Class Four: Those Who Survive

by Duncan P. Bradshaw

  The Gaffer raised an eyebrow and a smile appeared on his face. He gestured towards his office. “Cheers, Thomas. I got this. Just let Andy know what’s happening and get one of Grimm’s chums to make sure we’re not interrupted, okay? C’mon son, let’s go have a chat upstairs. I can make you a cuppa and we can have a proper chinwag, deal?”

  Tom nodded vigorously and walked towards the stairs, taking two at a time. He had to wait at the top for The Gaffer to catch up.

  The leather covering the Queen Ann creaked as The Gaffer’s bulk filled the chair. Before he sat down, he had honoured his agreement and provided a cup of tea with milk and three sugars, in a Thunderbirds mug.

  “You do not know how good it is to have a warm drink, Mister Gaffer. Been a good couple of weeks. At least. Thanks, much obliged.” Tom held the mug in both hands, using it as a mitt radiator.

  “Good. Now, as we’re friends, would you mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing sneaking around outside my gaff at stupid o’clock at night?”

  Tom sighed, placed the mug down on an unopened envelope on the desk in front of him, and pulled his backpack round from the side of his chair to his legs. “Do you mind?”

  The Gaffer sat back. His hand slipped to his trouser pocket as he shook his head. “Be my guest, Tom.” His finger slipped the safety off the Ruger.

  Through a whirlwind of unclipping and loosening of drawstrings, Tom plunged his arm into the backpack and rummaged around in its bowels. His tongue slapped around his lips and philtrum in deep concentration. “A-ha, here we go. Always the same, eh? Got loads of the bloody things, but just can’t find them when you need to. Have a look at this, Mister Gaffer.”

  He held a pamphlet in his hands. After a brief attempt at straightening out some stubborn folds, he passed it across the desk and picked up his mug again. “F-A-B, Gaffer,” he said, with his best Virgil Grissom accent.

  The safety reapplied, The Gaffer’s face went from one of concentration, to one of a monkey been given a new swinging rope toy. “What’s this?” he asked.

  Tom took a gulp of tea, coughed as it went down the wrong way and managed to splutter. “It’s a Survival Guide. My friend Phil wrote it. Well, we all helped with some bits, but he wrote it. It’s not just a guide though. We’ve been trying to meet up with other survival groups, spread the word, tell people that they’re not alone. You know? Reach out.”

  Thumbs the size of fig rolls rifled through the sheets of paper. “This guy spent a lot of time on the ‘Weapons to fuck things up’ section, eh?” He flicked back to the front cover. “Thirty four safe zones?”

  “Yep. Well, it was at the time we printed it. I’ve been on the road for…eight weeks now. A few others are also out doing the same thing. I’ve come across six decent sized camps so far, but yours looks the biggest. You’ve got a nice little gig here, Mister Gaffer,” Tom said, taking in the detail of the office, looking at the night sky through the large window which framed his host.

  “Thanks, I think. So you guys actively go out and meet people? Survivors I mean. What for?” the Gaffer asked, his voice soft and anxious.

  “Well, don’t you think that we need to work together to survive this thing? You know we’re not the dominant species anymore. The only way we’re going to get through this is by finding likeminded people. Though not everyone thinks that way, it would seem,” Tom replied.

  “What do you mean, Tom?”

  Tom took another mouthful of tea. “Well, of the six camps, one was…not very keen to help. They locked me up for five days; thought they were going to kill me at one stage.”

  “What happened?”

  “They let me go in the end, gave me a bit of a pasting first off, but it didn’t matter. Not when I crept back in the night after and slit their throats while they slept before burning their bodies.” Tom leant back blissfully. “Man, this tea is good.”

  The Gaffer chuckled. “I almost believed you then. There’s no way you would…”

  Tom sat up and looked across the table. “Mister Gaffer, I assure you, I’m telling the truth. Just before this kicked off, I had just gotten through…special training. I may look like a bumbling idiot, but if I wanted to, you would be dead before you managed to shoot me with the pistol you have concealed in your left trouser pocket. Good choice putting the safety back on, by the way.”

  An unconscious look down made The Gaffer laugh again. “You know what son? I like you. So, tell me about this group of yours.”

  A beaming smile greeted the question. “Sure thing. We headed out to Rhayader in Wales on Day One. Complete blind luck I went with them to be honest. Not complaining, though. We got things set up just the way Phil said we would. He’s a pretty sound guy, bit quieter these days, especially after what happened, but isn’t everyone? We’ve all lost someone, people that were your entire world. Just now, it’s all about how we deal with that loss and what we do to try to keep the light burning. These are dark times. Though I don’t need to tell you that. Your little memorial wall downstairs tells me that you already know.”

  “So, what do you want?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay a few days, give me a chance to sleep in something which isn’t hanging from a tree. Some hot food would be brilliant, then I’ll be on my way. I’ll leave you guys some of these, and, if you don’t mind, when I get back, I can add you to our network. When we have a plan and some numbers, we can then get everyone organised,” Tom said.

  “Have I missed something? Organised for what?” The Gaffer asked, confusion reigning supreme.

  Tom looked across the table like a cat glancing at a light reflection. “Erm, so we can take back what is ours of course? I’m sure at some point you would like to go back to living in a world with running water, electricity, Wi-Fi, proper food, and all without the risk of being eaten alive by one of the undead?”

  The Gaffer’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You know what? I never even thought we would do that. We’ve spent so long just trying to survive, getting through one day at a time, never even thought about what we would do in the long term.”

  “Then I’m glad I found you, Mister Gaffer.”

  “As am I, Tom Thompson. As am I. This place will be your home for as long as you want. I’ll tell my men to make sure you’re treated as our guest. Thank you, Tom. You’ve given us something I had forgotten about.”

  Tom gave a quizzical look.

  “Hope.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’m glad of two things. One, that I don’t have to sneak back in the middle of the night and slit your throat. You’re quite a big so-and-so.”

  The Gaffer laughed. “And the second?”

  “You sure as hell make a kickass cup of tea.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The fire crackled. The light drizzle caused it to hiss and spit out gobbets of flame and sparks. Tom Thompson pulled his coat in tighter, cradling a mug of tea. Sleeping inside the factory over the last couple of days had revitalised him. He felt as if the near-constant dampness within his skin had finally evaporated.

  “What is it like out there now?” Dean asked. He looked up to the heavens, searching for a respite from the autumnal shower.

  Tom took a sip and held the mug to his chest. The heat seeped through to his skin. “It’s pretty much the same as it has been since the early months. Most of the undead seem to be in the cities. We steer clear of them. As it was before, it’s always the living that are the worst.”

  Paul threw some soggy twigs on the fire, causing it to rasp with disgust. “Sounds to me like we’ve got it pretty good in here,” he ventured, ducking back from the woosh of heat expelled from the additional kindling.

  “I reckon so. Mind you, as dangerous as it is out there, I kinda like it. Think it’s the whole ‘lone-wolf’ thing. Look after myself. Though it has its downsides,” Tom replied, taking another mouthful of tea.

  “You must have some crazy stories,” Paul said, rubbing his forehead to check if his eyebrows were still int
act. He sighed with relief when he felt them.

  “Room for a little one?”

  The trio turned as one to see Andy stalk through the fine mist. “Do you mind, lads? Could do with a bit of a break.”

  The group shuffled around on their folded-up blankets, allowing Andy a gap to slot his frame into. He nodded thanks. “What are you guys up to anyway?” he asked, trying to reinvigorate the enveloping silence.

  “New guy here was just gonna give us a little tale from the apocalypse. Go on, mate.” Dean gestured towards to Tom, who wiggled himself into a position of comfort and begun;

  ‘Well, this was a few months back now, not long after we got to Rhayader, actually. Philip asked for some volunteers to go out and find other groups like ours. I raised my hand faster than you could say boo. Was kinda cool, you know? Being out there, meeting people, seeing if I could help out.

  I headed east. One of our guys, Jay, we hadn’t heard from him since he went off to find his family. Figured I’d head that way and see if by any miracle I could find him. Long story short on that, no, just hope he’s alright, whatever he’s doing.

  So, I get to Kidderminster, which is now better than before the zombies started eating people, if you can believe it. Actually one of the more organised places I’ve been to. Small pockets of survivors everywhere, banding together, helping each other out. A real sense of community which is severely lacking nowadays.

  At the risk of getting on my soapbox, you’d think the fall of society would make us all want to put aside our differences and work against a common threat. Nope, Kidderminster is an exception to what life is like out there now, believe me.

  A group gave me a heads up on some larger camps, so I headed out to them, bit closer to Birmingham. Reports from there are not good. The RAF firebombed it quite early on; all it did was put them into the ascendency.

  The directions took me to a little village, proper picture-perfect place, thatched cottages, pubs which look like they were built when Shakespeare was supping on mead. They were supposed to be holed up in the church there, St Martin’s I think. Got to the bottom of the lane and you could tell that it was gone.

  For one, I could see that the doors were open. Not exactly the sign of a fortified base, huh? A few of the dead were milling about, took care of them pretty easy. Stragglers are okay. It’s when you get the groups, that’s when you know you have to bug out.

  Thought I’d better check the place out. Wouldn’t want to leave anyone up a creek without a paddle. Can’t really go on about helping people if I don’t actually do it, huh?

  Took me twenty minutes to clear that place. The pews made things nice and orderly, though. Reckon most of the village was in there. Men, women and children, some were in their Sunday best, too. Weird thing, though, was that some of them had gunshot wounds. It was like they’d almost been intentionally killed just so that they would come back.

  I’m rambling. Sorry, that’s not the weird thing.

  So I’m walking out of the village, cleaning the assortment of weapons used in culling the local zombie population, and I hear this metallic rattling sound.

  I’m looking around, trying to work out where it’s coming from and then, from this petrol station, this family of five come trudging at me. They’re moaning like they’ve just sat through a five hour talk on Solipsism at the local hall, so I know they’re not going to invite me in for some Horlicks and Digestives.

  See the upstanding father first, arms out front, looking like he’s pushing an invisible shopping trolley. Around his wrist, though, is a length of chain, which has shackled him to his wife, and she’s linked to their eldest son in the same manner. He’s linked to his younger sister and, in turn, she’s linked to her baby brother.

  Thing is, the youngest kid is dead-dead, and the four of them are dragging this body around. Must’ve been for a while, as if it wasn’t for the Pokemon pyjamas hanging off the body, you’d think it was just an animal or something.

  Not much left of the poor little bugger, either; his arms and face were scoured down to the bone. Even with the dragging, they were moving at a fair old rate. Barely had time to sort myself out before they were onto me.

  Figured I’d start with the bloke and work my way down the chain-gang. Seemed the best way of doing stuff.

  So I step up and slam my knife into the guy’s head. He goes out like a candle. Then the ‘unique-ness’ of the situation kicks in. The old man drops to the ground, but he’s still linked to his family. Before I get a chance to take care of his missus, they starting to wrap round me like they wanna welcome me into the family, work out when we should go camping in the summer.

  The kids start pulling on my gear with multiple pairs of hands, teeth trying to work their way through my clothes. The woman is on a slant as she’s got the joy of dragging her husband.

  I manage to stick the knife up through the wife’s mouth. Could see the blade in there, you know? Gave it a twist, which made her eyes go up and then she fell slack.

  One of the kids manages to find the divide between my trousers and top and starts chewing on my hip. I know that if I don’t take care of them quickly, I’m gonna go out.

  I brought my elbow down on the boy’s head, which took a bit of a chunk out of my side, but least he wasn’t connected to me anymore. Their mum, collapsing to the floor, yanked them off to one side, probably what saved my life I reckon. By the time they regain their footing, I’ve managed to get the other knife out and took care of them.

  Took no pleasure in that, poor bastards. Did make me wonder if the same thing that happened to the churchgoers befell them too. Started checking the bodies, but couldn’t find any gunshots, which was something.

  However, I did find a small plastic box taped to each of their chests, the bottoms of which were blown out and scorched. You could see through the container and into their bodies. It was sick. Took me an hour to dig a hole to bury them; figured for all they had gone through, especially in the last moments, that it was the least I could do for them.

  Goes back to what I was saying earlier. You’d think that people would want to work together now, but as always, in every bad situation, there are always people that want nothing more than to make something out of it.

  I’d guess that for every three camps I’ve found in the last few months, there is one that has been wiped off the face of the earth. Sometimes you can tell that it was just bad luck. Others, though…I saw the same thing as I did back in that church.’

  May 14th 2014

  20:57

  Francis lay down on Diane’s lap. His eyes were red and puffy. Diane stroked her tummy bump with a gentle reverence.

  We were going to call you George, after your Grandad. You never knew him, but you would’ve liked him.

  Her hands caressed the taut skin of her belly. The ultrasound gel had given her skin a waxy surface, shiny and gleaming.

  We were going to buy a house in the country, a little cottage or something, away from the town, a big garden for you and Daddy to play football in.

  Fingers splayed over her distended belly button, a mound of knotted flesh on top of her stomach hill.

  On Sundays, we’d have a roast dinner, and then after, we’d all go for a walk around the fields, perhaps head into the forest and feed the ponies.

  She traced a line from the crest down to the pit of her breasts.

  On your first day of school, we’d pick you up and take you out to wherever you wanted to go for dinner, treat you to pudding afterwards, too.

  Your favourite.

  Her fingers ascended to the summit of her tummy again.

  And when you grew up, I’d vet all your girlfriends, make sure that only the best would do for my Ge—

  Diane’s hand stopped moving. Francis bolted upright, his face white with shock. “Did…did…did you just…”

  Diane nodded and placed both of her hands on top of the baby bump. “George just kicked. H…he…he’s still alive.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five
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  “Bastard must’ve come around after and carted him off in the night,” Zena said, looking at the depressed area of long grass where they had dumped the old man the previous night. “Told you we should’ve dealt with him.”

  Francis shrugged and headed off down the train tracks. Russ had resumed his daily plodding and was a little way off already. “Just because you can kill someone without legal consequences, doesn’t mean you should. C’mon kid.”

  Nate looked from the man to Zena and then to the train tracks. He huffed and started to hop from sleeper to sleeper.

  The track wound its way through the countryside like an irrigation channel. With no speeding metal snake travelling down the line for the best part of a year, nature had taken the opportunity to claw back some of its territory.

  The tall grass verge had crept from its borders, across the mud and gravel no man’s land either side of the railway, and taken first dibs. Patches of thistles and dock leaves made new homes amongst the flourishing grassy path. In scattered patches the track was almost completely covered.

  Birds tweeted and chirruped in the branches, unseen. The fresh verdant reclamation now provided ample sustenance for them approaching mating season. The sounds of human commerce were being forgotten, relegated to a historic time period.

  “Without meaning to sound like a damp squib, how far into town is your house?” Francis asked Zena, stepping over a pile of rabbit droppings which he had to stop Nathan from eating, thinking they were Maltesers.

  Zena laughed as Nate rubbed his hands down his trousers, smelling his fingers, his nose wrinkling with the smell of shit. “From the station, there’s a hill which leads to a bridge and a row of houses. We’re up there, number thirteen.”

  She handed the kid a bottle of water to wash his hands. “We hated living so close to the station sometimes, especially early morning. The sound of them going by, you got used to. It was when they sat at the station and then moved off. The bloody sound of them, especially after a few bottles of wine the previous night.” Francis smiled and looked a little relieved.