The bookshelf was rammed with books, mostly horror: Stephen King, James Herbert, Darren Shan. Also Harry Potter, the Hunger Games, some Roald Dahl from when I was a kid, some chick lit, poetry books, text books, some Shakespeare plays – Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet and Macbeth – all filled with inky notes from my GCSEs and A levels – everything by Scarlett Thomas, and a few by Hemingway. You name it, it was piled up and stuffed into my bookshelf. The overspill lay in heaps on the floor and on my desk and bedside table. There were more books on my dressing table than make up or beauty products.
Misfit lay down beside me and put his left arm over my waist. ‘You like to read, huh?’ he said, glancing around my room.
‘Yup.’
‘I had to hide my books on self-sufficiency and nature and stuff, or Caine would’ve taken the piss or… once he caught me reading and he pulled the book off me and ripped it in half. Said I should be out doing something useful like learning how to nick shit from the shopping precinct that he could sell, not filling my head with nonsense.’
I turned onto my side so I could look at him. ‘What happened to your real dad?’
‘No idea. I never knew him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. He might have been worse than Caine for all I know. My mum, she did her best for me and Faye, but she had really shit taste in blokes.’
‘Your sister, was Caine her dad then?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh.’
‘Caine walked out on my mum once and after a while she hooked up with this other guy. Jeff. He was alright, Jeff. Then about a year later, Faye was born. I was too young to understand what happened, but one day when Faye was a few months old, Jeff just left. Took me a while to get my head around it. I didn’t think he’d do that but off he went and mum was sadder than usual for a bit and none of us ever saw him again. Not long after, Caine moved back in.’
‘I guess I was lucky,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know it at the time. I thought Jake was an annoying pest. I was close to both my parents but I always thought my dad didn’t understand me. I always had the feeling that I wasn’t quite the daughter he wanted me to be. We had so little in common. He was academic and into quizzes and team sports and I’ve always been arty and happy with my own company. He always said I had my head in the clouds. I don’t dispute that, but it was the way he would say it, like that was a bad place to keep your head. He didn’t want me to study writing. He wanted me to do something like maths. But I suck at maths. I hate maths.
‘I just wanted him to accept that we were different instead of being disappointed by it. But I know he loved me. We were happy. I miss them.’
‘I know.’
Misfit pulled me closer I lay against his body, me feeling like I had never been so close to anyone before. Death still reigned outside but, here in my room, the warmth and softness of Misfit’s body comforted me and made me feel like everything was OK.
We must have drifted off for a little while because at the sound of a voice I was yanked out of a dream about my old school friend Ali. I had been dreaming that another friend had unfriended Ali on Facebook because Ali had started to support the BNP, not because Ali believed in the BNP but because – as sweet and caring as Ali was (someone less likely to be a member of the BNP you would ever meet) – Ali was just trying to understand them, to understand why they were the way they were.
Anyway, I snapped out of the dream and my head shot up to see Charlotte standing in the doorway. Kay and Clay were loitering behind her in the hallway. ‘Hi,’ said Charlotte, smiling. ‘We wondered what we’re going to do now. It’ll be getting dark soon and, well, did you want to stay here or find somewhere else to stay tonight?’
‘Um,’ I said as I sat up on the edge of my bed. Fog filled my head and I couldn’t shake the dream out properly. The dream reminded me of my mum, when a kid at school used to pick on me, my mum would never say, ‘Little bugger had better leave my darling girl alone!’ Instead, she would try and understand why the kid treated me like that and she would tell me that I should feel sorry for them because they couldn’t be happy if they needed to make other people sad. I just wanted her to stick up for me.
‘I…’ I gazed around my bedroom, at a photograph on my desk of the four of us on a trip to the seaside a few years back, laughing and carefree. I saw my backpack hanging on the back of the chair at my desk, the one I used to use for tennis club, back when Dad would take me and stand cheering me on. I saw the sparkly pink pen mum bought me for good luck while I was revising for my A-levels, not realising that I had grown out of anything sparkly and pink, but I had used it with pride because she meant well. Every little memory I spotted was like a dagger in my heart. I wanted to get out of there.
‘Find somewhere else,’ I said eventually.
‘I thought you might,’ said Charlotte.
‘Sorry, I know it’s a pain,’ I said.
‘Don’t be silly. We all understand.’
‘We can crash anywhere we come across that’s easy to get into tonight and head off in the morning,’ said Clay over Charlotte’s shoulder. ‘It’s no problem, like.’
‘Thanks.’ I stood and, followed by Misfit, I headed towards Charlotte. ‘First thing tomorrow we head for Wales. No more stops. We need to find Shelby.’
I couldn’t resist one more peek into my parents’ room. The sheets on the pine framed king size bed were ruffled and unmade. But then I noticed something else: a pile of A4 sketch pads under the chair beneath the window. I strode across the room, picked one up and flicked it open. My mind couldn’t focus on any of the drawings for long as I tried to make sense of what was on the page. Someone had drawn images inside little boxes, set out like a comic book. I saw pictures of zombies and people being eaten by them. Some of the characters managed to escape the violence. Little speech bubbles that came out of their mouths told their story. I’d never seen the sketch pads before.
How had the damn things got into my parents’ room?
‘Sophie, we need to go.’ I span round to see Misfit at the threshold of the door, as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed in my parents’ room. ‘You OK?’ he added.
I stood staring at Misfit, not sure what to do or what to make of the discovery. I opened my mouth to tell him but then thought better of it. It didn’t matter how the sketch pads had got into the room or who had put them there. Without my mum and dad here to explain it, I’d never know. All I knew for certain was that they didn’t belong to anyone in my family. I closed my mouth and tossed the sketch pad on to the king size bed. ‘Yep,’ I said after a moment. ‘Yeah… Let’s go.’
Out in the landing, Clay stood with his back leaning against the cream wall, one leg raised and the sole of his foot pressed against the paintwork. I could just hear my mum’s voice saying, ‘Get that grubby boot off my clean wall!’ her voice failing to sound as stern as the words would suggest. Kay stood at the top of the stairs, her axe in her right hand, looking bored, while Charlotte regarded me with a comforting smile. I strode through the lot of them, my eyes front and centre, and stomped down the stairs.
At the bottom, I turned right into the dining room. My brain had time to register the wide, fear-filled eyes that came into view before me, peeping out from under a mop of dark brown floppy hair. Then I spotted the pickaxe clutched in two hands, raised in line with the stranger’s right shoulder. I ducked as he swung it at me, a grunt escaping his lips. From my crouched position, I glanced up to see that the pointed end of the pickaxe had been driven deep into the wall at head height – MY head height. The next thing I saw was Misfit’s body flying past me and diving head first into the stranger, the stranger’s hands still gripping the handle of the embedded pickaxe. As Misfit’s impact knocked the stranger back, he let go of the pickaxe, leaving it in the wall, and the pair of them slammed onto the dining room floor.
Misfit sat so he straddled the newcomer, pinning him to the floor on his back. He slammed his balled up fist into the side of the stunned gu
y’s head – once, twice – ‘Stop!’ I yelled, standing and launching myself into the room to tower above them both. Kay, Clay and Charlotte crowded behind me.
Misfit, panting with adrenaline, stopped, tattooed fist in mid air and glared down at the stranger. He looked older than me, but not much, maybe mid twenties, late twenties at most. His face – beneath the blood and developing bruises – was boyish and fleshy despite his skinny frame, and that made it hard to pin an age on him.
‘He almost killed you!’ said Misfit. He stood and grabbed the neck of the guy’s t-shirt, lifting his back off the carpet. ‘I’ll beat the fucking life outta you!’ He leant down so he spat the words into the new guy’s face.
The new guy raised his palms towards Misfit. ‘Please, no!’ he pleaded.
Misfit raised his fist again.
‘Misfit, stop!’ I said. I placed a hand on Misfit’s left arm and he turned to look at me, a crazed, wild look on his face that I’d never seen before. ‘He was just defending himself. Let him go,’ I added.
‘You almost had a fucking pickaxe through your head!’
‘Look at him,’ I said, nodding my head down to the pathetic quivering mess beneath Misfit. ‘He’s just one guy. He’s not a threat. Let him go. Let him go, Misfit.’
Misfit turned to look down at the stranger. His eyes, wide with fear, stared up at Misfit – waiting, wondering, preying not to get hit again – while his breathing came fast and erratic. Misfit let go of his t-shirt with a grunt and he shoved the new comer’s back into the floor. Misfit unstradled him and stood. For a moment, I thought he was going to kick the guy in the side. The new comer must have had the same thought because he scrambled backwards, using his elbows and feet to haul his arse along the carpet and out of Misfit’s reach.
I watched as the stranger tentatively touched the fingers of his right hand to his jaw where Misfit had belted him. I saw him wince as he felt the swollen skin. He moved his lower jaw to the left and right, all the time keeping his large brown eyes on Misfit. I could only see fear in those eyes, not malice. A desire not to get hit again – not a desire for retaliation.
‘Who are you and what are you doing in my house?’ I said. I stepped forwards so that I stood over him with my hands on my hips.
‘Your house?’ he said, propping himself up on his elbows. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe some blood that ran from his busted bottom lip and down his chin.
‘Yes, MY house.’
‘No way.’
‘What do you mean, “No way”? This is my fucking house!’
‘I was here first.’ He had shuffled further back until he reached the other end of the dining room and his head met with the radiator beneath the window. He used to radiator to ease himself up until he stood facing the rest of us.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘For fuck’s sake, I don’t need a fight about this, OK? There’s loads of places out there for the taking.’ He had his hands palms out towards us while he spoke. ‘Why d’you want this one?’
‘You almost put a hole in my friend’s head,’ said Kay, pushing forwards, her axe held in front of her. ‘That calls for a fight, fucktard!’
‘I… I–’
‘Whoa,’ I said as I placed a hand on Kay’s forearm to halt her. ‘This place is different,’ I said to the stranger.
‘It’s no bloody different,’ he said, cutting me off, ‘and I’ve been here for months. I just went out to scavenge and I come back and find you lot here. But, like I said, it’s not worth fighting over. Just let me get my stuff and leave, OK? Just don’t hurt me anymore.’
For the first time I noticed a black and red stripy jumper that I was sure didn’t belong to anyone in my family hung over the back of one of the dining chairs, and a sketch pad, like the ones I found in my parents’ room, lay on the table, a pencil beside it.
‘The drawing pads, they’re yours?’
‘Yeah. You want them as well as my home?’
I shook my head. ‘This isn’t your home. It’s mine. This is my family home.’
‘Your family home?’ The newcomer blanched as he spoke. ‘Like before the apocalypse?’
‘Yeah mate,’ said Clay. ‘We’re not here to kick you out, like. She just wanted to look for her family, right?’
His eyes flitted from each of us like a ball bearing in a pinball machine.
‘We’re the good guys, honest,’ said Charlotte. ‘What’s your name, sweetie?’
His eyes settled on Charlotte and widened, his face brightening slightly. ‘M-Mark,’ he said in a small voice. He turned back to the rest of us. ‘I just want to get my stuff and get out of here. I’m not out for any trouble.’ Mark took a tentative step forwards and stopped as though testing the ice on a frozen lake, waiting for the crack to appear.
‘No, wait,’ I said. ‘Please I need to know–’
‘I’m sorry for almost braining you. I knew you weren’t zombies because the back door was shut so I can’t use that as my excuse. But I’ve had trouble with gangs before and… well, I’m not as trusting as I used to be.’
‘You and us all,’ I said. ‘There are some bad people out there but we’re not them, trust me.’
‘I wish I could.’
‘You can.’
‘OK. OK, you’re not the bad guys. And I’m sorry, I could’ve killed you.’
‘So you don’t need to rush off,’ I said, taking a step closer to Mark. His eyes flicked from me to the pad on the table and back to me. I saw fear in his eyes that suggested he still didn’t trust us. But why should he? I didn’t expect him to trust us just because I asked him too. Trust had to be earned, more than ever in this day and age.
‘I just want to go and I’d rather leave with my stuff. But–’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I need to ask you something.’
‘Just let me go.’
‘What’s his bloody problem?’ said Kay.
I ignored her and took another step towards Mark so I stood a few feet from him. ‘Please. I need to know.’
Mark stared at me for a few seconds before answering. ‘No you don’t,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just let me get my sketch pads and I’ll be gone and you can have your home back.’ Looking at the floor he added, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I need you to tell me. You know that don’t you? You know!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Mark looked up at me sheepishly as he said the words.
He didn’t need to say any more. Tears, warm and salty, streamed down my cheeks. A tattooed arm wrapped itself around my shoulders. I saw the word ‘Life’ as Misfit placed his palm against my chest.
‘Tell her what she needs to know,’ said Misfit.
‘Were my family here when you arrived?’ I demanded.
Mark stared at me. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I–’
‘Don’t lie, Mark. I just need to know what happened to them.’
‘There was no one–’
‘DON’T LIE! Why’d you look so guilty if they weren’t here? They were here, weren’t they?’
Mark, his eyes wide, thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think so.’
I nodded. ‘All three of them?’ I asked. ‘The ones in the photograph with me?’ I nodded towards a framed photo – me, Mum, Dad and Jake on holiday in Spain a few years back.
‘Is that you?’ said Mark. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised… Yes. That was them.’
My legs sagged but Misfit held me up. ‘What did you do with them?’
Mark’s gaze fell to the floor and I noticed the dark stains on the carpet for the first time. I began to breathe much faster than is healthy. ‘My pickaxe,’ he said, refusing to look me in the eye as he spoke.
‘Was it easy to do – killing my family, was it easy?’ I couldn’t take my eyes away from the stains. ‘Was it here? Is this where you killed my family? Well, is it?’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Mark, glancing at me through his overgrown fringe. ‘I needed somewhere to
stay and… and they were… It was…’
‘It was what?’
A hand touched my arm. ‘If they were… zombies… He had no choice, sweetie,’ said Charlotte.
Mark’s gaze flicked between me and Charlotte as he bit his lower lip. I thought I saw his features relax a little.
‘What did you do with the bodies?’ I said, ignoring Charlotte.
Mark stared at his trainers. ‘Please, don’t do–’
‘WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE BODIES OF MY MUM, DAD AND LITTLE BROTHER?’
Mark’s voice broke as he spoke the words, ‘They were zombies when I got here, just like she said,’ he said quickly, nodding towards Charlotte. ‘I killed – I put them down and I put them over the fence into next door’s garden.’
‘You didn’t even bury them? You killed my family and you just dumped them over a fence!’
‘Sophie, how many zombies have you buried after you killed them?’ asked Misfit.
I glared at him. Him of all people! I mean, I knew I was being ridiculous but it’s not every day you meet the person who killed your family, even if they did have a good excuse in that my family were zombies. My anger overruled my rationality and Misfit should support me in that. ‘That was my family!’
‘I DIDN’T KNOW THAT!’ yelled Mark, his voice much louder than you’d imagine his petite frame could support. His words snapped me out of my tantrum. I stared at Mark, my jaw hanging open. ‘I’m so sorry but your family were dead long before I got here.’
January 4, 9am
I’m sitting on my bed as I write this. I got most of it down yesterday evening, how, two days ago, I finally found out what happened to my family. I knew, really. I had known all along that they were dead. And I now know for sure that their suffering is over. I can only guess that neither Mum nor Dad could put Jake down when he turned and that decision led to them getting bit too.
Mark refused to tell me any details. He wanted to leave; I can only imagine how awkward he must have felt, being around me. But, it had been getting dark that night and it would have been crazy for him to leave before day break. He was going to leave yesterday but it was raining hard all day – a proper nasty storm – so he agreed to stay until today. But I don’t want him to leave. I haven’t finished with him. Mark is the last link to my family and I’m not ready to let him go.
Blog of the Dead (Book 3): Lost Page 8
