Like Rats

by Adam Watts

  ‘It was there!’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘A fucking zombie! I saw it!’ Stan digs into his pocket and pulls out his catapult and a stone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Getting ready. I saw it. No word of a lie.’

  We both sit in silence, watching for movement amongst the densely-packed trunks, listening for footfalls, for moans and screams and the shrieking of the hungry. But Stan’s either seeing things or playing tricks to scare the bejesus out of me.

  ‘There’s nothing out there,’ I say.

  ‘Shhh!’

  ‘Stan, seriously, you’re sounding like Tuesday.’

  ‘Maybe she was right. Now shush and keep your eyes open. Some of those things move quickly, and if there’s one, you can bet there’ll be more to follow.’

  My heart starts to race and although I know he’s talking nonsense, I can’t get my eyes to focus, they just dart from left to right, frantically trying to find something that’ll disprove him. Two years we’ve been safe here. I’m desperate for him to be wrong, or to be playing one of his sick jokes. But something about his face and tone of voice say different. He’s spooked. He’s definitely spotted something. And then, I see it.

  ‘There,’ I say, barely able to believe my eyes as the figure emerges from the trees. It looks straight at us.

  ‘Fuck me…’ says Stan. ‘Is that...?’

  ‘Oh Christ… it is…’

  ‘You two still playing soldiers then?’ he says, that same old smug grin arching from one ear to the other.

  Cometh the Prick.

  Believing the story of Wade Grey requires a leap of faith. It wasn’t the fact that he was cold, wet or covered in blood, or that he was talking some giddy nonsense through lack of sleep. The thing that made him such an unlikely survivor was the fact that he arrived at the fence wearing only a pair of ladies’ knickers. There was – shall we say – some spillage.

  But inappropriate pants aside, one day, nearly two years ago, there he was; emerging from the tree-line looking like the victim of some blood-thirsty back-alley sex-collective. And even though he was probably close to dying (either through exposure or shame) Stan and I couldn’t stop ourselves from laughing at the poor soul. I felt guilty about that until I got to know him a little better.

  After a couple of days rest he told us his story of survival; as had become customary. As we might’ve guessed from his state of undress upon arrival, Wade’s tale was a little left-field. He was at a party in the woods; raving, taking substances, indulging in his own vapid rebellion. He said a few of his mates arrived late recounting news stories of riots and panic and murder on the streets; proper end of days stuff. Rivers of blood. Mountains of viscera. The besmirchment of society’s collective underpant. It might all have been a bad trip.

  Being naturally mistrustful of the mainstream media outlets and the rambling ignorance of Joe Public, Wade and his troupe were somewhat sceptical, so they headed back in to town to assess the situation for themselves. Though they hated to admit it, the news reports were bang on the money. This wasn’t some peaceful protest gone sour. Wade had been to enough of those to know the difference. Despite the danger he maintains that they stayed there for a few days to try and ride out the storm, but it eventually got too much; nobody could control this, it was like wildfire. They left the carnage of the town centre for the supposed safety of the suburbs and countryside beyond.

  It wasn’t long before they were ambushed and forced to seek refuge; the only immediate safety being on an island in the middle of a lake in the park. They survived by catching and eating the ducks that had – until recently – been the sole inhabitants of the island. Wade told us that they’d also killed and eaten a swan. I suppose they reasoned that wantonly consuming one of The Queen’s favourite ill-tempered fowl was probably the least of the establishment’s present worries, which no doubt robbed the moment of some of its intended satire.

  Wade said that sometimes the horde would smell them out and they’d line the edges of the lake, staring at the island; fixated, screaming, gnashing their teeth. The horde would stand there for hours on end, twisting and jerking, trying to fathom a means of reaching their prey, but inevitably a more immediate meal would present itself and the lake’s edge would once again become deserted.

  The group started to think island life could be the solution to the ongoing problem of being eaten alive, because it seemed that whatever these things were, they couldn’t swim. There was talk of how to sustain their existence on Duck Island and in particular the need to access resources from beyond the safety of their waters. After all, the ducks would only last so long and they’d need to construct a proper shelter for winter.

  As it happens, those discussions were futile. A couple of weeks into their habitation of that small land-mass, some clever little bastard of a zombie decided to take a dip and discovered that his water-wings were at least serviceable and could just about carry him across the water to a guaranteed meal. The bastard thing also managed to inspire a fair few of his companions to take to the waters, and before you could say ‘zombie mermaids’ there was a veritable shoal heading across the water towards Wade and his friends.

  Wade watched as his group jumped into the water one by one, only to be slowed down by the weight of their sodden clothes. Panic set in as the inevitable happened. The water turned pink and frothy, desperate screams saturated as the dying were pulled under the surface and held there. The lucky ones drowned before they were eaten. Wade had two choices: stay and fight, or strip off and hope that his lack of clothing would give him a fighting chance of making it across the water. He chose the latter.

  The fact that he made it to the fences around our village should tell you that his plan worked out pretty well. But as he stumbled through the woods – trying to keep away from the roads, looking for anybody to help him – nature took its toll on his body and mind. He became delirious through cold and could barely keep himself upright. Every branch, thorny bush or stone under foot gouged away at him. It felt like the forest was giving him a belated taste of the fate which had befallen his friends.

  Like so many of the people that end up here, dumb luck played its part in bringing Wade to the safety of the village. He’d lost everything, but he’d survived. He’d found sanctuary.

  But in the whole eighteen months he was here, he never did explain the underpants.

  Whether you believe somebody’s heroic story of survival probably depends on how much you like them. I can’t say I ever really liked Wade, so anything he tells me instantly sounds like refried horse shit. Stan never warmed to him either, but now – since Wade is the only person who ever left the village and actually came back – he seems resolutely smitten with the guy.

  ‘We all thought you were dead!’ he tells him, pouring himself a drink of Frida’s home-made rum but neglecting to offer it around the table.

  ‘Well I did tell you all I’d be back, didn’t I?’ Wade says, winking at Frida. Frida’s not the kind of lady who appreciates being winked at. She doesn’t mind a bit of cheek, but winking veers towards the needlessly cocky. She politely excuses herself from the conversation.

  ‘How long were you out there?’ Stan asks.

  ‘About six months… I think. Kinda lost count.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re not dead,’ Stan says, shaking his head. ‘We assumed anyone who went over the fences would be dead within days. But here you are. Returned!’

  ‘Back from the dead,’ Wade says, like he left the village as some scruffy pseudo-anarchist and returned a fully-fledged action hero. At least he had the good grace to be fully clothed this time around. Two years on and I still can’t un-see his junk hanging out the side of those pink-and-frillies.

  I clear my throat and prepare my most jovial tone. ‘So I guess that means you’re the closet thing we’ve ever had to a zombie in the village.’

  Wade looks at me with the same distasteful sense of pity he’d always looked at
me with. It’s like I represent something tragic to him. Poor old Preston, a prisoner to village life, completely unable to cast off the shackles of middle-class oppression and seek out brave new frontiers with people whose lives are more genuine than his own. I am blinded by my own sense of comfort, a slave to the beat of the hum-drum, a drone in the greyest of hives. Poor thing.

  ‘I would say that depends on your definition of a zombie, Preston,’ he says with a knowing smirk.

  Fuck off, Wade. Why don’t you piss off back into the woods if it’s an authentic experience you’re after, you smelly little toss-pot.

  ‘What’s it like out there then?’ Stan asks, pouring another drink for himself and again forgetting to offer any to the rest of us.

  ‘Standard,’ says Wade, sounding suitably unflappable given that he’s an action hero who came back from the dead.

  ‘And…’ Stan says.

  ‘Nothing really. Empty towns, empty streets, the occasional explorer milling about here and there, mostly congenial but there’s always the odd fella who’s gone a bit Mad-Max.’

  ‘You see any zombies?’ Stan’s eyes grow large and round.

  ‘Zombies? Nah, nothing like that. Think that fire must’ve burned itself out way back. Probably starved to death or got blown up by the army.’

  ‘Then why aren’t people returning to the towns?’ Stan says.

  ‘Good question,’ Wade says, reaching for the rum and pouring himself a large glass full. He swigs it down before recoiling, his face puckered and flushed with crimson. ‘Holy fuck! That’ll rip ya liver in two!’

  ‘There’ll be no cussing in my kitchen,’ Frida says, appearing behind Stan, ever-vigilant to the tyranny of bad language.

  ‘Sorry, Frida,’ says Stan on Wade’s behalf. ‘But seriously, there’s no zombies out there? No hordes of crazies, smacked off their faces, eating their families and chasing down the normals?’

  ‘Nope. Barely seen a soul the whole time. It’s actually good to be back in civilised company, if only for a little while.’

  ‘You’re not staying then?’ I ask, hoping that he’ll be leaving as soon as he’s done with his drink.

  ‘I’m in no rush, but there’s nothing much here for me anymore. There’s a whole world to explore beyond those fences, Preston.’

  ‘But you’ll be sleeping over?’ Stan says. The bastard…

  ‘Yeah, if there’s more of this rum. Could do with a stiff drink or ten.’

  ‘We’ll get a fire going later,’ says Stan. ‘Get a few drinks in our beaks and have a few laughs. Pres, you tell Eve.’

  ‘Eve’s still here then? Good, good…’ says Wade, arching an eyebrow.

  Stan arches an eyebrow too, and I feel like punching the both of them. Particularly Wade. If I could send him back to that duck-infested island in the middle of the park lake, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Away from the village, away from me and most of all… away from Eve.

  Thanks, Stan… way to kill the prospect of a pleasant evening.

  DRUGS, DEMOCRACY AND A LOOSE TONGUE.

  ‘You seriously expect me to believe that the reason millions of people went mental and tore down an entire civilisation is because some careers advisers got replaced by computers?’ Wade says, arching a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘To be fair to him,’ Eve says, ‘it’s an improvement on his Lucozade theory.’

  ‘There was no Lucozade theory, it was just an idea. You make it sound like I’m a proper space-brain.’

  ‘Dearest Stan,’ Eve begins, ‘I would never label you a space-brain unless it was for your own good. There’s only so long I can let you talk about energy drinks turning people into zombies and Neo-Nazis controlling a New World Order from submarines off the coast of the Isle of Wight. You need to be stopped… it’s for your own good.’

  Stan looks hurt. He’d been trying to impress his new hero. ‘You know, I never said they were off the coast of the Isle of Wight, and it’s not like you or Preston have come up with any better ideas.’

  ‘That’s because we’re happy to admit we know precisely squat,’ I say. ‘But if I had to make a reasonable assumption about the causes of our current situation, I’d point my finger squarely at our old friend, MIDS.’

  ‘It definitely wasn’t MIDS,’ Stan says before launching into the same old spiel about how MIDS was a sugar-pill, aggressively marketed to the gullible and the desperate. And for all I know, it may well have been a government-mandated cure for mediocrity, but placebo or not, the mass-consumption of MIDS marked the tipping point into bedlam.

  ‘I knew a few people who took MIDS,’ Eve says. ‘There was definitely something different about them. Bad different, I mean.’

  ‘Weed makes people bad-different, too much fucking alcohol makes people bad-different, but nobody’s saying too many Jaeger-Bombs of an evening triggered the fucking apocalypse,’ Stan says.

  Eve grins. ‘Jaeger-Bombs are a form of overt evil, but MIDS is evil via the tradesman’s entrance. Different thing, therefore not comparable.’

  ‘Seriously though, Eve… I knew loads of people who took it and it did nothing,’ says Stan. ‘It was just snake oil. Mind games and stuff. Placebo shit or whatever. Right, Wade?’

  ‘I think it was a factor. Not the whole story, though… too simplistic.’

  ‘So you’re the expert now you’ve been walkabout?’ Stan says, placing his drink between his feet and folding his arms, his frown exaggerated by the light of the fire.

  ‘Well…’ Wade says, teasing us with a knowing smirk.

  ‘Shit! What did you find out there?’ Stan says, leaning forward.

  I watch the way Wade’s eyes keep darting towards Eve, inviting her attention. I lean back and glower into my drink. Why did he have to come back? He always hated this place so why not stay gone?

  ‘I found a stash of the stuff in town, piled up, going to waste. So…’

  ‘So?’ Stan says, practically salivating.

  ‘So… I thought what the hell? Just tried it out.’

  ‘Holly shit! You never did! What was it like?’ Stan’s now up off his seat, his backside hovering in mid-air like a spaniel anticipating the squeak of a favoured chew-toy.

  ‘It was… fine. Just a nice trip. Happy times.’ Wade nods casually. The smug streak of piss.

  ‘That’s it?’ says Eve. ‘Just… a nice trip?’

  ‘Yeah, just that. It was different, I guess… but not bad. Just makes you feel good, y’know?’

  ‘That’s some brave shit!’ Stan says. ‘Taking the fabled zombie-maker… you’re a better man than I. Even though I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent sure it’s a hoax, I still don’t know if I’d have taken it.’

  ‘Nothing to lose,’ Wade says. Again with the jarring action-hero bull-shit.

  ‘Well, I think you’re a moron,’ I say. Eve and Stan both snap their heads towards me in surprise.

  ‘Your opinion’s your own, Preston.’

  ‘It’s not an opinion, Wade, it’s a fact. You taking MIDS makes you a moron.’

  ‘You know, Preston, if there aren’t people in this world willing to step up and take a few chances then nothing will ever change. We’ll be stuck, living in shitty villages and messing our pants about what may or may not be out there. Taking those pills may have been a bit reckless, but like I said, nothing much happened. MIDS didn’t cause this, so what the fuck does it matter if I took some?’

  ‘You could be infected right now. You could still have it in your system. How the hell would anyone know?’

  ‘Pres,’ says Stan, reaching over to me, ‘come on, you’re starting to sound like Sherriff Cobden.’

  ‘Don’t try and placate me,’ I say. ‘I know you think he’s the greatest thing since tequila flavoured lager, but how do we know he hasn’t come here to get off his merry tits on MIDS, go ape-shit and destroy everything we’ve worked hard to preserve?’

  Wade wears his favoured expression of amused pity. The expression that launched a thousand fists… ‘You eve
r notice the correlation between stupidity and happiness? Typical fearful Little-Englander ignorance, that’s what fucked us. Not careers advisers, not violent video games, not energy drinks or social engineering dressed up as a food supplement. It was stupidity and fear. Closed minds make for closed lives.’

  ‘I wondered whether six months in the woods might’ve dulled your keen insight into the issues at hand, but clearly not. Same old half-baked social commentary.’

  ‘Jesus, Preston,’ Stan says. ‘What’s got Mr. Unflappable in a flap?’

  ‘Him,’ I say. ‘I don’t understand why he’s back. He hated this place and he left. The only reason he’d come back is to cause trouble.’ I force myself to take another drink. It’s tastes fine but it’s hard to swallow.

  I watch Wade smirk in Eve’s direction. ‘Guess I picked the wrong time of the month to come back. Maybe he’s got a heavy flow going on.’

  Eve smiles, then takes a sip of her drink to mask it.

  ‘This is great by the way, Eve. Part of the reason why I came back, actually. That and Frida’s cooking. Home comforts have been scarce.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ Eve says, sounding mercifully neutral to his tepid flirtations.

  I avert my gaze towards the fire, hoping the flames might burn some of the frustration from my head. Why can’t he just leave? We were all glad to see the back of his discount brand of anarchism. Why make such endless noise about bringing down the establishment directly after it’s been so spectacularly kicked into the gurgling abyss? Day after day he’d grind on, like he was the only person who ever really ‘got’ Animal Farm and the rest of us all thought it was about pig-fucking and selling eggs at the market.

  Stan pours himself another drink and offers the bottle to the rest of us. Everyone accepts but me.

  ‘So, are you planning to head back out into the wide blue yonder any time soon?’ Stan asks.

  ‘There’s still a lot of questions I need answering, so… yeah. I can’t see me wanting stay in this place. Especially not if Sergeant Cobden’s still playing it large.’