January 15, 8am
I just asked Mark if I could look at his comics. He replied with a flat, ‘No’. Not totally unexpected. I said I just want to see the bit with my family and that I deserved to see what happened to them. Mark went white then red then said, ‘I said, no’ and he stomped off with his backpack clutched to his chest. But then Misfit sauntered up to me and asked if I’d like to go hunting with him and that distracted me completely.
Back when we lived in the camp in Folkestone – I talk like it was ages ago instead of just weeks ago. It just feels like years ago – whenever I asked to go hunting with him he’d always say no. He’d explain that I might disturb the animals because I’m not used to moving as quietly as a hunter needs to, and it was better he go alone. He used to invite me fishing, where there was no danger I could fuck anything up with my clumsy feet. Just not hunting. So when he asked me to go with him I was like, ‘Um, yeah. OK’, with a shrug and what I imagine was a confused, uncertain expression, as if I’d maybe misheard or misunderstood and I didn’t want to embarrass myself if I’d got his intentions wrong. But Misfit just went, ‘Cool’ and smiled a full smile. So I’m just jotting this down quick because he’s waiting for me downstairs. I’m pretty excited to be doing something new!
2pm
There was something weird about Misfit’s body language as we strode through the streets of Guildford on our way to Stoke Park. Before we left, we debated whether or not to drive and decided against it. The camper’s engine was noisy and could scare off livestock before we had even arrived, as well as draw a welcoming committee. I’d begun to notice for myself what others had been mentioning, that zombies were swarming a little more. As their food supply – us – dwindled, causing them to get weaker, I suppose they were compensating by forming larger groups. Strength in numbers. Was that some form of zombie evolution?
On the way to the park, I had to walk quickly to keep up with Misfit. He strode with purpose and kept his eyes straight ahead. He didn’t speak. I wondered if he’d regretted his decision to bring me along. Even when we spied small groups of zombies up ahead, he marched towards them, despatched them quickly and moved on. I followed suit.
I resisted the temptation to ask him if I’d done something wrong. I didn’t know how I’d handle it if he answered with a, ‘Yes’ and it would mean I’d have to confront whatever the problem was, maybe even have to admit some weakness or flaw – and who likes doing that? So instead, I racked my brain to figure out what I could have done.
Whenever I’ve upset someone, I’m much better if I can work it out for myself, then I can process where I went wrong and when the injured party finally brings it up, I can explain myself calmly instead of being all defensive. Not that I go around upsetting people, I’ve never been someone to do that. I’d rather upset myself than upset someone else. But we all get it wrong sometimes, right? I’m just no good if someone confronts me before I’ve figured it out. That’s when I’m likely to growl or even bite. Then I’ll go away and think about it until I realise, actually, they’re right, I messed up.
I racked my brain to see if I could remember doing anything to piss Misfit off. I couldn’t think of anything. Not since me, Kay and Sean were playing in the snow when we should have been keeping watch on the supermarket we were all holed up in, while Misfit risked his life to go hunting for fresh food for Sara. Even though he’s never said it, I know he worked it out. But he couldn’t still be annoyed about that, could he? He wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. Misfit existed only in the here and now.
We turned off Stoke Road and into Nightingale Road and edged through the black metal gate into Stoke Park. I spent a lot of time here, growing up; picnics, playing in the children’s play area, the paddling pool, tearing through the gardens, the football pitches and woodland areas. I came less as I grew older, but even as teenagers we hung out in the park – sunbathing on the grass or hiding in the woods to smoke cigarettes that always made me feel sick.
What a difference a zombie apocalypse makes: the ornamental gardens were overgrown and had been reclaimed by nature; grass, flowerbeds and hedges that had been so tamed by man had now been released into the wild. As we travelled further into the park, I noticed that Misfit’s stride slowed and his shoulders relaxed and, for the first time since leaving the house, he cast me a sideways look. So quick, it was gone before I could read it.
The damp, knee height grass on the football pitch soaked the bottoms of my skinny jeans and right through my Converse, to my socks. I saw trails in what had become a wild meadow, where the grass had been flattened by dead feet, feet too useless to lift up and over the grass as we did. A couple of zombies lumbered through the long grass a little way ahead. They spotted us and turned in our direction but both looked in danger of tripping as they stumbled through the tangled grass. As we strolled towards the zombies, I had to step over or around the occasional sprawled body, evidence of Misfit’s previous hunting trip here.
Misfit reached the zombies before me and slid the blade of his hunting knife through the ear of one in a suit and tie, looking out of place in the wild surroundings. He’d already slain the next zombie, female, a teenager with a short floral skirt and thick black tights covering her rotting legs. She’d managed to avoid getting any holes in her tights, which was impressive, though she did have a large, bloody hole in her white t-shirt, exposing the large bloody hole in her stomach. Still, some great quality tights she had on there. I wondered, as I slammed my blade through the eye of a short, podgy zombie with a beer gut, bloated even further in death, what make the tights were. But then, I doubted I’d ever wear tights again. I did occasionally wear them pre-apocalypse when the urge to wear a dress or skirt reared itself. It didn’t happen often, I always felt uncomfortable in tights – all hemmed in, like a sausage in a skin.
Zombies dealt with we ploughed on, me following Misfit until we reached Jubilee Wood. The whole park had been eerily quiet without the visitors playing tennis or football, and without the kids running and screaming or families chatting and laughing. But, once under the cover of sparse trees, a deep, shrouded silence descended and the crisp winter air dulled to a musty, damp earthy aroma. Something about being in a wood, even though it is still outside, made me feel more secure, no longer exposed. Maybe that’s why Misfit did what he did next or maybe he had it planned all along and that’s why he’d been so weird earlier.
He stopped a little way into the wood and scanned the area, his eyes darting from tree to tree. I followed with my own eyes and could see no zombies. I guessed Misfit was checking for signs of wildlife. I didn’t know how he hunted, what his processes were. I watched as he slipped his knife through his belt. I imagined it was to free his hands to make a trap or something. But I was wrong. He turned to me and slid his backpack from his shoulder, letting it drop to the ground. He placed the palm of his right hand against my left cheek and before I could speculate any further he slid the hand around to the back of my head, his fingers grabbing a handful of hair and he pulled me towards him.
As our lips met, I felt his free hand slip around my waist and he held me as he pressed his body against mine while we kissed. We kissed gently, our lips touching lightly, only slightly open and staying pressed together for long moments each time as though we each needed the other to breathe. Then we’d unwillingly pull apart, only to join together once more. As the kisses became deeper and tongues began to join in, I let my knife slip from my hand and I wrapped my arms around Misfit’s waist, feeling the strength in his skinny but muscled body.
I wanted Misfit like I had never wanted anything or anyone. I closed my eyes losing myself in his kisses. I was only aware of his lips as they moved against mine and of his hands as they explored my body. He pulled away from me, breaking the spell – I feel so clichéd calling it a spell but, fuck it, it was – and I was surprised to notice I was panting, breathless – oh heck, how do I explain all this without sounding like a Mills and Boon novel? – and I watched as Misfit ripped off his
checked shirt and tossed it to the dusty ground, before pulling his jumper and t-shirt over his head, leaving his chest bare. I shrugged off my biker jacket, then, looking into each other’s eyes, Misfit slipped my shirt down my shoulders. I tugged the shirt off the rest of the way and let Misfit lift my t-shirt over my head.
I shivered as the chill, damp air brought me out in goosebumps and Misfit wrapped his arms around me, skin touching skin. His skin was warm, and I felt a little guilty that I was leaching his warmth into my icy flesh. But he didn’t seem to notice or care. His hands went around to the front of my body and he tugged at my belt before undoing my jeans. Despite them being ‘skinny’ jeans, I had, in fact, out-skinnied my jeans, due to the restricted ‘post-apocalypse’ diet that was all the rage these days, and the jeans slipped easily down my legs with very little interaction by me. Without stopping kissing, I used the toe of my right foot to ease my left foot out of my boot, then used my cold, damp socked foot to ease off the right Converse.
Having an absolute aversion to being seen in just my underwear with my socks still on, I paused, pulled away from Misfit and bent down to remove my grubby socks. Misfit took advantage of this break to slide out of his boots and jeans, and then we were together again, our near-naked bodies trembling from the cold and excitement, touching and feeling – to me – like this is exactly why our two bodies were made, to fit together like this. I’d never experienced anything like it, so much pleasure just from kissing and touching. I was like, Zombies, what zombies? Apocal-what-now?
Part of me somewhere knew it was far too cold to be as naked as we were – but this wasn’t the kind of sex where any clothing is left on, this was the kind of sex where everything is bared – and, more importantly, I knew it was far too dangerous, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. Misfit kissed my neck, moving downwards. I felt the delightful feeling of my bra releasing as Misfit undid it, he pulled it off and carried on kissing my body, down further. I threw my head back, enjoying each surge of pleasure. He straightened up and before I knew it, he was kissing me on the lips again. He released me and I watched as he grabbed some of our fallen clothing and laid it out on the cold, hard ground. When he was done, I lay down on the clothes and Misfit lowered himself on top of me.
We kissed slowly but passionately, savouring every moment while our bodies found each other. All I will say from that point on is that Misfit has a lot of stamina – a fuck of a lot of stamina. And another thing I will say is – WOW – just fucking WOW!!!
Afterwards, we lay for a moment, both of us still panting while the heat we generated kept us warm against the chill January air. I couldn’t help noticing how all the fear, anger and sadness from the last year and three months just vanished and I felt relaxed, serene even. Trouble free.
As I lay in Misfit’s arms, I gazed into his eyes. ‘I love you, Sophie,’ he said and he kissed my forehead before adding. ‘I always have.’
I smiled and touched his cheek with my fingertips. ‘I love you too,’ I said, tracing the shape of his lips. ‘I always have. It just took me a while to figure it out.’
‘You have now.’
‘I have now.’
I had begun to shiver with the cold. Misfit released me and sat up, rooting through the dusty clothing on the ground beneath us. He located some of my things and handed them to me.
‘Get dressed before you freeze,’ he said, gathering his own clothes.
Despite the fact I was now shaking uncontrollably, I still waited a moment and watched as Misfit slipped his boxers on, wanting to savour the last moments of our first time together.
‘Get dressed,’ he said with a wide grin. ‘Though given the choice, I wish we could stay like this the whole day.’
‘Me too,’ I said and reluctantly pulled on my own underwear.
I continued to shiver, even after I had pulled on my biker jacket – what used to be Misfit’s biker jacket that I had nicked because it had always helped me to feel close to him, even when he wasn’t around. Now I had been closer to him than I ever had. There was no going back, even if I wanted to.
Fully dressed, we hugged each other tightly, our bodies remembering what it was like when there were no clothes in the way. We kissed gently and slowly until I pulled away from him. ‘Misfit,’ I began, ‘d’you wanna move in with me?’
‘Into your bedroom?’
‘Yeah. If you think you’ll be able to break the news to Clay.’
Misfit laughed. ‘I can do that.’
We emerged from the wood to see a mass of zombies lumbering through the long grass towards us. I saw some of them sniffing at the air. ‘Fuck,’ I said, pulling my knife from my belt.
‘Yeah, I second that,’ said Misfit.
Misfit, knife in hand moved forwards towards the horde. I placed my hand on his forearm to halt him. ‘No,’ I said, realising there were way too many for just the two of us to handle, so many that I couldn’t count and couldn’t figure out where they had all come from, let alone how they had found us. ‘Back through the wood, there’s a way out on the other side of the park.’
The pair of us backed away, turned and re-entered the wood, trotting even though we knew the zombies couldn’t catch us at their slow pace. I scanned the wood for any sign of zombies between the trees and I saw Misfit doing the same. We emerged from the trees and ran through overgrown grass. I could see more zombies, around ten swarming towards us from our right. I led Misfit into Peacock Wood to get some cover and, eyes peeled, we made it out onto Parkway, turning left, where we could make our way around the park on the roadside.
Even though the streets remained horde free, we both ran all the way home.
When we returned to the house, the place was empty. A note sat on the dining table explaining that the others had gone scavenging.
‘Shit, I feel a bit bad we didn’t bring anything back,’ said Misfit. He scratched at the back of his head as he spoke.
I reached over and pulled a dried up leaf out of his long sandy-coloured hair. ‘Nobody will mind…’
‘I’ll mind. You stay here and I’ll head out.’
‘You can’t go back to the park.’
‘I know. I’ll find somewhere to hunt.’
‘There are so many zombies.’
‘I know. I’ll be OK.’
‘Let someone else take responsibility for feeding us for once.’
‘I want to go. I enjoy it.’
‘We could make better use of the time,’ I said, moving up close to him.
‘Sounds lovely,’ said Misfit. ‘And we will as soon as I get at least a rabbit or two from somewhere.’
‘I’ll come.’
‘No. I’ll hunt better on my own. You’ll scare everything off with your clumsy size eights.’
‘You had that planned all along earlier, didn’t you?’
‘Busted.’ Misfit leant forwards and kissed me on the forehead. His eyes found mine and he smiled before kissing my lips. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said and, with his backpack over his shoulder, he was gone.
Bored, I wrote in my diary, until I remembered something – Mark’s sketch pads… the comics.
I wondered if he’d left them in the house…
10pm
I doubted Mark would have left the comics lying around, seeing as he had them stashed in his backpack permanently attached to his back most of the time when he wasn’t working on them. But I was wrong. Maybe he had relaxed a little since setting up home with Charlotte. Or perhaps he felt he’d got to know us now and felt comfortable leaving them in his room, I don’t know. But that’s where I found them. All of them. I know it was morbid, but I just had to see for myself.
I picked up the most recent pad, even though I knew I’d have to go back a few months to find my parents’ part. I just wanted to get a feel for Mark’s work. I opened it at the current page and flicked a few pages back from there. Sure enough, there we were, right after all the recent sketches that were pretty much all of Charlotte – me, Misfit, Kay, Charlotte an
d Clay arriving at the house. And there was Mark. Although he didn’t really look that much like Mark. He had his pickaxe and the clothes were similar but that’s where the likeness ended. Comic book Mark was a tall, muscular man with close cropped hair and a cigarette permanently hanging from his smirking lips. A scar ran from beneath the inner corner of his left eye to end just below the end of his flared nostril. He looked like he ate zombies on toast for breakfast and psychos flambéed for lunch and dinner.
There was a whole scene with Mark catching us in the house. My brow rose as I scanned images of Mark overpowering Misfit while the rest of us cowered from him. We each had speech bubbles from our mouths showing us pleading for our lives and begging him to let us shelter from the zombies in the house. Comic Book Mark managed, single-handedly, to restrain us all and tie us to chairs in the dining room and he questioned us to make sure we weren’t psychos intent on stealing his supplies and killing him in the night. Eventually he was satisfied with our stories (that we were a hopeless group of scavengers who had no idea how we’d managed to survive in the zombie apocalypse without someone like him – a brave zombie slaying expert – to keep us safe). Wow, I’m so bloody glad we ran into Mark, I mean, how on earth have we coped without him? And, well, who knew?
I let the front cover fall over the neat, well drawn sketches and dropped the pad to the floor. I picked up another pad and opened it randomly. The sketches were good, really good, all done in pencil and in a style I can only describe as simple but detailed, if that makes any sense at all? I liked how he drew the zombies with big buggy eyes and wisps of hair, the hair slightly longer on the females and short and spiky on the males. The females all wore a similar simple dress and the males wore suits that hung on their emaciated frames. As uniformed as the zombies were, their wounds were the only thing that set them apart from each other. Some had missing jaws, some had torn out chests, others had their throats ripped open. There were zombies with chunks of flesh missing from their cheeks, some were missing an arm or had a broken, twisted foot. Each one unique and beautifully – yes, beautifully – drawn.
Blog of the Dead (Book 3): Lost Page 11
