by Ryan Casey
And to the left of the room, as Chloë continued walking, she saw a dark-haired man in a wheelchair. He was younger, but someone was feeding him out of a can, and he wasn’t saying much. There were a couple more people like him. A chubby girl having her hair combed. A skinny man with glasses that magnified his eyes, weathered skin and constantly shaking.
Old people.
People who needed care.
And then at the end of the room, when they stopped walking, Chloë saw her dad.
She saw Alice.
Cassandra.
Dean.
Chatting to people.
Mixing with other people.
“What—what is this place?” Chloë asked, transfixed by the silence, by all these other people.
None of them hurting her.
Melissa stopped. She put a hand on Chloë’s back.
“Welcome to Snowdonia Care Home,” she said. “Your payment? You help us look after the weak.”
26
TWENTY-SIX
“Starting to think that maybe staying here isn’t such a bad idea after all.”
Chloë’s stomach sank. She stared out of the huge window at the back of the care home’s main area. Looked out at the mountains, the hills, the valleys. In the distance, she swore she saw sheep grazing in the fields. Maybe there were still sheep out there. Surviving. Going about their lives.
Maybe there was every kind of wild animal out there, much better off now people were out of the way.
She glanced at her dad. He stood beside her, looking out as the sun set behind the hills. The rest of the main room was quiet. The residents of the Snowdonia Care Home had all gone to their rooms. All expect for a trio of old men sipping water and chatting at the opposite side of the room. Chloë noticed the calmness in their voices. It sounded so nice. So nice not to hear someone worrying. Just getting on with their lives. Enjoying it.
“We still need to move on to Pwllheli.”
Dad tutted. “Thought you might say that.”
“We can’t just… just stay here. We can’t give up.”
“But don’t you see it, Chlo? This place is safe. It’s good for us. It’s just what we’ve been looking for all along.”
He turned. Looked back at the main door that led through to the canteen. Beyond that, a row of doors. Bedrooms. Places where people were safe.
But it wasn’t Pwllheli.
“What Melissa said. About payment.”
“It’s not necessarily a bad system,” Dad said, folding his arms and turning back to look out the window. “I mean, we do our duty here. We look after the old. The sick. And in exchange, we get fed. We get fresh water.”
“It’s like prison.”
“Anywhere needs to be a bit like prison nowadays, angel. Needs to be that way so we’ll survive.”
“You really think that?”
Dad smiled. “You might be wise for your age. But I’m wiser. So yes. I do. I really do think this is as good as we’re going to get.”
Chloë licked her lips. She could taste the warmth of the chicken soup she’d eaten earlier. It was good. The best thing she’d eaten in ages. She could get used to it.
But… Pwllheli.
“I still think we should—”
“You think we should push on to Pwllheli. But is that really for the good of the group?”
Chloë lowered her head. She wasn’t sure how honest to be. “Yes. It’s—I still think it’s—”
“Or is it because of what happened with Jackson?”
Chloë tried her best not to think about Jackson. She’d tried to keep him out of her thoughts. But every mention of him made her skin crawl.
He was moving on to Pwllheli.
He was going to find the source of the transmission.
He was going to find whatever was there.
She couldn’t accept that.
Dad put an arm around Chloë. Started walking away from the window with her, past the men chatting at the far side of the room. They all nodded, smiled. So strange to be smiled at. So strange to be amongst nice people.
Could she trust them? No. She couldn’t trust anyone. Never again.
But they were… they were okay.
They seemed nice.
That was something.
“Chloë, don’t ever accuse me of undermining you or patronising you.”
“What’s ‘patronising’?”
Dad narrowed his eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re toying with me or—”
“I know what it means.”
“Right. Right, course you do.” They stepped through the door. Headed through the canteen. The smell of that amazing soup filled the air. So much Chloë wanted to eat some more of it. Start eating and never stop.
Could she stay here? Yes. Could she survive here? Probably.
But Pwllheli…
“Sometimes, you’ve just got to know when to let stuff go.”
“Jackson tried to kill me. He tried to—”
“The whole bloody world would try killing you if they were forced to spend a day with you!”
“Thanks Dad.”
Dad laughed. Squeezed Chloë’s shoulder. “You know what I mean. It’s just… Obsessing over Jackson. Over Pwllheli. Over that transmission. And over the mistakes made in the past. That’s not a good thing. It’s not a good thing for you and it’s not a good thing for anyone else. What we need right now—all of us, you included—is to take stock. Take stock of what we’ve got here. Now you heard Melissa. We aren’t allowed to just leave this place. So getting out of here means inevitable conflict. Which means more enemies. Which means more losses. Is that something we really need? Is it even something we really want?”
Chloë couldn’t respond to her dad. She knew he had a point.
He walked a little further with her. Walked through the canteen, where a dark-haired woman in white cleaned the surfaces. Together, they moved into the corridor where the rooms were. Most of the doors were closed, but some were ajar. In those ajar ones, Chloë saw people sitting on the ends of beds. She saw people lying back, smiling, laughing.
She saw happy faces.
Content faces.
“You see these people,” Dad said. “You see how they look at us. Not just the people we’re here to look after, but the staff, too. They were people like us once. People who had to make a payment, as Melissa put it. Do they look sad to you? Do they look like they’re being forced into doing this?”
A woman with blonde hair tied back around her head looked up from her magazine as she perched against her bed. She smiled at Chloë. Nodded at Dad.
She saw the colour in Dad’s cheeks and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
“Just give it a chance,” Dad said. “All of us. We all need to give it a chance. If it works out, it works out. And if it doesn’t, we move on.”
We move on.
“Might not be anywhere left to move on to when—”
“There’s always somewhere, angel. There’s always somewhere. Anyway. Your room, madame.”
Dad did a silly bow. He nodded at the door to their right.
Chloë looked from Dad to the door. She hadn’t even considered she was getting her own bedroom out of this. A bedroom. In a building. A building that seemed… safe.
The first safe place she’d been in since the Manchester Living Zone with her old group.
The last safe place she ever thought she’d live in.
“Well go on,” Dad said. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to work a door. Time in the woods got to you?”
Chloë frowned at Dad.
Then she turned to the door.
Pushed it open.
The room was simple. White tiles. Cream walls. A low bed with grey sheets. A tiny window at the back, barred. In truth, it was like a prison cell. But a prison cell was luxury in this world.
It was a room.
It was her room.
Her safe place.
She walked inside the room. Smelled the fresh
ness of the blankets. She thought back to her home. The smell of washing whenever Mum did her bed. She loved that smell. Used to nuzzle up to it, breathe it in deeply.
She’d missed her home.
She’d missed having her own bed.
She stopped before she reached the bed. Turned, looked at Dad.
He raised his eyebrows. “So?”
Chloë didn’t say a word. Not for a moment. She just listened to the silence of this place. Listened to her heartbeat.
“I guess we can see how we get on,” she said.
Dad smiled. He walked over to Chloë. Kissed her on the forehead. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Chloë felt her face heating up. She nodded.
“Anyway. I’ll leave you to a bit of peace. You’ve earned it.”
Chloë watched Dad walk away.
Watched him pull her door to.
Listened to his footsteps disappear down the corridor.
She didn’t sit on the bed. She stayed put. Stared at the door. The silence. It was too silent. Everything was too calm. She wasn’t used to being alone. Not in a place like this. A safe place.
No. Not safe. Not safe. Nowhere safe.
She reached for her knife out of instinct.
Realised it was gone.
It was gone.
All her weapons were gone.
Everyone’s weapons were gone.
Melissa. Melissa and the care home group. They could kill her. They could kill Dad. They could…
Chloë closed her eyes.
Breathed deeply.
You’re okay. You’re fine. You’re… you’re safe.
She fell onto the bed.
Rolled over, sniffed the sheets.
The memories of home filled her mind.
Of Mum’s smile.
Of Elizabeth’s laughter.
She smiled. Thought about back home, and smiled.
But all the time, Jackson loomed in her mind.
All the time, she thought about Pwllheli.
About how far away Jackson was.
“Let it go,” Chloë mumbled.
She breathed deeply again.
Let her muscles relax.
“Let it go.”
27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jackson tried his best to ignore the smell of fear lingering in the air.
He stared into the empty hallway. Arnold, Colin, Andy and Wilson stood behind him. They pointed their guns inside the house. Listened to the silence. Total silence.
Except for the slight creaking.
Jackson turned. Nodded.
The rest of the group followed him into the house.
They walked across the dusty red carpet. Past the smashed photo frames. Towards the bottom of the staircase. The creaking. He could hear it right above him. Slight whispers. An air of fear.
And something inside Jackson made him enjoy this air.
He liked the taste of fear.
He stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Looked up into the darkness. The only light was from the moon, which peeked through the large bay window at the side of the staircase.
He didn’t need light.
Light was irrelevant.
All he needed was sound.
Sound, and his rifle.
He started climbing. The four others followed closely. He’d sent the rest of the group, now seventeen strong, on a mission to loot some houses for food. Split the group into two.
Only he had a different mission to looting.
An unfortunate mission. But a mission he had to take if he wanted to keep his new group strong.
A mission he had to take if he wanted to keep Pwllheli safe.
He heard the whispers grow louder as he reached the middle of the staircase. Kept his feet light. The grip on the rifle tight. He didn’t want them to know he was coming. Not until the very last moment, anyway. It all just added to the surprise. To the fear.
Fear was a good thing.
He needed fear to spread his message.
He reached the top of the stairs. Felt the moonlight shine through the window on his left, light him up. He stood there for a moment. Hoped whoever was in this house would see him. That they’d see his outline and they’d know.
He was here.
His group was here.
After all, word travelled fast.
They’d spent three days on the road to Pwllheli. They were close now. Ten miles or so. But since they’d got the head start on Chloë and her “group”—if it could even be called a group—Jackson had led his group on another quest. At least, the willing members of his group. The strong ones.
It was an unfortunate mission. It was a mission he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
At least that’s what he told the others.
He wouldn’t want anyone thinking he enjoyed doing what he was doing.
He walked onto the landing area. The whispers were replaced by total silence. He looked at the three doors. All of them closed. He waited for a sound behind one of them. A gasp. A creak of a floorboard.
Nothing.
So he turned back to his group. Nodded at them.
Arnold and Colin approached the door on the far right.
Wilson and Andy, the one on the left.
Jackson stood in front of the door right at the top of the stairs. Gripped his rifle, tight. Held his breath.
He counted down from three in his head.
Swallowed a lump in his throat.
Then he pulled his foot back and booted down the door.
He heard the others do the same. Heard them storm into the rooms. Search around.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t have to.
He could see a closet in front of him. A closet with sliding doors.
He could see the slightest movement behind it.
His heart raced. He lowered his gun. Walked into the room. Looked at the unkempt bed, the boarded up windows, like he hadn’t noticed the closet at all.
Not enjoying it.
Of course he wasn’t enjoying it.
He couldn’t enjoy it.
He kept on telling himself that.
He glanced at the closet once more. Just out the corner of his eye.
Saw movement in there again.
Swore he made eye contact with someone.
He stood there in the silence. Listened to the rest of his group turn the other rooms upside down.
And then he turned his back on the closet.
Walked towards the bedroom door.
Stopped.
“I know you’re in there. Might do yourself a favour if you slide those doors open and step out. Now.”
Jackson didn’t turn around. He just listened. Listened to the collective sighs. The whispered arguments. A denial that they’d been discovered. A complete struggle to accept.
He stood still. Kept on staring out the bedroom, out at the landing, out at the moonlight peeking through the window.
“Very well,” Jackson said.
He turned around.
Walked over to the closet door.
Slammed it open.
The first person he noticed was the boy.
He was young. Five, six, maybe. Curled up in his mum’s arms. Dad beside them. He was holding a baseball bat.
“Jesus,” Jackson said. He pinched his nose. “You fucking reek. You know that? Absolutely reek.”
“Leave us alone,” the dad begged. He had a thick black beard. Wide, bloodshot eyes. He held on to his bony, greasy-haired wife with one hand, pointed the baseball bat at Jackson with the other.
Jackson smiled. It annoyed him, that baseball bat. The arrogance. The arrogance of this man standing up to him. “You can lower that bat now—”
“You leave us alone!”
“Lower your bat. And we’ll think about it.”
Jackson heard footsteps behind him.
The footsteps of the rest of his group.
/> “Ella!”
Andy threw a little girl across the carpet. The girl crawled to her mother, tears in her eyes. The family held one another, penned into that closet.
The dad kept his bat raised.
“Don’t hurt our children. Hurt us if you need. But our children. I’m begging you. Please.”
Jackson held his smile. He looked at the man, then at his wife. Tried not to look at the little girl. At the little boy.
“A coin please, Wilson.”
Wilson lowered his gun. Pulled a rusty twenty pence coin out of his pocket.
“Heads says the girl lives. Tails says the boy lives.”
“No!” the dad shouted.
He flew out of the closet.
Jackson lifted his rifle.
Splattered a few shots into his chest.
The man fell to the floor. The girl screamed. The mother cried, held on to her little boy.
“Wilson,” Jackson said, the man’s blood staining the cream carpet, drifting towards his boots. “Heads or tails?”
Above the crying, Jackson heard the flip of a coin.
Silence from Wilson.
“Wilson, I said—”
“Do we have to do this, boss?”
Jackson nodded. Cleared his throat. He felt his face heat up.
“We spread our message. A message not to stand against us. I know it isn’t nice, but it’s necessary. To keep us strong. To keep us alive.”
A sigh from Wilson. Weak fuck. He’d think twice about bringing him along next time.
The girl stared up at Jackson.
The mother squeezed her eyes shut.
Her boy kept on crying.
“Now,” Jackson said, gun pointed at the mother. “Heads or tails?”
A silence again.
And then, “Heads, boss.”
The mother’s eyes opened.
“Please don’t—”
Jackson fired.
He fired into the mother.
Fired into her son.
Tried not to look at her son as the blood splattered out of his body.
Tried not to feel their fear.
The fear of their final moments.
He lowered the rifle. His ears rang as the gunfire echoed around the room.
The little girl crouched on her knees in the middle of the bedroom.
Tears rolling down her face.
Covered in her family’s blood.
