New Title 1

by Millard, Adam

  Lou shook his head. “Nothing’s changed,” he said. “Other than the fact that I’m leaking semi-skimmed at a remarkable and terrifying rate.”

  “Okay, okay,” Freda said, waving a hand dismissively in the air. “I’ve heard of this phenomenon before. It’s pretty rare, but not beyond the realm of reality.”

  It was, unfortunately, beyond the realm of Lou’s comprehension. “Are you saying that this has happened to other men? How is that even possible?” He cupped his hands and collected the milk seeping from his right nipple, before dropping it onto the kitchen floor.

  “Son, there are plenty of things we will never understand. The best way, in my experience, is to stop trying.” She put the empty flask down and picked up a mug. She drank down its contents before saying, “Ahhhhhhhhh. That’s beautiful, that is. You make quite a nice milk, for a man who’s never been pregnant before.”

  “What am I going to do, Mother?” This wasn’t something he could just get used to, like an ingrown toenail or a bunch of itchy piles. This was, for want of a better word, ridiculous.

  Freda Decker sat down at the kitchen table, studying her son intently. “The world hasn’t seen this much milk for decades. The Event put a stop to farming, and the majority of the cows were wiped out in the initial blast. Women are no longer interested in sex, and therefore unlikely to get pregnant. Milk has become an endangered beverage, and you, my son, you sit there, feeling sorry for yourself with your titties leaking what most people would see as liquid gold.”

  Lou did some frowning. “What are you saying? That I should be grateful? That this couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy?” It did taste like pure heaven; he couldn’t deny that. It had been ages since he’d touched the stuff, and now, for some strange reason, he quite fancied a bowl of cereal.

  Freda Decker’s lips curled into a thin slit of a smile. “I’m saying that we should embrace this. That you should embrace this. Just think, we live in a world where people are constantly dying of thirst. A world where the well-water is only marginally safer to drink than anthrax-laced piss. This is a miracle, Lou. A sign from God that he wants us to continue as a species, and you…you are the messenger.”

  “That’s odd,” Lou said. “Right now I feel like a moo-cow.” If God was trying to make a statement – and Lou didn’t believe for one moment that he was – then why didn’t he simply purify the water? Why didn’t he make the rain less acidic, and therefore less likely to melt your throat if you tried to make a nice cup of tea with it?

  “You’re looking at this all wrong,” said his mother. “Just think about what we could do with this, huh? Just think about all those people out there. They would kill for just a quick suckle on your teat—”

  “I would prefer it if you never said anything like that again—”

  “Yes, but you get what I’m trying to say.” Freda Decker’s smile faltered for a moment. Lou knew exactly what was going to fall out of her mouth next, for he’d seen that expression before, on many occasions. “I don’t have long left upon this earth,” she said. Lou mouthed along with her, such was his familiarity with her self-pitying nonsense. “I would like to go to my grave knowing that you are happy, that you have enough to get by on.”

  Grave? Lou thought. She was going in the incinerator, with the rest of the recyclables.

  “That’s all very well and good,” Lou said, “but there are no circuses left for me to join.”

  “I’m not talking about you setting up shop with some carnival,” Freda said, her smile returning. “I’m talking about creating a brand; a brand that will make us, er, you, rich beyond our, er, your wildest dreams.”

  Lou didn’t quite grasp what she was getting at. A brand? Milk wasn’t brand-able, was it? Milk was, and always would be, just milk, no matter whose nipple it dripped from. But she was right. Things had changed. People would likely give their right testicle for a gallon of the white stuff. There was, after all, only so much infected water one could digest before it caught up with you; only so many Drambuie Lights one could sup before your giblets dissolved.

  He had fresh milk pouring from his tits. It was sweet, and rich, and had a brief aftertaste of honey and kittens. It was a very brand-able product in a post-apocalyptic world.

  “So, what you’re saying,” Lou said, and now even he was smiling, “is that we should bottle this stuff up. Sell it by the quart, by the gallon, by the tonne, and get very rich in the process?” His nipple gave out a little squeak, as if sentient and quite happy with the situation.

  Freda nodded. “It would make this dying woman very happy,” she said, “if we were to build this up into a sustainable business. You can be the boss, of course, and whatever you say goes.”

  Lou liked the sound of that.

  “The ‘haveners are going to go mental for this, I just know it.” His mother ran a hand across the kitchen table, through the milk pooled there, and then licked it with her almost bovine tongue. “We could even flavour it. Remember when people used to drink those shakes? Chocolate? Mmmmm. Banana? Strawberries?”

  Lou shook his head. “We haven’t had any of that stuff for years,” he said.

  “Then we’ll improvise,” said his mother. “There are three crates of tinned pilchards in the basement. We can use those.”

  “Fish and milk?” Lou said, disgusted and intrigued in equal measure. “Would that work? I mean, would…” He paused, long enough to consider his mother’s previous sentence once again. “How did you know about the pilchards in the basement?” he said.

  Freda Decker sighed. “Never mind all that bollocks. Are we going to do this, or what?”

  Lou nodded. “I think we are.”

  “Fantastic!” Freda jumped to her feet and clapped her hands excitedly together. For a dying woman, she looked awfully chipper. “Now, get a mop and clean this mess up. I refuse to work in such gross conditions.”

  12

  The sun rose over Oilhaven like a volcano in the sky. It was going to be another scorcher – the seven thousandth in a row – and many of the ‘haveners were already seeking out the shadows in which to plonk their deckchairs. Those of Germanic descent had woken early and draped towels over the areas they wished to claim, which was why there was now a long row of yellow, red, and black stretching across the shadier side of the town.

  Mickey, the naked alleyway man, had spent the better part of an hour fighting off a young couple intent on setting up a picnic in his living room, or what would have been his living-room if the alleyway had had a roof.

  “You can’t eat your pickles here,” he’d informed them. “You’re going to have to find shade elsewhere.”

  The man of the couple – though the woman of the couple was also pretty manly – had decided aggression was the only way to deal with Mickey, and had managed to get three heavy-handed slaps in before Mickey pulled out a tenancy agreement.

  “Look!” Mickey had said, pointing to the sheet of paper. “This is my home. It states here that the area between A Cut Above hairdressers and Six Feet Under funeral parlour is mine.” He wiped blood from his nose. “You’re about to set up your picnic in my front room.”

  The man had apologised profusely before dragging his girlfriend/wife/life-partner and their wicker hamper away, but not before presenting Mickey with a mouldy sandwich of spam and spam (it’s what’s for dinner, and tea, apparently). Mickey had passed the sandwich on to a rat that lived at the end of the alleyway – in Mickey’s toilet, as a matter of fact – in the hope that, one day soon, the rat would die and he could have a proper meal.

  In Abigail Sneve’s hovel, four aching bandits scraped themselves up from the floorboards and stretched. A fifth bandit, Samuel, sat whimpering in the corner of Abigail’s boudoir. For him it had been a night of utter terror, of gummy blowjobs and anal beads, of genital warts and vaginal guffs. It was, as far as he was concerned, the worst night of his entire life.

  Take one for the team, had been the general consensus, which was all very well and good fo
r those not taking one for the team.

  “Come back to bed,” Abigail croaked from the soggy mattress at the other end of the room. “I only got up to thirty-two in my fifty best ways to please a man.”

  Samuel pushed himself up onto unsteady legs; legs that threatened to break beneath him. “I’ll take your word for the other eighteen,” he said, pulling his trousers on and trying his hardest not to cry any more.

  Upon making his way into what looked, sorta, like a lounge, Samuel was met with cheers and applause from his colleagues, not to mention several pats on the back, and even, in one case, a “How the fuck did you manage that without throwing up?” Well, the truth of the matter was: he didn’t. But, as if by a stroke of sheer fortuity, it turned out that vomit-play was number twenty-seven on Abigail Sneve’s list of ways to please a man.

  “Right, everyone,” El Oscuro said once the plaudits for their comrade died down. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us today. A very busy day, indeed.”

  “We going on the rob?” Thumbs said, simulating the very thing with his thumb-less hands.

  “That we are,” El Oscuro said. “But lay off the pickpocketing, Thumbs. We don’t even know if this place has a prison for us to bail you out of yet. For all we know, they’re instructed to kill bandits on sight, which means we need to keep a low profile.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Samuel said, still shivering from his carnal encounter with the seventy year-old fille de joie. “The store owner knows me, knows what I look like.”

  “But that was yesterday,” Red said. “Today, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like half the man you were. Barely recognisable. Last night was the best thing that could have happened to you. It’s given you a sort of…ashamed aspect. A ‘please, just shoot me now’ kind of vibe. It’s better than any mask. You bump into that storekeeper today, he’ll greet you with a smile before trying to sell you something for your ailments. I guarantee it.”

  “She’s right,” Blink said, scratching at his right eyeball with a used matchstick. “I didn’t recognise you when you walked out of that bedroom. Did you have that limp yesterday?”

  Samuel shook his head. Number sixteen on Abigail’s list had involved a breezeblock. “So you don’t think I need to hide out? Lay low?”

  “By all means,” El Oscuro said. “Stay here. Keep our landlady happy for the duration—”

  “I’ll risk being recognised,” Samuel said.

  “That’s what I thought,” El Oscuro said. “So, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  Now, El Oscuro wasn’t great at making plans, at setting goals and sticking to them, or at coming up with viable heists, ones that were worth the hassle, and more than that, worth being collared for. It was a wonder he was in charge of anything, let alone a ragtag band of merry thieves. But what he lacked in wisdom, skill, and dependability, he made up for in sheer enthusiasm. Oh yes, El Oscuro couldn’t get enough of the job, of robbing the rich to feed himself, and today an entire town would be at his mercy.

  Today, Los Pendejos would leave their mark on Oilhaven, one way or the other. What kind of mark, and how big, remained to be seen.

  13

  Something was happening in the street outside LOU’S LOOT. There was a queue; a phenomenon not seen since Lou had a special on squashed squirrels. A line of people stretched all the way back to The Barrel, where Roy Clamp stood smoking a clay pipe. Don’t ask what was in the pipe; even he didn’t know.

  “What’s going on?” Roger Fox asked as he walked past the pub’s proprietor on his way to the mine.

  Roy chewed anxiously on the bit of his pipe before speaking. “You mean, what’s with this fucking ridiculous queue that’s blocking the entrance to my establishment?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Roger said.

  Roy, clearly as irate as he was perplexed, said, “That flaming Lou Decker’s up to his old tricks again. I haven’t been down there, but I’ve been listening to the Chinese whispers as they work their way along the line, and apparently, Lou Decker has started selling silk.”

  “Silk?” said Roger Fox.

  “Silk,” replied the barkeep. “Don’t know how he’s got hold of a load of silk, or why, all of a sudden, everyone in Oilhaven is interested in buying the stuff. If you ask me, silk’s the bastard cousin of polyester. Give me a yard of leather over that shit any day of the week.”

  Roger shrugged, for he was indifferent to fabrics. “He’ll make a fortune out of it,” he said. “Honestly, I don’t know how he’s managed to keep that place going for so long, but I’m of the opinion that somewhere, the devil has a piece of paper with Lou Decker’s signature on it.”

  Roy laughed; it sounded like a tin of ball-bearings being rattled. “He does always seem to land on his feet,” he said. “They don’t call him Lou the Cat for nothing.”

  “No they don’t,” Roger said, because nobody called Lou ‘The Cat’, not even that death-bedridden mother of his. “Well, I must be getting on. That dirt isn’t going to mine itself.”

  “Have a good one, Rog,” Roy said. “And give my regards to that lovely wife of yours.”

  “Will do,” Roger said as he walked away, though he wouldn’t. Nobody ever passed on regards to their wives. Ever.

  Roger continued along the line, occasionally saying hello to those he knew (but not stopping to chat; he didn’t know them that well), and as he walked, he became increasingly aware of a few words that might have suggested Roy Clamp had, somewhere down the line, got his wires crossed.

  Words like cow, and cheese, and halloumi, whatever the hell that was. These were not words one would associate with silk. It was certainly a conundrum, and by the time Roger reached LOU’S LOOT, he was frowning so much, he could taste his eyebrows.

  Then he saw the sign…

  _______________________

  LOU’S MILK – FRESH TODAY

  DON’T BELIEVE US? TRY SOME!

  ________________________

  …and everything suddenly made sense.

  And yet, it didn’t.

  “Milk?” Roger said, pointing at the sign.

  “That’s what it says,” replied the old lady standing at the front of the queue, swinging an umbrella, even though it hadn’t rained for a good few decades. “I’ve been here since the moon was over there,” she said, pointing toward a sunny and cloudless patch of sky. “If he’s winding me up, I’ll cut his throat while he sleeps. I’ve been waiting for this moment for twenty years. My rice puddin’ ain’t ever been the same, not with using the well-water. Like I said, he’d better not be playing silly fuckers.”

  “But…milk?” Roger said, pointing once again to the sign. “Doesn’t that strike you as a little bit odd?”

  The old lady nodded and sucked in her cheeks. It was amazing, Roger thought, how the geriatric population could swallow their own faces due to their lack of teeth. “It’s more than a little bit odd,” she said. “It’s off the chart ridiculous! There hasn’t been any milk around these parts for years, nor cows, for that matter. I don’t know where he’s got it from, and I don’t care, so long as he’s got it. My rice puddin’ ain’t ever been the same, not—”

  “With using the well-water, yes you said.”

  “Did I?” She looked confused now, as if Roger Fox had just told her a tale of the World Wide Web, God rest its soul.

  “Yes. Look, can you do me a favour?” Roger said, rifling around in his trouser pocket for anything that could be considered currency. He found a plastic button, two strands of green cotton, and a nice, white rock he’d discovered at the mine the previous day. He was pretty sure the thread was useless – though not useless enough to throw away – and so stuffed it back from whence it came. The rock and the button, he held out for the old woman to inspect. “Will you buy me a bottle of this…this milk, and leave it with Roy at the Barrel? I can pick it up on my way home, only I’m in a bit of a rush.”

  The woman smiled, all pink gums and hairy tongue. “Malnutrition was it?�
� she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What your last slave died of. Was it malnutrition?” But she took the proffered button and rock anyway. “What do you want? Semi-skimmed? Pasteurised? Full fat? Gold Top?”

  “I think we’re overestimating Lou here,” Roger said. “If he’s got milk, that’ll be fine. And you won’t forget to leave it with Roy at The Barrel?”

  “Probably,” said the old woman, which wasn’t what Roger wanted to hear.

  “Was that probably you’ll forget, or probably you won’t?” He was getting later by the second, which tends to happen.

  “Yes,” the old woman said, which was no answer at all. “Now scram, before I change my mind.” And with that, she waved her umbrella. Roger half-expected to turn into a frog.

  He thanked the old lady and continued his commute. If Lou did have milk – and Roger would be on the fence until he saw it in person – and Roger was to turn up after work that evening with a bottle of the stuff, his entire family would treat him like a hero. A modern-day Saint. Like Bono, only less annoying and carrying a bottle of milk.

  *

  Inside LOU’S LOOT, Lou paced frantically from one side of the store to the other. At some point in the last hour, he had stopped lactating, and not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned. For a moment there, he’d wondered if it was ever going to stop.

  “They’re queuing!” Freda Decker excitedly said. She was staring out through the one-inch square of door that wasn’t covered with a flier or an ancient brown newspaper. “They’re queuing all the way up the street, Lou!”

  Lou sighed. He would have been excited, but his nipples felt like they’d been chewed upon by a pair of tigers. “How many?” he said. “At a guess?”

  “At a guess?” Freda said, gazing for a moment back out onto the street. “I’d say half of them.”

  “Half of the town!?” Lou said, exasperated. It wasn’t that he hadn’t produced enough for half the town (he was operating at a one bottle per customer policy, and if they didn’t like it, they could lump it), it was that he’d never had so many people lining up to get in to his shop.