Noah noticed something sticking out over the top shelf; it looked like a bit of black plastic.
Using the lower shelves as a ladder, he climbed up. He was shocked to find an air rifle. He propped the rifle against the wall and climbed higher. He found some pellets, air canisters and two hunting knives.
Bingo! Bear Gryll’s eat your heart out.
Noah carried the objects to the office table and laid them out.
The engraving on the barrel stated it was a XS78 CO2 .22 air rifle. There was a 3-9x50-mildot telescopic sight connected. The four tins were full of umarex AirForce 5.5 mm pointed lead Pellets. The canisters were 12-gram double-charge C02 cartridges. The two knives were eight inch hunting knives, with matt black steel blades – anything over three inches was illegal in the UK.
Noah decided either the manager had a business on the side selling illegal knives, or they were part of his private collection. Whatever the situation, they were his now.
Noah lifted the rifle and tried its weight. He placed it on his shoulder, looking down the sights. It felt comfortable.
He checked there was a pellet in the barrel, and that the C02 cartridge was full.
Noah pointed the rifle out the door down the hallway. He fired. The gun made a cracking, hissing sound. Walking to the end of the corridor he noticed the lead pellet had gone through the plasterboard and was somewhere inside the wall.
Excellent!
Noah returned and reloaded the rifle, and then put the pellets and cartridges in the bag and pulled it back over his shoulders.
Carefully, so as not to trip on all the gear scattered everywhere, Noah made his way out of Millets.
He had just one more shop to visit. He hoped it was not ransacked too.
13
The bag was heavy. He also carried the smaller bag in his left hand and the rifle in his right. He was sweating from the effort.
The shop he was heading towards was right at the end of town, in the cheaper rent area.
There were more people milling around.
The sky grew a little lighter as dawn was breaking.
Noah walked along, stepping over rubbish bags and littered objects. He had to walk out on to the road to walk around a VW van that was smashed through a butcher’s shop window.
He did not have to walk along the pavement, because there were so few cars around, but old habits were hard to break.
An Oasis song drifted down from the flats above a Pound Shop. The song was Where Did It All Go Wrong?
Noah thought it was ironic.
The front of the Pound Shop was smashed with the cheap merchandise scattered everywhere. Noah kicked a large mug that had The Worlds Greatest Dad wrote on it.
He watched the mug as it skipped over the concrete before smashing.
Noah did not know who his father was. His birth certificate simply stated unknown. His mother died before he was old enough to ask. He never knew what it was like to have parents. He had never called anyone mum or dad. He lived most of his life in Ash Leaf Children’s Home, a seventeen-bedroom building that had no character and few luxuries and held sixty-eight children between the ages of three and eighteen. The home sat on the outskirts of Exeter and was surrounded by rolling fields. Mr. Keller ran the facility; he was a middle-aged, obese man who treated it like a business, and thought about the children as a commodity. He would walk by without a look or a word, as if the children were dumb animals.
Noah would sometimes sit in his bedroom, which he shared with three others the same age, and look out onto the fields. Horses grazed and ambled in the distance. He used to daydream that his father was a cowboy, and that the huge house was theirs and all the other children living there were people his family took in.
He made the mistake of telling someone this once, when he was nine, when they asked him why he spent so much time looking out the window at the horses. The other children teased him for months. The younger children would bow or curtsy when he was near. The older kids simply beat him up. Even a few of the care workers snickered when they heard the story.
Everyday was the same. On weekdays, he would wake with the bell that announced he was to rise, wash, and get ready for school. He would eat food in a huge, cold hall, sat in the same seat on a wooden bench that ran in long lines, similar to the ones in Hogwarts. However, there was no magic or happiness here, and no tables full of steaming, bubbling, and spilling over plates of mind-boggling food. Breakfast was porridge – watery and tepid. The evening meals were set, seven different meals each day – they never varied until he was thirteen.
The local councils care section was taken over, and an inspection stated the building was unfit for habitation, and the children were malnourished. Things changed. The building was completely renovated, and Mr. Keller was out and Miss. Sung was in.
At first, things seemed like they would get better. Miss. Sung seemed much nicer than the cantankerous Mr. Keller did. However, he soon found out Miss. Sung was much, much worse.
In the distance, a boom made him look up, pulling him out of his daydream. Over the top of the buildings, way off in the distance, a mushroom cloud of smoke announced where the explosion had taken place.
He had no idea what it could have been. So long as it was not near him, he honestly did not care.
Noah walked passed his old workplace, Blockbuster; it was almost empty. A few DVDs lay on the carpet, or out on the street, but everything else was gone. Shelves leaned against one another as if someone had played a giant game of dominos.
A car was smashed against the wall next to the Orange phone shop. The burnt-out shell left black scorch marks up the wall, and melted the plastic frame of a window above.
There were some cars driving along the main Avenue, near the memorial statue. Three cars were in a row, each full to capacity with the people’s belongings. Ropes held more property on the roofs. One pulled a trailer that was overflowing with furniture. The cars leisurely picked their way through the obstacles on the road. They slowly disappeared heading toward the train station.
Noah crossed the road, crossing over the bottom section of Devon Square.
He was on the main food strip where all the takeaways were situated, or ‘takeout alley’ as it was called by the locals.
On the strip along the road, there were three Indian restaurants, four Chinese, a Nepalese, KFC, two chip shops, and a kebab shop, as well as an off license. All were looted and vandalized.
What Noah was after was a small shop, tucked away between an independent solicitor and an artist’s supply shop.
The door was kicked in, shattered glass crunched under his new boots. Noah stepped into the small Army Surplus Store, which had been there for decades.
The shop smelt of used socks and mothballs. Old army clothes hung from circular racks – jackets, jumpers, and trousers. A few items were tipped onto the floor, but the shop was mostly untouched, apart from the cash register, which someone had smashed open.
There was old style, thick green sleeping bags made from duck down, in a pile. Noah picked one up. It was heavy and smelt of mold. He decided to stick with the Millets sleeping bag.
Everything had an air of moldiness about it, as if the room had not been aired in years. Noah tapped a finger on an old metal, battered helmet that looked like it had a bullet dent in it. It all felt like it should have been thrown-away years ago.
The walls were made out of green wood with thousands of holes in it, and in those holes hung hundreds of hooks. On those hooks were camouflaged ponchos, camo netting, canvas bags, pouches, holdalls, shemagh scarves, berets, thick woolen socks, and thick green belts. One wall held scuffed boots in a row. Another was filled with pots, pans, shovels, buckets, and canteens. The small shop had everything a survivalist would need to start a small army. It was just it was all outdated and tatty. Years ago, they were the place to go if you needed something sturdy and good value for camping. However, nowadays it was cheaper and better from places like Millets.
Then some
thing caught Noah’s attention, a gasmask. It was on a long metal hook next to fake I.D dog tags and army badges. Even though the tags and badges looked fake, the mask looked real.
Noah moved over to the counter.
On the counter was karabiner clips, an assortment of buttons in a large glass jar, trouser ties, strips of Velcro, small plastic bottles of oil, plastic mirrors, camo cream sticks, Para cord, small button compasses, olive whistles; a midge head net, and some waterproof notebooks.
Noah collected some things and put them in his bags that rested against the counter. He probably would not use half of it, but better to have it, not need it, than need it, and not have it.
He kept hold of the air rifle. It was loaded and ready to fire.
To the right of the counter was a smashed display case. From the looks of it, it once held a collection of knives. It was empty. He noticed blood on the glass and some splattered on the carpet.
Probably, from when they smashed the glass, he reasoned.
It looked wet.
How long does blood take to dry?
He shrugged and ignored it.
To the left of the counter was a manikin dressed in a full woodland gilly suit. Noah contemplated taking it; it would be perfect for hiding anywhere there was shrubbery. However, when he tried to lift it, he realized how heavy it was. Camouflage came at a price – weight. He decided to leave it; he had enough to carry already.
Noah reached up for the old-style mask. There was a plastic bag taped to the head strap that had a bundle of spare filters inside. He rested the rifle against the wall and tugged down his scarf, and then pulled the mask over his head. It stunk of rubber. He took it off and tossed it on to his bag.
He looked around one more time, and was about to grab his bags, to get ready to leave, when he noticed part of the back wall was slightly open.
As he walked closer, he noticed it was a concealed door leading out into another room.
Noah pulled the door open a little. Inside was not a storeroom, as he expected, but a small room with a kitchenette to one side, a chair and table, and an army cot bed against the back wall. The bed had an old man on it. His hands were on his stomach, with blood pooling between his fingers and onto the floor. The man’s head turned in Noah’s direction.
“Help me!”
14
Noah rushed to the bleeding mans side.
“What happened,” Noah asked while kneeling down and trying to work out what to do. He missed the first aid course at work, even though, Molly, the first aid woman still gave him the certificate.
The old shopkeeper lay on a small cot that was just wide enough to fit him on. The sheets were saturated with blood. His wrinkled hands were also covered in blood and were pressed against his abdomen.
Noah pressed his hands against the mans, simply because he did not know what else to do. He looked around for anything else to press against the wound and stop the bleeding. He quickly scanned the room.
Apart from the kitchenette, table, chair, and bed, there was a door, possibly leading to a toilet, and a set of stairs leading upwards. Noah had not noticed the stairs when he first walked in because he could not see them from his original position.
The room was where the man ate his lunch or made a cup of tea, or took a nap while the shop was quiet. It was small, neat, and a little sad. It suggested a lonely man with no family and few friends. It reminded Noah of his own flat. He hoped the man had a nice flat on the floor above.
Noah jumped up and started opening the doors under the sink, looking for a first-aid kit, while smearing the man’s blood everywhere. Then it dawned on him, there would be one in the shop. He returned to the store, searching the walls. A few hooks had a collection of different-sized kits hanging from them. He ignored the old army kit that looked dated and impractical, and grabbed a little red nylon bag with a white cross on the front.
Noah rushed back to the injured man’s side.
Was this an accident? It looked like a stab wound! Not that Noah was an expert, but he did watch a lot of TV and play way too many computer games.
Blood dribbled from the corner of the old shopkeeper’s mouth.
Noah could not remember if it was there just now, or if the man was getting worse.
Well, Noah reasoned; he certainly wouldn’t be getting better.
Tears streaked the old mans face. A face worn with wrinkles and time.
Noah fumbled with the small first-aid kit, trying to get it open, but it was slippery due to the blood. Noah wiped his hands on his jumper.
He had no idea what he was doing.
The man tried to speak but started coughing instead. Blood speckled Noah’s face.
“He’s still here!” the man mumbled as his eyes rolled back in pain.
“What?” Noah said.
Just then, as if the universe timed everything just right, a floorboard squeaked upstairs.
Noah dropped the first-aid kit and spun around. Someone was walking down the stairs.
The air rifle.
It was next door, leaning against the wall by the till.
The man coughed behind Noah.
In front, a skinny man in his mid thirties appeared at the foot of the stairs; he was carrying a gilded box in one hand, and a long hunting knife in the other. He was dressed in a dirty blue tracksuit that had a white stripe up the side. His fingers were covered in gold sovereign rings; a thick gold chain hung from his wrist poking from his tracksuit sleeve, and there was an even thicker chain around his skinny neck. He had a blue bandana around his head, as if he was a gangster wannabe.
Noah was knelt, staring up at the man.
The man was using the knife to try to prize open the ornate object, which he presumed was a jewellery box. He had obviously not heard Noah talking, and at present; his eyes were focused on his pilfered prize.
The man looked too skinny to be healthy, as if his body had been ravished by sickness. As he stood there his left eye twitched and his body jerked. Around his nose and mouth was covered in small spots and a red rash.
A druggie!
“That’s a lot of shit you’ve got up there!” His shoulder twitched.
“What’s in the box, gramps?” the man asked while sniffing, as he raised his eyes to the cot.
The druggie’s hands froze when he saw Noah kneeling on the floor. His brows creased, as if trying to get his addled brain to work the new situation out.
Both did not move a muscle. Each weighing the other up.
Then, in a flash, Noah sprang forward and shot toward the door to the shop, scrambling through.
The man reacted a second too late, dropping the box and diving at Noah as he shot through the doorway.
Noah tripped and dropped to the floor, skidding under a circular clothes rack that held stale smelling camouflaged shirts and jackets.
The man burst through the door, throwing it open with an arm. He was a second too late to see Noah drop to the floor.
The shop was crowded with supplies. It was obvious Noah was on the floor somewhere.
“I’m not gonna hurt you mate!” the man said. “Let’s chat. The old guy was already dying when I got here. I didn’t stab him or nothing, like!”
Noah could hear the man slowly walking around the room, moving among the rails.
Noah gripped the metal pole of the clothes rack he was hiding next to, and lifted it with all his strength, ramming it towards the druggie’s voice.
There was a clink of metal on metal as the man slashed out with the long knife. He hit the pole as it slammed against his chest, pushing him backwards into the wall.
Noah was running on adrenaline as he forced the man back with all his strength.
The man screamed in pain.
“Ya bastard! I’m gonna gut ya, ya fucking cunt!”
Noah let the pole go, after one last push, and raced between the clothes racks towards the counter.
The man was in a pile on the floor, under the jackets, with the clothes rack on top o
f him. He struggled to free himself.
“I’m gonna make you bleed bitch!” the man screamed, with a voice full of rage and hatred.
The man tossed the rack to the side while shouting abuse. He was about to stand when he noticed Noah stood over him, pointing a barrel at his face.
“Whoa, whoa! Let’s not be hasty geeza!”
“Shut up!” Noah shouted.
The rifle shook in his grip.
The man dropped the long knife, which Noah noticed had blood on the end.
The druggie’s face changed from rage to a smile, which showed gaps in his rotting teeth.
“Look, there’s been a big misunderstanding, like.” His brows wrinkled in thought. “Is that just an air rifle?”
Noah swung it around and brought the butt down hard against the druggie’s blue bandana.
15
Noah pushed his fingers against the druggie’s neck. There was a heartbeat. He was worried he had hit him too hard.
Using some green army belts, Noah tied the druggie up, and laid him on the floor.
Taking his rifle with him, Noah rushed back to the old mans side.
It was too late. During all the commotion and fighting, the bleeding man had died.
Fuck!
Not that there was anything he could have done.
Noah crossed the man’s hands over his chest, and pulled a blanket off a chair and placed it over him.
He felt like there was something he should say, or do. However, he did not know what. Noah did not know of any scriptures, and would have felt like a hypocrite if he recited any anyway.
He felt wrong leaving the man on the cot, but what else could he do; he couldn’t drag him to a strip of mud, and bury him.
Noah noticed the ornate box the druggie had been carrying was smashed open on the carpet. Photos had spilled out. He picked them up, noticing it was a black and white, faded photo of a young man and woman on their wedding day. There were a few others of the couple, as they grew older. It was obviously the man and his wife. On the back of one it read, My Effle, always in my heart.
The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The Squads First Three Weeks Omnibus [Books 1-10] Page 28
