“Gotcha!”
***
Murray smiles as he swings the car towards the mother and child parking bay. At least with everyone else out of the way he can park wherever he wants. He looks back up to the edge of the carpark; those cars—were they there earlier? He can’t remember. He screws up his eyes, struggling to get a clear view in the twilight. That was one thing he’d noticed the past year—he couldn’t see so well at night. Like they said—it was all downhill after forty and now he was nearer fifty—shut up Murray, you’re as old as the woman you feel and Saskia couldn’t be more than thirty-five, not that she’d told him those kind of personal details. Strange how you could be so intimate with a female and not know the day of their birth. Who cares anyway. He was taking what he wanted from her. A queasy clench in his belly jabs at him as he thinks of being alone. She seemed to despise Carl and Loz even more than him, so he knows she won’t stray—no men left to stray with. He’d keep an eye on her though—women couldn’t be trusted—and there was no way he’d let this one go, whether she wanted to or not. He feels the ache in his crotch as his memory flashes back to her bed and he smiles. He’d give it to her real good tonight.
Looking down at the fuel gauge his smile drops and his brow furrows. “Running on empty!” he mutters and drives past the parking bay then pulls up to the entrance of the supermarket. He presses the button on the car’s door. The window slides down as Loz looks out to him. “Get in,” Murray calls roughly. “I need petrol.”
Loz nods and walks across the front of the car and slides into the passenger side. Murray pulls away and heads for the supermarket’s petrol station.
“How’ll we get the petrol out?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the electric’s off. The pumps won’t work anymore.”
Murray slams on the brakes sending Loz forward in his seat and hammers his fists down on the steering wheel.
“Damn!” he shouts then sits silent for a moment, Loz quiet by his side. “We’ll syphon some off of the other cars,” he continues and steers his car back towards the supermarket. “We’ll need to find a car with keys still in it. There’s a gerry can in the boot.”
“What about tubing?”
“Use some hosepipe.”
“Don’t think there’s a gardening section in there.”
“Yes, there is. At the back, with the weed killer.”
Chapter Eight
The hand presses down hard on her shoulder and the man’s sour breath wafts hot on her cheek.
“I watched you run down the side, after that girl. Where is she?” he asks, his voice low.
“What girl?”
“You know what girl,” he says, gripping her shoulder harder. “I saw you both running.”
“Please,” Cassie winces. “You’re hurting.”
“I didn’t tell Loz though,” he continues.
Perplexed, Cassie frowns.
“Oh?”
“No. He’d have your guts for garters. He’s like Murray. Got a real mean streak.”
“And you haven’t?” she asks trying to remain calm though her hand trembles as she reaches for the deodorant.
“You need to put that back,” he urges, but Cassie catches the hint of softness in his voice.
“I … we need it,” she offers and reaches a little further for the deodorant.
“Listen, lady. Murray and Saskia—they won’t want you taking anything from their stocks.”
“Their stocks?” Cassie asks softly, turning to look at the man. He towers over her, his shoulders broad and his arms thick beneath his over-washed rock band t-shirt. Weeks of stubble covers his chin, thickening around his moustache and goatee. His eyes are a soft brown. They smile at her as she looks at him. She senses his weakness and hopes she’s read him right. “So, this,” she says nodding her head in the direction of the aisles, “this all belongs to Saskia and Murray does it? And what about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Why doesn’t this belong to you?”
“Well … Saskia … Murray says it’s his and that we’ve got to protect it now.”
“It’s not theirs though, is it. It belongs to everyone who’s survived. I mean, did they buy it or did they own it before?”
“No, but-”
“Well, then it belongs to you too. When you think about it – now everyone is gone – all the food and supplies—they belong to everyone—the survivors. So, they’re yours just as much as they’re Saskia’s and Murray’s.”
He keeps her gaze and she watches as he processes her words then pushes a little harder. “All of this,” she gestures to the aisle again, “it’s yours too.”
“I—I guess you’re right.”
“Yes, and they don’t have the right to keep it all to themselves. Who are they anyway to say that—the king and queen of Barton?”
“Hah! I think Saskia would like it that way,” he returns with a wry smile.
“I’m Cassie, by the way,” she says turning on her most practiced smile.
He returns her gaze, trapped there. “Carl,” he returns.
Cassie looks out of the glass windows as the sun shines its orange warmth across the tills at the front. A head bobs between the cars at and strides towards the open doors. She twists under Carl’s hand still gripping her shoulder, but gentle now.
“That’s Loz!”
“Please, don’t tell him!” she asks as Loz’s footsteps sound in the foyer. “Please,” she begs,” then drops down to a crouch.
“Just don’t move,” he returns as he stands still and watches Loz. “What’s the hurry?” he calls across the aisles to his fellow henchman.
“Murray—he wants me to get some petrol. I need some tubing though—to syphon it off.”
Cassie listens as they discuss the best type of tubing to use and where to find it. Her thighs ache with crouching and she shuffles her legs back and kneels on the floor, glad of the relief. Eventually Loz shouts out that he’s found the tubing he needs and runs back out of the doors into the carpark and to Murray.
“He’s gone,” Carl hisses as she stands again and peers outside to watch as the man moves among the cars.
“You need to go. If they catch you …”
“But Carl,” she says standing a little closer to him, aware of her body next to his, “I need some more stuff. This,” she says lifting the top filled with sanitary towels and toothbrushes, “won’t feed the kids. They’re starving. Please. Let me just have a look around and get a few bits.”
“Well …”
She pushes up against him and puts her hand on his arm. He looks down into her eyes, his own widening a little. She strokes his arm with her thumb whilst giving his tricep a gentle squeeze. “Please,” she begs, her eyes widening, lips parting. She knows she’s pushing his buttons as he continues to stare into her eyes then glances down at her chest. She steps a fraction closer. “I know you’re a good man really,” she coos. “Please, can I get a few bits for the children? I can’t bear it when they cry with hunger.” He sighs and she knows she’s got him.
“OK,” he says, looking down at her, his voice resigned, his eyes bright as they follow the curves of her body. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips. “But be quick.”
“Thank you,” she says with a rasping voice and bends from the hips to reach for a low shelf, her fingers still wrapped around his arm.
“And don’t take too much,” he continues as he runs his hand over her rounded backside. She drops her hand from his arm and moves away. “If Saskia notices ….” he trails off as she runs to the end of the aisle and turns into the next.
She works quickly and darts to the checkout to grab a couple of bags then back to the aisles. There’s no point taking the fresh produce, from the smell in here it was all getting way past its sell-by date. Ignoring the bank of chillers to her left, she grabs bags of pasta and jars of sauce then runs to the end where she notices the breakfast cereals. Scanning across the shelves she picks
out cereals she thinks will be edible without milk, trying to avoid the ones with a gazillion teaspoons of sugar in each mouthful. Turning into the next aisle, the shelves are scattered with a few loaves of wrapped bread. Green mould smears across the clear plastic where the brown of freshly baked crust should show. She drops the bag and it slaps onto the hard tiles, the bag splits, and a cloud of green mould explodes across her boot.
“Ugh!” No time to clean it off, or even care about the mess. Crackers! The crackers will still be ok. She runs down the aisle scanning the shelves, ignoring the packets of bicarbonate of soda, sugar cake toppers, and flour and grabs a jar of peanut butter and a squeezy bottle of honey. Stopping in front of the dry biscuits, she reaches for an oblong of orange crackers but drops to a crouch before her fingers grasp the packet. A car swings in front of the supermarket, its headlights shining bright, dazzling through the plate glass. Crouching, the heels of her boots pressing into her behind, she waits for the lights to switch off then reaches for the crackers and drops them into her bag. Carl walks across the aisles in front of her.
“Stay down. It’s Murray,” he hisses.
With hurried footsteps, he walks to the entrance. Across the aisles are a cluster of boxed eggs. They have a good shelf life—could still be OK to eat. She shuffles across and reaches for a pack of six eggs and slides them on top of the precious supplies in her bag. Footsteps of at least two men pound against the concrete slabs of the foyer, echoing against its glass panels. They must have finished syphoning off the petrol.
***
“Halt! Who goes there?” Carl shouts, springing up from behind the concrete post of the entrance.
“It’s me you prat!” Murray exclaims, startled, irritation strong in his voice.
“Just having a laugh!”
“Well don’t,” he snaps. “Bloody idiot!” he mutters as he slams the car door shut. “Did you catch them kids?”
“Nah!”
“We lost them down Finkle.”
“You lost them?” he seethes his contempt. “You lost a couple of kids!”
“Ye-”
“Shut up!” he snaps, Saskia’s accusing eyes sharp in his mind. “In the office. Now!” he orders stepping through the open glass doors. “You were supposed to block this up!” He stares at the two men, narrows his eyes, strides past them and along the row of tills, grabs a packet of mixed nuts and dried fruit from the wire baskets above the conveyor belt of the final till, then pushes through into what was the manager’s office. The walls are lined with utilitarian shelves and a large desk holds a single A4 writing pad, the top sheet covered in Saskia’s neat writing—her inventory she’d called it as she’d walked up and down the aisles making notes—little Hitler! His stomach gripes again. “So, did you patch up them gaps in the fence like I told you?” he asks, flopping down into the black swivel chair behind the desk.
“No,” Loz says, walking up to the desk. “We was hunting down them kids—like Sask-” Murray glares at the man. “Like you told us.”
“Well, you’d better get to it!”
“How we supposed to make the door secure—it’s huge!”
“There’s no one left to take the stuff anyway,” Loz states, unexpectedly defiant. “Apart from them kids. We’ve sorted the others out already.”
“They’ll be back for more. We’ve got to protect what’s ours.”
“There’s enough for us all for a few years here. Couldn’t we sha-”
“Share! Of course we can’t share, stupid!” he snaps back at Carl.
“No, but-”
“This is it. This is all we’ve got,” Murray gestures, snapping his arm towards the shelves stacked with food visible through the large plate glass window. “The looters took plenty before the plague killed them all off so we’ve got to protect what’s left. There won’t be any more food coming in. They’re not going to be making any more deliveries,” he snarls with contempt.
“Sure, I know that but-”
“But what, Carl?” He stands, kicks the chair back and leans, knuckles angular and white on the desk, towards the irritating idiot. “Listen,” he demands, his eyes narrowing to slits. “That out there,” he jerks his head towards the door, “is mine, and you’re going to help me protect it if you know what’s good for you—just like Staines found out.” He straightens, holding Carl’s gaze. “Understand?” He watches as a flicker of uncertainty flits across the man’s eyes. He nods. Murray smiles, assured that Carl knows his place, remembers the mauled face of Staines, the last man that crossed Murray’s path. Satisfied, he pulls the chair back beneath him and sits. Enveloped by the soft back of the black, mock-leather chair he pulls up his legs and rests his feet on the desk. “Now go and sort out the door before we lose the light. Saskia’s gonna be here any time to check the stock and I don’t want her upsetting. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t just stand there then. Move it! Before she … before I get really pissed.” Loz stares at him for a moment more then turns to leave. Murray smiles. Hah! Still got it. I’m still the king around here. He leans back in the chair, hands behind his head and closes his eyes. For some the death of the world had been the end. For Murray, he was sure, it was only the beginning.
Chapter Nine
Cassie freezes, her hand clutched around a jar of pasta sauce, as Carl and Loz walk past her, only a few feet away. Carl looks down at her furtively and frowns then continues with Loz and walks out of the building. Murray must still be in the office. She stands again, keeping her head below the level of the aisle and continues looking for food. She swings the long handle of the mock-canvas, forever bag across her shoulder and opens the other.
“Cassie!” Lina hisses from the end of the aisle.
“Shh!” she reprimands as she looks up then tip-toes hurriedly, her footsteps gentle on the tiles, to the girl leaning out from the stack of sugar. “There’s still one of them in here.”
“I got Harry’s birthday cake,” she says with glee, pulling out a square box showing the round cake with a sugar super-hero figure pictured on top.
Cassie smiles despite the beating of her heart. “That’s great. We should go now.”
“Did you get what I need?”
“Yes.”
“It’s getting dark, Cassie, and there are no lights coming on,” she says looking around.
“There’s still enough to see though.”
“Yes, but I thought I saw some torches in another aisle. We should get some—so the kids aren’t so scared at night.”
“Good idea,” she whispers. “Show me where.”
Following Lina, she grabs a multi-pack of tuna and a squeezy bottle of mayonnaise as she passes, certain they’ll help the kids eat whatever she can concoct with their sparse rations. Lina stops and points to the shelves. A row of small metal barrels stand vertical in a low-cut, cardboard display box.
“Torches,” she says reaching out for one, and pulls it out of the foam holding it upright.
“Just get the whole tray,” Cassie urges.
Lina smiles, nods her head, and slides the tray of shining pink, orange, green and silver torches from the shelf.
“Batteries. We need batteries.”
“Murray!” a sharp female voice calls.
Cassie freezes, the bag opened, the tray of torches held high as Lina freezes at the sound of the woman’s voice.
“Saskia!” Cassie whispers, strong dread waving over her at the high-pitched demand in the voice. “Don’t move, Lina,” she says as the click clack of heels sounds across the tiles. They grow louder then fainter as the woman walks beside the row of tills to the manager’s office. The door opens, knocking against the wall, then slams shut again. A man’s muffled voice intermingles with Saskia’s questioning whine.
“They’re in the office,” Cassie says, the tightness in her chest releasing just a little. She opens the bag wider and gestures to Lina. “Put the torches in.”
“They’ll
need batteries,” Lina says matter of fact. “Double A’s by the look of these.” She peers at the box. “Yes. Double A batteries.”
“Ok,” Cassie returns, anxious, but glad of Lina’s practicality. It hadn’t crossed her mind to get batteries and she wouldn’t have known what type to get anyhow.
“At the supermarket at home, the batteries were near the tills,” Lina continues, the note of dread in her voice making Cassie’s chest tighten again.
Cassie takes a deep breath and looks down the aisles to the exposed tills sitting in full view of the manager’s office through its full-width plate-glass window. Going there was not a risk she wanted Lina to take.
“Go back to the storeroom, Lina. I’ll get the batteries and join you there.”
“But-”
“Those men will be back soon and, from what Carl told me, Murray and Saskia aren’t people to be messed with.”
“But Carl let you take stuff.”
“Yes, he did, but he seemed scared of them and if they catch us he might not be so kind.”
The Savage Road: A post-apocalyptic survival series (A World Torn Down Book 2) Page 4
