the room. “Some of you newbies here won’t know the punishments we have. Ian here does. Strike one means you get to spend a week out there, in Chomperville. On your journey to the gate, you might have seen a coal scuttle next to the path. Some of you might not have done. It’s not the biggest thing in the world. If you fuck up, strike one means you get put in there for a week. You’ll get a blanket and two meals a day, reduced rations of course. If you feel like you want to break out and stretch your legs, be my fucking guest. I remember Lana thought that and made it all of fifty feet before she got turned into gut-sushi.”

  Ian began to cry in earnest, his face scrunched up. “Shhh, don’t worry, Ian, you’ll be safe, as long as one of these fine men remembers to lock the scuttle, or, well, you might not be. But don’t go just yet, my friend. Let’s see what you could win if you fuck up again.” The Gaffer gestured with two fingers, and Ian was dragged to one side. His legs and bladder control both gave way.

  Two of the guards hauled the other dishevelled man to the centre of the dais. The room fell silent. Even Ian suppressed his crying. The Gaffer sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.

  He regained his composure and looked at the second man. “Strike Two, however, well…Yohann here, he also thought that instead of being his brother’s keeper, he would be his brother’s sleeper. This will not do. Grimm, if you please.”

  The two men turned Yohann around. His naked back glistened with beads of sweat. A guard grabbed hold of an arm each and twisted them at the shoulder, so
that Yohann’s head was bent over. Grimm stood off to one side and reached a hand behind his back. It reappeared brandishing a barbed riding crop; he swished it in the air to emphasise the effect.

  “Ten strokes for Strike Two, and one day on the angel outside. Grimm, if you please…” The Gaffer ordered. The blubberous mass of Grimm shuddered as each strike resonated throughout the factory. Only the cries of pain from Yohann came out. The crowd held its breath and waited for it to finish.

  The Gaffer ran a hand through his slicked-back, black hair and looked on, impassively.

  Chapter Six

  The jawbone, propelled by a small child’s foot, flew through the air, bounced off a rusting railway sleeper and landed in a clump of nettles, which had sprouted amongst its brethren.

  “Weeeeee,” Nathan squealed as he lined up his next punt. The second shot thundered a piece of collarbone down the long abandoned train line. “Choo-choo,” he shouted and ran after the nub of greyed bone.

  Francis picked through the remnants of a corpse draped over the tracks as if it were wrapping paper. The body itself was nothing more than a collection of bones held together with bits of sinew the maggots couldn’t be bothered with.

  Fingers peeled open the dirt covered dark red top and peered through the ribcage and into the inside of the clothing. A family of disgruntled beetles scattered upon the intrusion and trotted up and over the coccyx, before they disappeared into the pelvic region, no doubt forming a bad review of the accommodation.

  Turning out the trouser pockets yielded nothing except some low grade grit and a tissue which had been through the wash cycle once and dried into a firm lump of useless matter. He scoured the area and rolled over some spent shotgun shells, a sign of the violence that happened here a while ago. “Hey, Nate, don’t go too far,” Francis shouted.

  Nathan booted the hacky sack bone once more and it sailed through the air before its journey was brought to an abrupt conclusion by a chain-link fence. “Francis, look,” he shouted. A finger, which had just stopped a preliminary nasal cavity search for dried mucus, pointed to a large building.