A brisk breeze blew through the factory, sending a chill down their backs. A faint odour of decaying meat and mustiness carried along with it. Francis slung his bag onto his back and held out his hand. Philip took it firmly. “Thanks for the help, slim. Not sure we would’ve made it out of here if you hadn’t shown up.”
Philip let out a sharp chuckle. “No bother, mate. I seem to recall you did the same for Jim. Least I can do, and it was good to see you. Tell my bumder of a brother I’m fine, yeah?”
The two men stood immobile like Roman statues; their weary stares conveyed more than words could share. “Good luck finding your door. Hope to see you back in…”
“Rhayader,” Philip finished off Francis’ sentence. “Cheers, I wonder some days why I’m bothering. What are they going to teach me that I don’t already know?”
Francis released his grip and pulled the other strap over his arm. “That’s the thing, pilgrim. There’s always something to learn, especially these days. Take care.”
With that, Philip nodded and trudged towards the back door. As he got to the frame he paused, saluted, and then disappeared into the morning mist.
Francis ran his thumbs under the shoulder straps. The motion soothed a nagging feeling scratching away inside his skull. Nathan broke the spell. “That man says a lot of naughty words.”
Stirred from his thoughts he looked down into the boy’s eyes. Through the grime on his face, they shone back like two headlights. “That he does. Hey, let’s get moving, eh? With some luck we’ll be through that forest before the end of the day.”
The pair took one last look round the derelict building and headed to the main double doors, passing the pile of bodies they had dragged into a heap after the run in the day before.
Grey appendages, with black lines traced over their surface, grew out of the macabre pile. Bowls of half skulls were stacked in each other, some vestiges of brain matter still clinging to the sides. Nathan took one last look, shrugged and walked off. Francis lingered a moment, looking from the kid to the stack of cadavers. “What world will he inherit when all of this is over? What will he tell people of these times?” he wondered aloud, before walking out into the grey morning.
Chapter Twelve
The teaspoon tinged and tanged its way around the bowels of the ‘I Heart Mondays’ mug. Dee stared, lost in its sepia contents; the stirring created a whirlpool within the tea. Dee’s imagination spawned narwhals and whaling boats spinning in the wake.
“Do I know you?” The words brought the beverage vortex to an abrupt end; both beast and boat sunk beneath the tannin seas.
Dee looked up and saw Sylvia’s crumpled sad face studying her. She scowled and grunted a swift, “Don’t think so,” in reply. Placing the spoon on the worktop, she moved away hurriedly, holding the mug to her chest with both of her hands. Sylvia looked on with a mix of half-recall and wistfulness. Steve walked into the room, her face lit up like a bonfire.
A squawk of squeaking chairs later and a rough corral was formed. Tristan was the last to settle, still forlorn and hushed. “Good morning all. Hope you’ve been alright since the last session? Yeah? Good. So, last week, Sylvia,” he flashed her a smile, “very kindly told us a bit about herself and a bit of background as to why she’s here.”
Anton coughed the word “Bullshit” into his hand. Dee shot him a look she hoped would maim or at least disfigure him some more.
“Sylvia, is there anything further you would like to add?” Steve sat back, opened his notebook and readied his scratchy pen.
Sylvia looked around the room at the disinterested and disengaged people she was stuck with. She pondered for a few moments before answering. “No thank you Steve. Some of it is still too painful to talk about right now. Particularly, you know. The end. I am feeling better though and I’m starting to remember more about those last few days, and the…other days. Here. When I was. You know. Silly.” She giggled nervously.
Steve gave her a comforting smile and a subtle wink. “No problem, Sylvia. You take your time; we’ll all be here. None of us are going anywhere. When you’re ready, you tell us, okay? So, who’s next? Do we have a willing volunteer?”
He scanned the room. Anton turned away, folding into himself. As he crossed his arms he stuck his middle finger up. “Sorry pal,” he muttered. Tristan was still incommunicado and Dee had kept some of the intensity of her stare just for Steve.
“Matt, how about you? Are you ready to share with the group?” he asked softly. Matt stirred from his floor-gazing, fingered his greasy hair behind his ears and began.
Conspiracy Theory - Part 1
Ha, so, me then, huh? Wow, that’ll be cool. I don’t mind too much, though my tongue is a little swollen today, like it’s been stung or summat.
Imagine that, though. Being stung on the tongue by summat, or like a little critter crawling in your mouth when you’re like watching summat or thinking about, I dunno, how much dust there is in the world. And then it crawls in and just goes chomp, and then you’d be all like, huh?
Well, I don’t have much of a story really. Don’t even know why I’m here. Not as if I’ve done anything, not since I did that test at school.
That was a good day.
I got to stay behind after class, and then the teacher gave me this special test, and then gave me some Rolos and a can of Fanta. It was dead cold, too. But he said that we had to keep the test hush-hush.
So, don’t you be asking about what I had to touch or play that afternoon, cos it was some kind of new recorder, or summat. I blew and blew, but just couldn’t get it to play ‘London’s Burning’.
Sounded like he had to go to a school later, though, as mum was reading the paper one day and said that he was on the register, which was strange as he was really old.
My mum and dad only had me, said that I was all the children that they wanted, which I always thought was dead nice of them. My dad used to be in the air force. Had to leave though, after thinking it would be a good idea to load up and try and bomb Russia. He was always worried about those Russians. It’s why we had the shelter.
Out back.
In the garden.
Any time he saw summat on telly that looked a bit iffy, that was it, off we went into the bunker. I remember when he saw the telly pictures of the missiles in the first Iraq war, he got it into his head that it was live pictures from Basingstoke.
I remember we were eating minced beef Crispy Pancakes, crinkle cut oven chips and baked beans.
Well, that came on the telly and Dad had us all down in the bunker before you could say Saddam Hussein.
A fortnight we were down there for. We only came out cos mum forgot to restock the toilet paper from the last time and we had to use the pages out of my diary.
That was awkward, wiping my bum-bum with the pages I had written about Emily on. When I saw her next I had to check to make sure she didn’t have a big brown line down her.
From my bum-bum.
When I think about it, we did spend a lot of time in the bunker. Dad got scared a lot I think, but I don’t blame him. He said that the aliens had done stuff with him. He didn’t want to say what, in case you know. They were listening. But he told me one day they put summat…you know.
Eh?
No, don’t be silly, they put it up his bum-bum.
I remember after the Twin Towers fell over, we spent about four months down there, I think. Only came out when Mum said that the water tasted funny.
Thing is, and this is a secret, so if you see her ghost, you can’t tell her. It was all of our wee-wee. That’s what Dad said, something about Phil Terr cleaning it, but I never met him and he must’ve cleaned it while I slept, cos there were only ever three of us in the bunker.
Well, three humans. Patches was in there as well. We didn’t use Phil to clean and drink his wee-wee, though. Dad said it tasted like Gran’s, so we never drank it after England got knocked out of the World Cup in 1998 and we were in the bunker again.
About th
ree weeks I think. Dad always went a bit funny over those penalty shootouts.
Do you like it when you get tickled? Like when you’re not really expecting it, you’re just sat there, I dunno, reading Simon’s Cat, and then Patches snuffles up to you under the table. His little wet nose rubs on your foot and then, as you aren’t ready for it, your foot kinda goes KAPOW, and kicks out. I knocked over my cherryade once. Mum didn’t like it as the carpet was beige and she said it looked like Gorbachev’s head rash.
She cleaned it up well quick, said that dad wouldn’t have liked seeing that on the floor and we might have had to go to the bunker again. Irrespective of all the glass knots that Gorbachev brought to the world.
Or summat.
Eh?
Glasnost?
What’s that Steve, is that a music festival?
Mum said it was best if I stayed with them when I grew up and left school, because of, the, well, I don’t want to say it, but Dad basically. Said that it was safer for everyone if we were all together.
I don’t think that had anything to do with the fire.
I was eating a Toffee Crisp, and Martin had just called me a bellend cos of the mixtape I made Emily. I had to follow her for ages to find out where she lived.
So, I remember we were having tea. I had pork chops, mash and peas. Garden peas, just like Mum, only Dad had the marrowfat ones. I used to like them, but Mum said garden peas make you really clever, so I ate them.
We’re watching the telly and it starts going on about the people in Manchester and how they were attacking other people, and some were like eating them, or summat.
Anyway, I had just cut up to the pork chop bone. Always like to save the strip of meat next to the bone till last, except for the bit right up in the corner, that’s my favourite bit.
What’s your favourite bit of pork chop, Steve?
Ha ha, yeah Anton, I guess I should shut the fuck up, but I’m telling a story, so if I shut the fuck up, you won’t get to hear my story.
Are too.
Dee too?
Ha ha, no, you haven’t said your stories yet have you? You’re silly.
We got to the bit where the news reporter in Manchester was talking, just before that zombie thing got hold of him by the neck and was making him bleed everywhere and he was asking for his mummy.
Dad threw down his knife and fork and off we went again to the bunker. Before we got outside, he asked Mum if she had remembered the toilet paper this time, and she said yes, of course she had.
Patches always got there first. I think he was more excited than we were to go back down there. Though he was getting quite old by then, and used to just eat pasta, because his kidneys were all wrong.
Ha ha, he used to eat his pasta, and then go for a poo, and then he used to eat the poo which made him throw up, and then he used to eat that too. Sometimes he went round and did the same again, but without the pasta.
I thought it was funny, but Mum said that it wasn’t. She said that it was all down to Reen Alfailure, but I never met her either. If so, I wouldn’t have liked her very much as she had made Patches ill, and that wasn’t very nice. I probably would’ve spat in my hand and then shaken her hand.
Yeah, reckon so.
It wasn’t the biggest place ever, but we had our own little bedrooms. Patches was in my room. There was a living room and kitchen, a little bathroom and that was it.
We used to play Monopoly, cards, dominos and Risk, but we didn’t play that much as Dad had cut out Russia from the board and eaten it one day with some French fries and Mexican refried beans.
Every hour one of us used to wind up the radio. Dad said we shouldn’t listen to it for too long, though, as that’s how propaganda starts. He used to say as well that the, ahem, you know what, in his bum-bum, used to itch if he listened to the radio too much, so we did Dangermouse jigsaws instead.
Conspiracy Theory - Part 2
We put the radio on one day, though, and nothing came out. Dad wheeled through all of the numbers and there wasn’t anything there except static. He scratched his bum-bum and said how odd it was, then he got that look in his eye. I remember it as it was the same one the picture in the papers showed of him just before he tried to get into his plane.
Before they had to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to bomb anyone.
I think he just worried that people were getting all chilly through the Cold War, so wanted to warm them up.
Ha ha, do you get it?
Warm up.
EXPLOSIONS.
Cold War.
Well, Dad and I thought it was funny.
So the radio went quiet and Dad’s eye went all boggly, like someone inside his head was pumping it up. He didn’t say anything for a while. Mum said it was best to leave him. When he spoke he said that it probably meant that the Russians had won and they had invaded. He said the zombies were the first wave of troops, that we were all alone now and had to accept that we might have to stay in the bunker.
Forever.
Patches didn’t like what he had to say. Mum put his pasta down that night and he didn’t even get up. When she stroked him, she said he was all cold and hard.
Something about Ed and a doornail.
Dad’s eye went all funny again, except this time it was his other eye. I knew something was wrong, but I had my tomato soup like a good boy and went to sleep.
I tucked Patches into the end of my bed, where he always used to lie. He didn’t lick my face like he used to, and he smelt funnier than normal. I didn’t mind though, Patches was my friend.
In the middle of the night, I remember Mum and Dad having an argument, worse than ever, shouting and saying rude words. Mum even said that he was a complete and total count.
Which was odd, as I didn’t think dad was a vampire, though he did become a...well, I’ll get to that bit in a minute.
I heard her say that she couldn’t put up with the pair of us anymore. I didn’t like it. I hugged up with Patches and we stayed hidden until my alarm went off.
Mum was always first up. She’d knock on the side of my doorway, by my curtain, and say, ‘Morning pumpkin, time for breakfast. Better be quick or Patches’ll be sick and you’ll have to make do with porridge’. But my alarm went off and Mum wasn’t there.
I waited for ages, thinking perhaps she was just playing a game of hide and seek with Dad, and was doing really well, so didn’t want him to find out.
So I stayed under the blanket and me and Patches played Beg.
Except he didn’t do as well as he used to. Poor thing must’ve been dead tired as he didn’t even open his eyes or wag his tail.
A few hours later, I realised that Patches must be ill. I remember one time when we went to the vets, the animal doctor had to take his temperature, but instead of putting the thermometer in his mouth, he put it into his sticky-out sausage-hole.
You know, his bum-bum.
Patches made an awful crying sound that day.
So I thought I’d go and be like an animal doctor. I would put my finger in his sticky-out sausage-hole. I must’ve been good, as he didn’t even make a sound.
I had to push quite hard too. I broke off a finger nail and lost it inside Patches. He was very cold then.
I got up to tell Mum and pulled my curtain open, and I saw there was light shining down on the bunker stairs. I was terrified. I thought the Russians must’ve found out where Dad was hiding and had come to get him.
But they hadn’t.
Mum and Dad’s curtain was pulled closed and I could hear a moaning sound. Mum always said that if the curtain was closed, and there was moaning to be heard, then whatever you do, do not disturb.
I had looked once before, and that was enough. It was like they were wrestling; Dad was winning, I think. He had Mum pinned down and she was obviously hoping for some help, as she was saying, ‘Oh god, oh god, that’s it.’ Dad saw me and told me to go back to my room. I didn’t want to see that again, but I had to tell Mum about Patches.
The curtain started bulging out, but it looked like a foot. I don’t remember their feet kicking the curtain last time, so I shouted out loud that I was going to open it and pulled the curtains apart.
There wasn’t any wrestling, but there was still a moaning. I opened my eyes and I was staring at Dad’s winky. I’d never seen his winky before. It was like mine, but it was all grey. I looked at the rest of him and saw that he was hanging from the light grill by this rope round his neck, and that he was all grey.
Guess he had suffered his mid-life crisis in the night huh?
His head was all tilted, like he was playing the ‘look at me sideways’ game. I laughed and told him that it was a good one, but his eyes looked all weird too. His arms kept trying to grab me, but I know the rules: one hand is fine, but to win you need two, and then you have to say ‘Gotcha’. I had a look on the bed, but couldn’t see Mum anywhere.
I made myself some breakfast. I had strawberry Nesquik with a can of peaches. I felt good, as already I’d had two of my five a day. Mum would be proud of me, except I couldn’t see her.
Patches didn’t touch his pasta, and that went cold, and Dad didn’t seem too fussed about his rollmops. He was still hanging there, and kept trying to grab me when I tried to feed him the stinky fish.
He obviously didn’t know that the game was over cos I called ‘Quitsies’ when I was stirring my condensed milk and wee…I mean, Phil’s water, to make my Nesquik.
I got bored of Dad keep on trying to play the grabbing game, so I thought, as the door was open, it would be okay to take Patches for a walk.
Wow.
He was not keen.
I had to drag him up the stairs when he was on the lead. He wasn’t as stiff as the night before, but he still wasn’t well.
Why are you laughing, Dee? Do you have stiff things in your bed at night, too?
Oh, sorry, please don’t force the lungs out of my body by kicking me in the stomach with your army boots.
I managed to get Patches outside, but he didn’t want to play fetch. I lost count of how many times I threw the ball; he didn’t chase after it once. Then I remembered what else the animal doctor did, and I put my head to his chest and listened for his heart-drum.
Class Four: Those Who Survive Page 8
