Like Rats

by Adam Watts

‘Zombies, Pres. That’s what they do…’

  ‘I don’t remember there being anything about reanimated corpses roaming the streets in the news when all this shit kicked off.’

  ‘Well who knows what’s happened since it all started. Maybe things have changed. Come on, Pres, will you please check her over so we can get moving again?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, sensing that the battle is unwinnable. I take off my t-shirt, fold it a few times and wrap it around my nose and mouth.

  ‘Here, take this,’ Stan says, handing me a rather paltry stick. A single leaf dangles from the end.

  I swish the stick from side to side, making the leaf flap about. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

  ‘Just in case,’ Stan says. Because presumably that’s all that needs to be said.

  So, clutching my stick with one hand, and clamping my t-shirt tight to my mouth with the other, I head back around the corner towards the body. I get about half way and turn back to Stan. I pull the shirt down from my mouth. ‘She’s gone!’ I yell.

  Stan scrambles to his feet, snatches up another unfathomably flimsy stick with one hand and what looks like a handful of dirt with the other and starts backing away.

  ‘I knew it!’ he yells. ‘Didn’t I tell you!’

  ‘Calm down,’ I say.

  ‘Calm down? There’s a zombie out there!’

  ‘I’m just playing with you. She’s still right where we left her.’

  Stan lets the handful of dirt drop to the floor. ‘Wanker,’ he says, still clutching his stick.

  I clamp the t-shirt to my face once again and walk towards the body. She’s slumped against a tree, like she’s just stopped for forty winks and not woken up – aside from the fact that she’s naked and covered in blood. Her feet are cut up pretty bad, and the general state of her makes it hard to tell if she’s been bitten, but it’d be fair to say that a premature death probably wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to this girl. She couldn’t be more than twenty years old. Her eyes are still open. I feel like I should reach over and close them, but I can’t.

  I walk back to Stan, satisfied that she’s not going anywhere.

  ‘She’s definitely dead. Can we please move on now? Else it’ll be dark before we get to town.’

  ‘You sure she’s dead and not just pretending?’

  ‘Why would she be pretending?’

  ‘Because maybe she’s a clever fucking zombie and wants to trick us.’

  ‘She’d dead, Stan. Now shut up.’

  ‘Did you poke her with the stick.’

  ‘No I did not poke her with the stick.’

  ‘You should have!’

  ‘I’m not poking the poor thing with a stick just to ease your ridiculous anxiety. Now can we please get going?’

  Stan shoots me a begrudging look. ‘You first,’ he says, bringing his stick up.

  ‘That’s fine. But don’t you dare poke her with that stick.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  As we approach the corner there’s part of me that expects to find her missing. But she’s still there. Still ruined. I bow my head a little as we walk past.

  ‘We need to get a shovel in town,’ I tell Stan. ‘We’re going to bury her on the way back.’

  ‘Fine. Shovels make good weapons anyway.’

  UNWASHED AND ANXIOUS.

  ‘Did I ever tell you my dad’s theory about Mickey Mouse?’ Stan says from over his shoulder. He’s taking a wiz against a tree. Showing nature who’s boss.

  ‘Nope,’ I say. I’m more concerned with figuring out the time of day than entering into a conversation about some shirtless cartoon rodent. Not knowing the time is starting to stress me out a little bit.

  ‘My old man was a bit of a conspiracy nut, he was always banging on about something or other that he thought most people couldn’t see. He used to say most people could see the truth plain enough, but they had trouble accepting it. He said people preferred a sham so long as it kept them comfortable.’

  ‘Ok,’ I say. Like father like son.

  ‘He was absolutely convinced that Mickey Mouse was a Jew,’ he says, shaking himself off and doing up his fly.

  I wait for Stan to expand on this theory.

  Stan turns from the tree and, having finished his business, wipes his hands on his trousers. ‘What’s up?’ he says, looking concerned.

  ‘You were telling me about your dad’s Mickey Mouse theory.’

  ‘That was it. He thought Mickey Mouse was a Jew.’

  ‘That’s not much of a theory,’ I say.

  ‘Guess not,’ he says, continuing on the path which though invisible to me, is (confusingly) clear as a summer’s morning to him. ‘My Dad didn’t like Mickey Mouse, and he didn’t much like Jews either.’

  ‘Did he think a lot of people were secretly Jews?’

  Stan chews it over. ‘Some, yeah. He’d mention that so-and-so might be a Jew or some guy he knew might’ve been corrupted by a Jew.’

  ‘Your dad sounds like a xenophobe. Or a racist.’

  ‘Yeah… Probably part of the reason we didn’t get on. Same as my uncle, but he was better at hiding it.’

  ‘You ever wonder where he went?’

  ‘Sometimes, but I don’t really care. He probably found some other nut-case on the radio waves and went off to meet them. Sometimes he’d pick stuff up on there.’

  ‘Seems like the kind of thing he should’ve mentioned to somebody,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah… I used to tell him that. But he was a twat.’ Stan pauses and takes a long look around him, nodding like he understands, like his heart is one with the forest.

  ‘Do you actually know where we are?’

  ‘A hundred percent. So… are we mates again then? Because I was thinking that maybe coming face to face with a dead body might’ve help things along. Made us realise what’s important and all that kinda shit.’

  Talking about Mickey Mouse and racist relatives had almost taken my mind away from the events of the other night. Just for a moment. But as is stands, I can’t answer. I just want him to shut up about it.

  ‘Come on, Pres! Surely you can’t hold a grudge forever,’ he says, moving forward through fern and bramble once more.

  ‘How far from town are we?’ I say. ‘Feels like it’s getting late.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no then,’ he says. ‘Town’s not far. Like I said, I’ve got a good sense of direction.’

  ‘It feels like we’re walking round in circles.’ And it does. Trees and trees and trees and mud and bushes and more trees…

  ‘That’s because you’re panicking about being out of the village. It’s warping your perspective.’

  ‘Who says I’m anxious?’

  ‘Err… you just did. And it’s true… even when you’re in your comfort zone, even when you’re on to a sure thing.’

  ‘That’s not true. I’m not an anxious person,’ I say, wondering whether he might be right. I hate it when Stan’s right. Must think of an example of my laid-back nature…

  ‘I think you think you’re not anxious,’ Stan says, ‘but you are. You mistake being bored for being laid-back.’

  ‘That’s not true… what about…’

  ‘What about what?’ he says with a chiding smile. ‘Can’t think of anything, can you?’

  I really can’t.

  ‘Although, to be fair to you,’ Stan says, ‘you handled the situation with the dead girl better than I did.’

  ‘What was with that? There was me thinking you were up for an adventure out in Zombie Land and you freak out as soon as you see a corpse.’

  Stan grumbles. ‘Just wasn’t expecting it. It was the shock that got me, like when there’s a spider in the bath and you nearly put your foot on it. Plus… just for a minute, I thought it was Eve, and I had this thought that if she was dead it’d all be my fault.’

  I choose not to tell Stan about the relief I felt when I saw it wasn’t Eve, or the manner in which I’d have killed him if it was. Relief is a pecu
liar thing to feel when faced with such a grim and wasteful scenario as that. Some girl went through hell and died on her own in the woods, naked and bloody; and Stan and I are taking comfort from that. It’s a hard thing to reconcile

  ‘I know I’ve been blaming the MIDS all this time,’ Stan says, ‘but I know I did wrong by you and I know I shouldn’t try to excuse it. Just so long as you know I’m going to do everything I can to put things right again.’

  ‘Is that an apology?’

  ‘Yeah… kinda.’

  ‘You know, you might have to do a little better than that,’ I say, half joking, half not.

  ‘Actions speak louder than words, my dear Preston. That’s why I’m out here looking for her.’

  ‘Looks like I’m stuck with you then.’

  ‘That’s true. You are stuck with me.’

  ‘Like Herpes?’ I say.

  ‘Cheers, fucker. I was thinking though… if you promise to forgive me, I’ll tell you a secret.’

  ‘And what makes you think I want to know your secrets? In fact, based on current form, I’d probably rather not know.’

  ‘Ah come on, Pres,’ he says, slumping a little.

  ‘I can’t imagine you have any secrets. You’re all… surface…’

  ‘Again… cheers!’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, but you could probably do with keeping a few more of your thoughts in your head, if you get my drift. There’s nothing wrong with holding back every once in a while.’

  ‘No offence, Pres. But that’s bull-shit. Better out than in. If you hold too much in you get nothing but regrets. You don’t ask… you don’t get.’

  ‘None of that makes any sense,’ I say.

  ‘It makes perfect sense and you know it. You’re a hot-bed of pent-up regrets.’

  ‘A hot-bed?’

  ‘Yep. I’m willing to stake a hundred quid on you having passed up on some good times with a hot girl for no good reason what-so-ever. And I’m talking about a girl other than Eve. In fact, I reckon there’s probably a few girls you’ve passed up for no good reason. I bet there’s still girls you think about in the dead of night, regretfully wondering why-oh-why you didn’t put it in ’em when you had the chance.’

  ‘Wrong,’ I say. I’m lying.

  ‘I’m not wrong. It’s right there on your face. Come on… who was she?’

  ‘Who was who?’

  ‘There’s bound to be one in particular,’ he says.

  ‘The only true regret I have is stumbling about in the woods with a man who clearly has no idea where he’s going, and is, quite frankly, incredibly fortunate not to have been bludgeoned to death, for a variety of reasons.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Stan says. ‘But you’re wrong on several counts.’

  ‘Enlighten me,’

  ‘Firstly, you already told me about two separate women who you wish you’d slept with, but didn’t.’

  ‘I never did!’

  ‘You were drunk when you told me. You said one of them eventually died in a car crash, and you passed up the other one because you hadn’t had a shower that day and couldn’t bear the thought of her discovering that you had a filthy dick.’

  ‘I never said that,’ I say, trying to keep my composure even though both of those scenarios are true. There was a beautiful car-crash girl and there was a missed opportunity with the hottest girl I ever met due to an unwashed cock. I hate that he remembers these things, even when I don’t.

  ‘Protest all you like, because I know I’m not wrong. I’ve got good instincts,’ Stan says.

  ‘Fine. Stay deluded. So what else am I wrong about?’

  ‘You’re wrong, my dear old twat, about me not knowing where I’m going.’

  ‘That’s funny, because I could swear we’ve been walking in circles all day. In fact, right past that bend in front of us, I do believe we’ll find that poor dead girl again.’

  Stan stops walking. ‘Go on then… round you go. Let’s test those instincts of yours.’

  I walk on past Stan with a smug swagger. I turn the corner. The light hits me like a spade to the face.

  ‘What do you see?’ Stan yells. ‘Any bodies?’

  The bastard…

  ‘No…’ I call back. ‘No bodies.’

  Stan runs past and slaps me hard across the arse. ‘Who’s your fucking daddy then?’

  Stan seems keen to get amongst it, but the sight of that ruined town, weather-worn and coming apart at the seams, puts a rare kind of fear in me. I may as well be that kid with his hands in the dirt, watching the mushroom cloud rise in the distance. As much as Stan seems certain that there’s nothing to fear, I can feel death hanging heavy in the air. This place is a vacuum; a void, a place where nothing truly alive would ever seek to tread.

  ‘You coming?’ Stan yells.

  ‘This is a stupid idea,’ I mutter to myself, walking towards my beaming companion and the line of broken buildings behind him.

  ‘Fucked up, right?’ he says, grinning in a way that makes me want to press my thumbs into his eyes.

  ‘Fucked up is right,’ I say.

  All I can think is that I want a solid length of wood in my hand. Because something tells me I’m going to need it.

  THE TOWN IS MOST CERTAINLY FUCKED UP.

  Now that we’re here I’m struggling to recall what I thought this place might look like, and whether the mess that sprawls before me represents an under-estimation of nature’s destructive capability or a grossly exaggerated scene of devastation and ruin, the likes of which Hollywood could only jealously aspire to recreate. I used to wonder how long it would take nature to reclaim a town if you took all the people out of it, a curiosity which was amplified somewhat two years ago. Turns out the elements will have a pretty good go at it over the space of two years, but the cumulative effect is somewhat spotty.

  Some streets have been well and truly ransacked. Houses stand burnt out and smashed, allowing the damp and the wind to quickly finish the job. These streets will probably be little more than piles of grimy rubble within a decade. Every now and then, amongst the places on the verge of collapse, there’ll be a house that looks largely untouched, like the sea of violence that engulfed the rest of the street just parted and let it be. These houses, although proud and strong, seem lonely too; waiting in defiance for the next storm.

  There are other streets that look like the residents have simply taken an exceptionally long holiday. There’s the odd wheelie bin turned over here or there – the contents long since scattered by the wind or rotted away. The lawns have ceased to be lawns, trees and bushes have grown unruly, the roads are cracked, pot-holed and riddled with weeds, and there’s one house which a tree has fallen in to, but other than that, it’s likely that most of these places are still habitable.

  ‘Fucked up, right?’ Stan says, as we hurry down an almost pristine row of post-war semis.

  ‘Yep,’ I say, for perhaps the hundredth time. Stan seems to be enjoying the opportunity to share the ‘fucked-up-ness’. I’m not sure what he thought I was expecting.

  ‘You know, last time I was here there was something weird I couldn’t put my finger on,’ he says. ‘Think I’ve figured it out.’

  ‘I think this whole trip counts as something weird.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s what I thought last time around. I was thinking it’s just the whole ghost-town thing playing tricks on me or something. But it’s more than that.’ Stan stops in the middle of the street and cranes his neck to the sky.

  ‘What’s up, Stan?’ I say. ‘Spidey senses tingling?’

  ‘Just listen,’ he says, cocking an ear to thin air.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say after a full minute of intensive listening.

  ‘Right. Now… look around you.’

  I take a good look around, like this is something I hadn’t already been doing for the last half an hour.

  ‘You figured it out yet?’ Stan says, looking pleased to have perplexed me.

  ‘Like you said before, i
t’s a ghost-town… I get it… it’s unsettling because there’s no people, and the assumption is that there should be. There should be noise, there should be a hum in the air. It’s like that feeling when you walk into an empty nightclub and the music is loud but the dance floor is empty. That’s all.’

  ‘Nope. See this is what I was thinking last time. But tell me this… where are the animals?’

  I look around, assuming there’ll be an old moggy or two roaming the streets, or perhaps the sound of a dog barking from somewhere in the distance.

  ‘You hear any bird song?’ Stan says.

  I listen, because there must be. But there’s nothing. Dead silence.

  ‘Fucked up, right?’ he sniggers. ‘Come on, we’re not far from the town centre. We can get some food and find somewhere to sleep.’

  The residential streets were certainly eerie, especially after Stan pointed out the lack of bird song; but it was nothing compared to the town centre. You could argue that the suburbs are naturally devoid of any signs of authentic life, and that perhaps they represent some sort of cultural apocalypse in their own right, but town centres are supposed to be buzzing. And last time I was here, it was.

  It used to be lively; not great, but never quiet, not even on a Sunday. The shops bristled with trade, the pubs rang with the heckling laughter of the intoxicated and the roads were frequently jammed. It was the kind of place that aspired to be nice in a generic sort of way, but somehow never quite managed it. A point made all too evident by the fact that the Costa Coffee is bookended by a shop that sells food past its sell-by-date and one flogging knock-off mobile phone accessories. I remember how pleased people were when the Costa Coffee arrived. So bland and decent. So safe. Looking at it now, I wonder how many people were killed there; butchered as they sipped their Americanos and iced frappes, torn apart by bloody hands as they weighed up the pros and cons of opting for the lemon drizzle mini-loaf over the giant custard cream. The once popular gossiping spot of the wannabe yummy-mummies and those who like their coffee just expensive enough to keep out the riff-raff is now a burnt out shell, just like most of the other shops.

  ‘So which gutted-out retail space are you suggesting we sleep in tonight?’ I ask, feeling less than enamoured at the prospect of spending the night (and possibly subsequent nights) amongst the ruins of this mighty market town. I remember when I was a kid, I used to think how cool it would be to hide in a department store – preferably in the toy department – and have the time of my life. After I’d played with every toy in the place (apart from the dolls, of course), consumed my weight in jelly beans and indulged in a little wanton smashy-smashy; I’d simply fall asleep on a mattress of plush novelties and dream sweet reminders of my antics all night before sneaking out the back door come morning. Somewhere in my mind, when Stan mentioned staying in a shop for the night, that’s what I thought it would be like. Two kids with a world of fun and mischief at their feet… anything goes… But Stan’s store of choice is as far from that impish childhood fantasy as one could get.