by Kolin Wood
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The jeep comfortably held the seven of them as they snaked their way along a main road, the going slow due in part to the blockages of wrecked cars snarling the route. Amongst other things, Osterley House had given up a decent supply of strong pain killers, the type usually only given out on prescription. Happily sedated, the General had asked Connor to clean the mess that was now the top of his head. The boy had not done a bad job given their limited surgical resources. The General had even given him a couple of the pills to help with the lacerations on his face, which had scabbed nastily and wept every time the poor lad opened his mouth. It seemed that he had chewed through Mitchel’s bonds and freed them all. Chewed through them! Tough boy, he thought.
Feeling somewhat more comfortable and cleansed, the General had decided that they should push on farther and explore the area. The mistakes made at Osterley had been unfortunate, but he would not be making them again now that they had a decent cache of guns and transport; they were a much tougher proposition to any wannabe chancer. After all, even with all that they had—including their freshly acquired bounty—they always needed more. And it was no secret that, at some point, they would need to find something more sustainable; might as well try today.
It was not long before urbanisation began to paint desolate pictures on the dirty cracked windows. Gone were the vast expanses of over-grown arable land; instead replaced with the more familiar sight of burned-out shops and houses, rubble, and streets strewn with rubbish.
The Jeep sneaked around a long-abandoned road block. The sight which met them caused their mouths to drop in unison. Both sides of the main street were clear of cars for as far as they could see. By the physical removal and dumping of the vehicles in all of the adjacent side roads, a one-way tunnel effect had been created. People all of ages, creeds and colours were shuffling along the asphalt, some in groups, others alone, clutching bags and hiding under hoods, pulling carts packed high with clothing and trade.
“Look at these fuckin’ pickings!” Mitchel shouted from the driving seat, almost delirious with excitement, while producing a loud, clicking sound with his fingers. “Woooooo… I’m tellin’ ya cuz, this is what I’m talkin’ about!”
Looking like a kid at Christmas, his target was a young girl no older than sixteen who was straggling behind a large group to their right. Hugging the curb almost too closely for comfort, he let out a low whistle and hung his head out the window.
“Look at this little fuckin’ peach! Hey, sweetie… hey there, baby.”
Some of the crowd turned in response to his blatant obscenity, disgusted looks on their dirty faces. One, a large male not much older than the girl, put an arm out to shield her from his lecherous gaze. Mitchel whistled again and this time the young man stopped, raised the front of his heavy cloak-like cover, and gestured at a large knife.
Like a rag to a bull, Mitchel spat in his direction and brought up the butt of the rifle which had been resting between his legs. “Oh, what mate? You fuckin' want some of this, do ya?”
The young man immediately dropped his coat and turned away, but kept a protective arm around the girl.
Mitchel laughed and pulled his head back in the Jeep. “Fucking idiot, thinking he’s some kinda bad man. Think that little steak knife is gonna do much against a fuckin’ Gat? Prick.”
The General ignored him. He was used to such adolescent bravado, and managed to tune it out for the most part, as it would drive him mental if he didn't. He watched as a slow-moving, elderly man fell in the road and was immediately set upon by a group of obviously hungry, dirty attackers. Nobody intervened—which came as no surprise to him; Dog eat dog, he thought as the Jeep continued on.
As the only vehicle on the road, they drew a fair bit of attention, and the going was painfully slow. Occasional signs signalling ‘The New Capital’ appeared, scrawled in paint on top of the old and existing ones. After another mile or so, the General nodded to the curb and signalled for them to pull over; he’d seen enough. Mitchel obeyed, and the Jeep came to a stop at the side of the road. By squinting his eyes through the dirty windscreen, their elevated position in the vehicle gave him the advantage of being able to see over the shuffling masses. His mind whirred as he tried to take in the implications of what he was seeing. The line of people continued on and on, shuffling into the distance before eventually disappearing out of sight amongst the increasingly dense buildings in front of them.
Civilisation really exists, he thought.
Responsibility slid, like a wet towel from his shoulders, as his vision of a brave new world—which had until that moment had sat like a precise artwork or blueprint in his mind—suddenly cracked and frayed at its edges.
What have I done? he thought, glancing over at Mitchel, who was busy flicking his tongue between two fingers in a ‘V’ salute at a woman walking past. Dread crept in as realisation began to take a hold with sharp claws. This was not how he had imagined it to go.
With every passing minute that they remained stationary, more and more people descended on the Jeep and crowded it. Some of them even began cupping their hands against the glass. Glancing behind it was obvious to see why; in the back, awkwardly sprawled on the bench seats, lay four people, each of them tied tightly at the wrists and feet with pillow cases pulled down over their heads. Two of them—which he knew to be the father and son—had bloody, facial imprints seeping through the thin cotton of their coverings. Apparently, the big fellow had hit Mitchel in the kneecap with his gun and had certainly paid for it in kind. The son was dead.
The crowd parted and a dishevelled-looking, dark-skinned man stepped up to the window on the General’s side. The bottom of his face had been disguised in a thick, dirty-brown headscarf. Above it, a nasty scar cut down across his brow, slicing through his dark bushy eyebrow. A scaly hand rose up and rapped intently on the glass.
Instinctively, Mitchel reached for the stock of his rifle, but the General put out a hand to slow his movements. He hoped the dark stranger could shed some light on who all these people were and what this ‘New Capital’ was. With a huff of displeasure at the forced cooperation, his psychotic companion obeyed.
The General lowered the window, turning his face away as the rotten stench of thousands of unwashed bodies invaded the Jeep. The scaly man pulled down the face cloth and smiled; his mouth was missing many of its teeth and the few that were still present were in a bad state of yellowing decay. Halitosis suddenly joined the rank mix as it wafted in.
“How much for them transients, fella?” the man croaked, easing his neck around and staring past the General into the back. He clearly didn’t miss much. The General tried to position his head to block such an obvious view of the prisoners behind them.
“Oh, you got women too, huh?” the man said, rubbing his dirty hands together excitedly. “What condition they in? I can give you a better price than you’ll get at the midway… best prices this side of the river…” He looked up and down the road shiftily, eyes darting and his body language as fidgety as a kid scoring drugs on a busy street.
The General studied him, trying to process what he’d just heard. Transients? The midway? Beside him, Mitchel threw up his shoulders, clearly agitated. “What’s this fool talkin’ about? Get rid of him. Oi! Piss off!”
Ignoring him, the General turned and looked past Connor and into the back once again. The man was obviously talking about trade through some sort of black market. Questions about the busy road began to pour freely into his head. Does that mean there’s some sort of social order out there now? Perhaps even police? A government? How far has this society come?
It was as the idea of a regulatory force presented itself, that the General became aware of the sheer number of people that had gathered around them and were now staring into the back of the truck. The crowd was big and growing. They were drawing unwanted attention, and had no idea of what sort of danger they could be in. He turned away from the reeking man and wound up his window, offering no f
urther contact.
“We need to get out of here… now,” he said, turning to Mitchel.
Aggrieved at the rudeness in the abrupt ending of their brief conversation, the affronted man outside began banging on the glass with his fist, shouting loudly and incoherently. Some others also stepped forward, aggressively flanking him on both sides.
“DRIVE!” the General shouted, slapping the dashboard urgently.
Mitchel threw the Jeep into gear and stomped on the pedal, skidding away from the jeering crowd. People nearby jumped for cover as he hammered down on the deep horn and spun the wheel, not caring as to who might be in the way. Wing mirrors clipped arms and shoulders as the throng begrudgingly parted to allow the vehicle through. The General watched as the crowd closed in behind them, and soon the aggressors were lost in the swollen mob.
With a sigh of relief, he sat back, ignoring the itch in his eye and just glad that they were out of immediate danger.
How much for them transients, fella?
What had the man meant? He had spoken specifically about the girls.
The weight of his actions weighed in again, crashing with force against his sensibilities. It all felt like a huge mistake and, strangely, the idea of somebody else harming the girls—his girls—seemed wrong. However, try as he might to consider empathy, he could not shake one single thought.
We have lots of girls.
***
Night had fallen by the time the truck pulled up to the back of the prison. The wind gusted and carried with it a swirling dust, stinging the faces of the General and the two boys as they stepped out into the loading bay.
Quickly and without any ceremony, they unloaded the pillowcase-hooded and bound family into the service entrance, dragging them like livestock. Once safely locked in a cell, the General leaned his back against the door and put the sleeve of his arm gently against the swelling on his face. When he pulled it away, he was not surprised to see a dark red and orange specked halo.
“We leavin’ these together then? The old bitch at least should be on the shopping isle wif the other grandmas, no?” Mitchel said without an ounce of compassion, a newly acquired, half-smoked cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.
The General did not answer straight away. He hated the street slang which so many of his boys used as an excuse for language. However, it seemed that all but him were fluent in it, so to insist upon its removal would only hinder already difficult proceedings.
“Leave them alone tonight,” the General finally said, locking the door. “It’s late, and we all need food… we’ll deal with them in the morning.” His voice sounded unconvincing, and he cleared his throat loudly.
Mitchel, obviously exhausted from the endurance of the last few days, for once did not argue. Instead, he just shrugged and headed back into the car park. The General remained, staring at the door. In truth, his reasoning for leaving them all together actually stemmed from an overwhelming sense of sorrow for the fate handed to this little family that had adapted and survived against all the odds. Things could have so easily been different had they not made the fatal error of underestimating how far a caged, wild animal will go to free itself. He could not help but admire the man for keeping his brood alive for so long.
From inside the room came a groan.
The General set his ear to the door and listened, aware that the thick steel was restricting most of the sound. Very faintly in the background, he could hear crying. It sounded like the woman begging for some words of comfort from her husband, who was not able to give her any. Or perhaps it was sorrow for the dead brother and son. It would be a long night knowing that his corpse was beginning to stiffen on the floor beside them all—pretty twisted, in fact—but there was nothing he could do. He sighed heavily as torment weighed in again. What if the army which he had been so hell-bent on building from the start was actually just a blight on society; the absolute antithesis of what he had been trying to achieve?
But the truth was, that the lowering of his defences had nearly cost him, and the rest of them, their lives yesterday. Everybody had weapons now, and they were also willing to fight and die for what they owned. The laws governing humanity were, after all, relative to time and circumstance, and they were changing. Anyway, there was work to be done. With a new-found determination, he pushed away from the door.
Between the three of them, they easily unloaded the Jeep, stockpiling everything—aside from the painkiller medicine and some of the bottles of whisky—into another of the empty cells. There were all manner of foods, both freshly harvested and tinned. Clothing, rudimentary tools and weapons, other medicines and treatments, water, and various utensils were also present. The truck and several barrels of fuel would no doubt come in useful for future expeditions. All in all, not a bad haul.
Once the bounty had all been moved, the General appeased the boys with tobacco and chocolate, instructing them to remain quiet about the hoard until he had decided what best to do with it. Mitchel and Connor, happy with the gifts, agreed without argument. All three of them made their way back to the main housing area with nothing more said about the fate of the Marshall family, much to the General’s satisfaction. Tonight was not the night to deal with such things.
It was dinnertime when they walked in. A rapturous applause and an ear-splitting banging of plastic trays on plastic tables greeted them as they strode like returning kings through the centre of the room towards the food counter, the faces of the boys alight and happy with the prospect of the goodies that were likely to follow.
After the meal, the General stood up and made a small speech, praising his two compatriots for their daring escape with all the odds stacked against them. He spoke briefly of the dead and how they had fought alongside him to the end, martyrs to a cause greater than their own. To finish, he gave a brief and sweeping account of the spoils from the house, some of which would be administered in due course, bringing the room to its feet again amidst further thunderous applause. He did not, however, mention the family or the New Capital. Something made him hold those pieces of information back, at least for now.
By the time he arrived back at his room, it had turned cold and dark. Even in its derelict state the space was strangely comforting, and it came as a shock to him that he should feel that way. This was home now. He lit a few candles and locked the door, pulling the make-shift cover over the reinforced glass slot. Then, with two of the pink pills washed down with a couple of heavy slugs from the whisky, he walked with a heavy step across to his bed.
The rusted springs creaked and groaned under his lowering weight, as if unhappy at his return. Dirt and blood-encrusted laces snaked up his worn and dirty boots. The feeling of the tight leather coming loose and his toes uncurling for the first time in days was almost euphoric. His socks, wet with sweat, turned cold almost immediately, but he didn’t care. The bed was soft, and he was tired, so tired. He lay back, leaving the rest of his clothes on.
I am an old man, he thought, breathing out deeply and trying to close his eyes.
The itch came again then, almost unbearably.
I can feel it, clawing and tearing at my face, slicing at the skin and burrowing into my brain, leaching at the soft flesh with cancerous tendrils.
He pulled the bandage off, feeling some skin come with it. Vision was zero in his non-existent eye now. It felt like it had popped and was simply hanging there, infected, open to the grime and dirt that floated in the putrid air. God only knew what damage the gun stock had done to it. He could tell it had split, but he dared not touch it, not in the state he was in. It would need cleaning again, and soon. But not now; not until he’d had some rest. He pictured the man by the Jeep, desperate to distract himself.
How much for those transients, fella?
He had not ever given much thought as to what he would do with the surviving girls once the prison had finished with them. He had assumed that they would eventually become part of the community, the breeders of the future generations. The boys we
re becoming men, and relationships would form that would change the balance of things. To create something strong and durable—that had always been his intention; now, he was not so sure. The world was not as dead as he had thought; in fact, it was positively alive and kicking. New possibilities had presented themselves. The New Capital had promised more.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pock did not move as the sloppy pungent mess slid down the side of his face and neck. Luckily, it was not hot enough to scald him, but it stained the collar of his black shirt a greenish-brown. He tasted the salty thick liquid, trying to make it look as though the assault had not bothered him. Laughter roared all around. Boys pointed. Some of them threw things that splattered on his back, leaving small stains like bugs hitting the windscreen of a moving car.
The General had already been for his food and gone, and the rest of the prison was still animated about the recent occurrences and whispers of new spoils. This maltreatment of him normally didn’t happened in areas where the General would be likely to appear, but right now it didn’t seem to matter that he was back. It was almost as if they were testing the waters, seeing how far they could push it and, judging by this current display, it was most certainly getting worse.
Standing and turning with his tray, Pock walked between the rows of tables, keeping his back straight as various other food missiles found their mark, the shouts and jeers increasing with every step. Somebody stuck a leg out in a vain attempt to trip him up but he easily maneuvered around it, not stopping until he reached the other side of the room. He slammed his tray down on the metal trolley and pushed through the dining room door without once looking around, out into the quiet and tranquillity of the dark corridor.
With shaking legs, he leaned against the wall, his fists still bunched, breathing heavily through his clenched teeth.
