Reaper

by Jon Grahame

Sandra began to cry and Reaper didn’t know what to do. He reached a hand across the table and put it over one of hers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and sniffed. ‘It’s just that everything is mad.’ She raised one hand to her eyes and removed the other from his hand to feel her pockets in vain. ‘My nose is running now.’

  He went to the counter and tore a strip from a roll of kitchen towel and handed it to her. She put it to her face and sniffed some more. He sat down opposite and waited.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. Anyone who survived will think it’s mad. The world has ended.

  What else can it be?’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ she started crying again, the kitchen towel to her face and she reached her other hand across the table. He covered it with his own and felt happy that she had offered it. ‘I cried when my mum died. I thought that was the end of the world. And I cried because I was on my own. I cried because I thought I might lose the house. I cried because I couldn’t afford to pay for a funeral.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘And now everything’s gone. None of it matters.’

  ‘You’re here. That matters.’

  She wiped her nose, brushed a hand across her eyes to dry the tears and looked at him across the table.

  ‘The men who found me. I knew one of them. The fat one. I’d seen him in The Red Light.’ Reaper knew of the nightclub. ‘He’d stand in a corner and watch the girls. He was a creep. He’d stand in a crowd at the bar so he could brush against you. You know?’

  Reaper nodded. He knew. ‘The small bloke worked in an office. He was the worst. He . . .’ but she stopped whatever revelation she may have been about to make and shook her head. ‘Carl was the one with muscles.

  The leader. At least you knew where you were with him.’ Her gaze had dropped while she was talking but she raised her eyes to make contact as she said, ‘Drink, fuck, then drink until he fell asleep.’ She was trying to be defiant, wanting comfort, understanding, forgive-ness for something she had been unable to prevent.

  He gripped her hand tighter.

  ‘Last night . . .’ she said. ‘When you shot them. . . You did it so quick. No questions.’

  ‘There was no need for questions.’

  ‘Did you have to kill them?’

  ‘They could have come back. They could have killed me, taken you. Should I have let them go?’

  They exchanged a long look.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘They deserved to die and they didn’t deserve a second chance. If they hadn’t come after us, they would have gone looking for someone else, another girl. They had to die for the protection of everyone else. This is a new order. The old rules are dead.’ He took a breath. ‘You know you don’t have to stay with me just because I helped you out last night.’

  ‘I want to stay with you!’

  She seemed momentarily panicked at the thought of losing the first stability that had entered her life since everything had changed.

  ‘I’m just saying, you’re free to leave at any time in the future. We may meet a group that appeals to you.

  People with different ideas.’ He smiled again. ‘Maybe there’ll be someone you find you like and who’s closer to your age, who doesn’t want to be part of my way forward. If that happens, it will be okay. I’m not going to be a dictator. More a . . .’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘. . . a facilitator. I’ll help anyone who wants to survive and start again at the place I know.’

  ‘Like a sort of policeman,’ she said. Reaper kept his smile, but shook his head. ‘An armed guard?’ He laughed at the thought.

  ‘No,’ she said, as if she had made up her mind. ‘A one-man army.’

  He laughed loudly this time and immediately thought it a strange sound to be echoing through a police headquarters empty but for the two of them and a handful of dead bodies.

  ‘You’re forgetting,’ he said. ‘There are two of us, now.’

  Sandra had overcome her tears, taken back her hand and sat back in her chair.

  ‘Where’s this place you want to go?’

  ‘Further north. The other side of York. It used to be a country house and the owners converted it into flats. Then they built holiday cottages in the grounds to make a sort of self-contained holiday village. They even made one of the cottages into a pub. It’s in a lot of grounds, all enclosed by a high wall, and has a small farm. I went there once on holiday. To be honest, I found it a bit claustrophobic. I’m not good with people. But it could be an ideal place to start a new community.’

  ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘What about other people?’ She smiled cheekily.

  ‘What about this man who is more my age? Where will we find him?’

  ‘We’ll find people on the way.’

  ‘So what do we do next?’

  ‘Choose our mode of transport.’

  ’Sorry?’

  He grinned. ‘Rolls Royce, Transit van, motor home?’

  ‘Could we really go in a Rolls Royce?’

  ‘We could, but it would be impractical. A Transit might be best.’

  She pulled a face. ‘I’ve never been in a Rolls Royce.’

  ‘How about a motor home?’

  ‘Is that like a caravan?’

  ‘Sort of. We’ll go and look at some.’

  They took the police car he had used the day before and drove into the suburbs. A firm specialising in motor homes and caravans was located on the rural edge of the sprawling conurbation. As they approached a crossroads at a small shopping centre, they saw two people in the distance scurry away and hide. Perhaps they had already suffered at the hands of strangers and didn’t want to risk another encounter. They drove down tree-lined streets at a pace slow enough to be noticed and Reaper kept a look in the rear view mirror in case someone came out in response to their presence, but no one did.

  The occasional stray dog or small pack crossed their path and he wondered about the pets that had been locked inside their homes when their owners fell ill.

  Their plight evoked a pang of sorrow that he hadn’t felt for the human race.

  Winslow’s was at the top of a hill four miles from the city centre, a large sprawling site filled with caravans and what were termed RVs or Recreational Vehicles. He parked and they looked around to get their bearings. Reaper cradled the carbine, just in case.

  When they moved, they started off in different directions. Sandra headed towards where the biggest and most luxurious vehicles were parked, while he went towards the smaller, compact and more manoeuvrable vans. He sighed and turned to follow her. After all, he had offered and then denied her a Rolls Royce in the same breath. The least he could do was allow her some choice.

  He talked her out of anything that was too big to be practical and she was persuaded to settle for a five-berth van with luxury fittings. Reaper liked the three-litre diesel engine, five gears and plenty of storage space, while Sandra appreciated the splendour of the interior. It had a double bed above the driving cabin in a bubble that reminded him of Japanese capsule hotel rooms he had once seen on TV. There was a double bedroom at the rear and a bench seat in the living area provided the fifth bed. The van was equipped with oven, fridge and a slim-line bathroom that, while seeming to be no bigger than an aircraft lavatory, included a shower. The dashboard had the look of a Boeing 747 and the armchair front seats also swivelled to face inward.

  ‘You want this?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll make the man an offer.’

  He found the keys in an office. The fuel pumps on site still worked and he filled the tanks. He checked that the two propane gas bottles that were fitted were full and added two more as spares, then filled the fresh water tank. He also scouted around for a length of tubing in case he had to syphon more diesel from another vehicle during the journey.

  ‘What about the car?’ she said, meaning the police Astra, when he climbed
behind the wheel and started the engine.

  ‘We are living in a disposable society,’ he said.

  Sandra got into the passenger seat and he drove out of the compound. The six-wheeled vehicle drove more easily than he had imagined and the engine felt full of power. The seats were high and comfortable and gave an impressive view. He just hoped the van was not so noticeable as to become a target.

  On the way back, he took a detour into the mostly empty car park of an Asda supermarket. He approached cautiously, drawing the van side-on up to the front entrance of the store. Two cars were parked or had been abandoned in an erratic fashion directly outside: a Range Rover, with its front doors left open, and a Jaguar; the sort of cars that might have been chosen by looters. No windows had been smashed in the store.

  ‘What do we need?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Bottled water. Food for the road.’ He eyed the building suspiciously. ‘Let’s be cautious, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She sensed his unease as they stepped out of the van. The carbine hung on its strap around his neck as a deterrent. If there was trouble inside, a handgun would be easier to use, but the sight of the heavier weapon might make potential attackers think twice.

  They reached the front of the store and the doors hissed open automatically. Sandra unfastened the safety strap that held the Glock in its holster.

  Without speaking, she got a trolley from a rack and they moved down deserted aisles. In places, they showed signs of pillaging, particularly when they passed the alcohol section. He raised a hand. They stopped, and from somewhere in the store they heard scurrying footsteps. He held the carbine at the ready and they continued. When they reached the water, he pointed to Sandra, then to her gun and made a fist like he was holding a pistol. She nodded and took out her weapon, racked the slide and held it in the ready position in both hands, raised in front of her face. He put the carbine across the top of the trolley and filled it with packs of two-litre bottles of water.

  They moved on to tins and bake-your-own bread, tea, coffee, sugar, whitener. At the sweet section, he added chocolate raisins and chocolate bars for energy and Sandra threw in more chocolate, Midget Gems and Smarties for fun. At the frozen food, he stopped abruptly and Sandra, seeing his reaction, stepped closer and looked into a refrigerator that contained packets of peas, Brussels sprouts and a dead body. An elderly man with a fatal wound to his head lay on his back.

  He was very pale, his eyes stared and his lips were frosted.

  Reaper looked at Sandra. The hands that held the gun trembled momentarily. She returned his look and nodded with determination.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  He hung the carbine round his neck again, slid it under his arm into the small of his back, took a Glock from its holster and cocked it. He pushed the trolley with his left hand and the weight of his body. It was heavy and a little unwieldy and they slowed as they approached the entrance to the store, a tall aisle of toys on their left and displays of clothes on their right.

  He felt the threat in the air. Maybe they should have gone to a smaller shop. Too late now.

  ‘We’re leaving!’ he shouted. ‘No need for anyone to get hurt.’

  No one answered. Perhaps there was nobody there.

  Perhaps he was being paranoid. But sometimes, paranoia kept you safe.

  ‘Okay?’ he said softly to Sandra.

  Sandra glanced at him and nodded again. He pointed his weapon to the left, she dropped into the shooting stance and pointed hers to the right and together they moved forward out from the protection of the aisle.

  He stared down a row of abandoned tills and checkout stations. A bottle smashed somewhere from that direction and he sensed Sandra might turn. ‘Stay,’ he said, and she corrected the movement, fired a single shot, gasped and fell against him, landing on the floor on her bottom.

  At the same time items came over the top of the aisle of toys, long kitchen knives, a television, heavy kitchen pots. He avoided them and fired four shots through the shelves, confident the flimsy construction wouldn’t stop them. Sandra fired more shots but he didn’t count them. He crouched and turned to her. He heard curses and footsteps and crouched beside her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  His eyes tried to cover everywhere and she gasped,

  ‘They threw an axe at me.’ He glanced down and saw the axe on the floor next to her. Footsteps were loud in the aisles. Three, four people? Coming back? ‘I’m okay. It hit the vest, but it hurt my tits.’

  He hauled her to her feet and said, ‘We’ll use the trolley as cover.’ He turned it round and pulled it one handed behind them and they retreated side by side towards the front doors, handguns covering the unseen dangers of the store – the glimpse of a face taking a peek and he fired. It ducked away. The doors hissed open behind them. He stepped out briefly to check, but no one was outside.

  He dragged the trolley across the deserted car park and round the front of the van.

  ‘Load the stuff in the side door,’ he said. ‘I’ll cover.’

  He holstered the automatic and swung the carbine round, training it on the front doors as they hissed open again. A group of men and women appeared carrying a variety of weapons. Bottles were hurled towards them; they smashed on the ground and sprayed liquid. A teenager in a designer suit was lighting a rag that was stuck into the neck of a bottle of vodka. But Reaper’s attention was caught by a man who now appeared at their rear, carrying a crossbow, held at shoulder height. Reaper shot him and the man fell backwards, the bolt flying high over the van. The others scattered back into the store, all except the teenager with the now lit Molotov cocktail. Reaper shot him as he swung his arm back for the throw.

  The bottle went back into the store and the youth fell, a bullet in his chest. The Molotov cocktail exploded and flames enveloped the clothing section.

  There were screams. A woman ran out, her clothes on fire, and Reaper shot her. No one else ran out. The store’s sprinkler system activated and began to douse the flames.

  Sandra was at his side, her gun once more held upright in the ready stance.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘I think you scared them.’

  He entered the van through the passenger door and clambered across into the driving seat. He lowered the window and pointed his gun, while Sandra covered the manoeuvre. Then she joined him, crouching behind his chair to cover the store entrance while he reversed.

  No one came out to watch them go, or attempted to stop them, and Reaper wondered what had possessed the group to pick a fight with two armed people.

  Jealousy because of the motor home? Possessiveness?

  Did they consider the Asda to be their store? Had turf wars started already?

  They drove in silence back towards the police station.

  ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘You did bloody well.’

  ‘They threw a fucking axe at me.’

  ‘Language, Sandra,’ he said, and they both burst out laughing, releasing the adrenalin, although he saw the fragility in her eyes.

  She had been through a lot. He knew all about the after effects of rape, the shock and disbelief, feelings of alienation, withdrawal, depression. Even self-blame. In a perfect world, she would have time to come to terms with her emotional trauma and receive proper treatment. Not that that always worked. In a perfect world, it would never have happened in the first place. In this world, she didn’t have time to recover. She had to survive. Maybe a diversion would be good.

  Reaper made another stop: right outside a record store in the High Street in the middle of the pedestrian way.

  ‘DVDs? CDs?’ he announced.

  The van was equipped for both.

  They got out, handguns drawn. The shop door was open, hanging off its hinges. He pointed and, with hand signals, positioned her to stand by the counter and keep him covered as he went quickly through to the back of the store and checked out the staff room.

  They were in sole possession of the shop. He
returned to the counter where he found a box that he handed to her.

  ‘Choose something.’

  ‘What do you like?’

  He shrugged. ‘The Beatles . . . Clapton . . . Laurel and Hardy?’ Sandra looked blank. ‘You choose.’

  She went down the aisles, dropping films and music discs into the box. He kept watch out of the window but saw no one, and his mind drifted back to the Asda store. It could all have ended so differently. If that axe had been higher, Sandra could have been badly wounded or dead. Had it been a risk too far? Christ, everything was a risk several miles too far. He jumped when she rejoined him and touched his shoulder.

  They got back in the van and drove to the police station where he parked in the compound around the back. Reaper found a key in the guardhouse and locked the gates behind them. Sandra was in the yard waiting for him. She looked quite the warrior, although he knew that was only image. Maybe she would believe in the image long enough for it to develop into reality.

  He hoped her new persona would help her get over all she had suffered. She had left girlhood behind.

  Reaper began to relax now that the gates were closed, and he could see some of the tension draining from Sandra too.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and came into his arms.

  He was surprised, but pleased. He held her for a moment then kissed the top of her head. The embrace was not sensual. It was of friendship, comradeship.

  She could have been his daughter, and yet she had come through so much in the last few days and hours.

  ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Now, what we need is a nice cup of tea.’

  Chapter 4

  THEY HAD SHED THE KEVLAR VESTS AND WERE sitting in the canteen when they heard the commotion. The echo of a door slamming, a voice, then the same voice raised in panic followed by screams and yells. They drew their handguns and ran.

  Reaper led the way along the corridor and down the stairs, taking them two at a time. They followed the noise coming from the front reception office. This was a carpeted room with a bench seat to one side and a door that led to an interview room. The reception desk was high to dissuade anyone attempting to jump over it. A door with a keypad lock led into the office space at the rear of the reception desk and another keypad door was to the side to allow officers access and egress to the station proper. Both doors had been propped wide open.