by RR Haywood
‘Er….What?’ Cookey tries to sound brave but his voice breaks mid speech, his hands already tremble from hearing the laughing again and his name being called out.
‘Ignore it,’ I hiss under my breath. ‘Clarence, stay with….’
‘Already with him,’ the big man rumbles.
‘Oh Coooookeeeyyyyyy….do you like trifle?’ Hissing and not quite right, ragged and hoarse. A goading tone of venomous intent, ‘Trifle hahahahahaha….Cooooooooookeeeyyyy likes trifle….’
‘What…what the fuck…I don’t, er….’ Cookey shakes his head and swallows, the blood draining from his face.
‘I thought clowns had custard pies?’ I ask nonchalantly.
‘He’s fucked it up.’ Nick nods getting the idea, ‘you’ve fucked it up mate,’ he yells, ‘custard pies not trifle you fucking arse monkey.’
‘That’s my…my insult…’ Cookey croaks.
‘It is a trifffffffliiiiiiing pity Cooooooookeeeyyyyyyyyy.’
Blowers takes several big strides towards the shadowy exit, enough strides to have me calling his name in warning, ‘come out here fucktard,’ Blowers yells, ‘come on…’
‘Coooookeeeyyyyyy likes trifle hahahahaha and Coooookeeyyyyy likes CLOWNS.’ The voice booms round the enclosed space. Cookey jumps out of his skin forcing Clarence to grab hold of him, ‘easy lad, stay with me,’ he mutters with a look of dark thunder on his face.
‘I like clowns,’ Blowers yells, his voice almost quavering with anger, ‘come out and play with me…come on…’ Nick joins Blowers, the both of them fronting up to the unseen menace and both clearly livid at having their mate taunted with his deepest fear.
From the corner of my eyes I catch a quick exchange between Jagger and Mo Mo, a nod from one to the other, something prompted or a message passed.
‘Clowning about….Coooookeeyyyyy is a clown not to be trifled with….his blood…..his bloooooood is dirty now……dirty blooooood in Cooooookeeeeyyyyy hahahahaha.’
‘S’fucked up innit,’ Jagger remarks.
‘Fact bruv,’ Mo Mo is quick to reply.
‘Fuckin’ clowns…’
‘Grown men, bruv,’ Mo Mo nods, ‘grown men wearin’ fuckin’ make-up innit…fuckin’ dressin’ up like bitches and scarin’ kids…fucked up….’
Jagger sucks his teeth, a perfect sound of disdain. ‘Yo mate,’ he yells, ‘you’s some fucked up pikey or what?’
‘Pikey in a caravan,’ Mo Mo adds.
‘Fuckin’ pikey livin’ in a caravan wearin’ fucked up make-up like Ronald fucking Macdonald.’
‘He’s a cunt,’ Mo Mo shouts.
‘You’s a cunt mate, you’s a cunt yeah? What kind of cunt are ya?’
‘An ugly fuckin cunt.’
‘Innit,’ Jagger laughs, ‘you’s some fucked up ugly pikey cunt livin’ in a fuckin’ pikey caravan wearin’ a big red nose…’
‘Oi cunt,’ Mo Mo shouts, ‘your pikey caravan got a tv has it? You’s got a tv?’
‘Cunt don’t have no tv…’ Jagger laughs, ‘pikey’s don’t watch tv….they’s fuckin’ steal shit…’
‘ Cooooookeeeeeyyyyy….do you like….’
‘PIKEYS?’ Mo Mo cuts the voice off, ‘do you like Pikeys?’ He turns to Cookey.
‘Hahahahahahaha Jagger and Mohammed sitting in a tree K.I.S.S.I.N.G….’
That just sets them off pissing themselves with genuine laughter, ‘yeah bruv….harsh comeback,’ Mo Mo shouts.
‘Mohammed…the lost Muslim…disowned by your family….tell me Mohammed…tell me what your father said to you before he left? The mocking, goading tone continues but it’s louder now, forcing the words out.
‘He said,’ Mo Mo affects a quiet hurt voice, ‘he hates pikey cunts and clowns.’ He bursts out laughing. ‘Mate,’ he sighs, ‘when you’s come from our place and you’s get used to shit like that every fucking day innit…come ON!’ He shouts, ‘you’s coming out or what? You a pussy? Oi pussy? You comin’ out are ya?’
‘He ain’t coming out,’ Jagger joins in, ‘he’s a pussy hiding in the shadows .’
‘They try Coooookeeeeyyyy, they try and defend you Cooooookeeeyyyyyyy…I’m coming for you Coooookee….’ The sound is cut off by a gurgling noise. The arrow, already nocked and ready, was being quietly aimed by Roy making small adjustments each time the voice spoke. On the final word he loosed and listened with head cocked, a small nod of satisfaction at hearing the thud and gurgle come as the body is slammed to the ground with an arrow through its neck.
Stunned silence. None of them expecting the shot. ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ Roy smiles round at the group.
‘Holy shit,’ Jagger stares with his mouth open.
‘Huhhuhhuhhuh,’ the laughter this time is deep and slow. The squeaking starts again, intermittent but quicker than last time, getting closer too. Roy nocks and makes ready, Dave draws his pistol to hold down at his side. Clarence tightens his grip on Cookey’s shoulder. Lani draws her meat cleaver. Nick and Blowers stand proud and ready in front of us all. ‘Huhuhuhuhuhuhuh.’
‘Fuck it,’ Cookey gasps, ‘I can’t take it…fuck this…can we go? Please…can we go?’
‘We’re going nowhere,’ I reply with my eyes fixed on the direction of the sound, ‘don’t fire, Roy.’
Hefting my axe I start towards the sound. ‘Everyone stay here,’ I give the order in such a tone that does not invite a response. This is psychological warfare. Mind games. Any trace of humour is gone as I let my mind settle and focus on destroying everything I can find in those shadows. I love my team and seeing Cookey scared witless like that has provoked a reaction that they are going to regret.
They charge before I can take ten steps. From the shadows they pour fetid, diseased, filthy, bedraggled and so fucking weird. Weirder than anything I have seen so far.
Zombie clowns cycle out on squeaking, child sized cycles. Acrobats flip over and over, dressed in torn and bloody tight leotards that still sparkle from the glittering material. Somersaults, flips, cartwheels and they race into the central area, forcing me back towards my group as we regress back into our tight circle.
‘HELLO COOKEY!’ One of the clowns shouts. Orange afro wigs, blood stained, white, silk, baggy jump suits, pale faces and big, black smeared, panda eyes. They laugh in unison and everyone one of them keeps their gaze fixed on Cookey being protected in the middle.
We watch the spectacle, stunned at the almost synchronised display unfolding around us. The acrobats leap and twirl like Dave when he’s mid fight. Larger men dressed in the same tight leotards stride out with such normality that unless you looked at their shredded faces you wouldn’t know they were infected. Big men follow with hulking shoulders, thick arms, legs and necks. Circus strong men used to chucking cannon balls about and lifting several acrobats high into the air. The last one out is huge. Fucking monstrous in size. Bigger than Clarence and his hands, arms and face are stained with dried congealed blood from the many kills he must have got.
‘I think he’s yours,’ I nod at the big circus man while glancing at Clarence. He shrugs and lifts his eyebrows.
‘Had bigger,’ he mutters.
‘This it?’ I shout at the motley crew of undead circus twats, ‘this your lot is it? Dave, you can let Meredith go…’ No sooner are the words out of my mouth than his hand opens. Meredith is off, charging with her eyes fixed on one big prize. I can almost see her staring hungrily at the meaty arm bulging with muscles. The giant takes her charge in and braces his feet ready for the impact. Fool. Only an idiot waits to withstand a charging Meredith. She makes light work of him. This is a game to her, an easy game and he’s bleeding on the floor with most of his neck removed within about five seconds.
‘Pity,’ Clarence remarks, ‘was looking forward to that.’
An acrobat runs straight at us. A male with strong legs and a lithe body. He leaps high, intending to clear us by sailing overhead. Dave shoots him mid-flight, straight through the head and his skull puffs out in a pink mist as he slumps down
in a heap.
They look dazzling, they look scary, strong, fit, fast and weird. But we’ve got scary, strong, fit, fast and weird too. And our scary, strong, fit, fast and weird outmatches them easily.
Cookey takes his fear and manifests it into rage. He learns how to channel it and with all the skills he’s picked up, he becomes something very serious and very deadly. Charging from the team with axe in hand he sets about the first clown cycling by, pretty much cutting him in half. Then we’re all at it. Dave shows the acrobats what he can do. Clarence has a chat with the circus strong men while the rest of us finish them off. They turn within seconds, going from the weird dazzling display to all out ramped up undead and something we are now very familiar with.
Fourteen
The stench of iron hangs in the air. A metallic but earthy and natural smell that comes from the blood of the many cut down by Gregori. Throat after throat sliced open to spray deep crimson arterial blood high into the air. So much blood lies pooled on the road that it laps at the kerb side and forms ripples each time a new body slumps down to join the others.
The boy sleeps, fitfully, not quite silently, but he sleeps. He dreams of his mother while Gregori does everything in his power to protect him. Gregori could run, he could walk off and be out of sight within a few seconds. He could lie low until the dawn, find a car and head south, find a boat and be gone from this place. What holds him here is something he doesn't know himself.
Finally the last body is taken down and Gregori stands back to admire his work. Always assessing his own actions, what could he have done better, how could have done it differently. Satisfied that he performed adequately against so many assailants he checks his weapons. The Turkish kebab knives have worked far better than he gave them credit for. They are good steel and well maintained but are becoming blunt now. They’ll do for a bit longer. The two pistols are still tucked in his waistband safe and secure and, as yet, unused.
The blood on him is an issue. How can he carry the boy when covered in so much gore? This has to be rectified but how? He can’t leave the boy here while he goes to clean up, nor can he pick the boy up.
A quandary of epic proportions and one that has him flummoxed. Several times he goes to move then stops, unsure of what to do and how to do it. He looks round, searching for something to use but the blood on him is so thick a mere rag will not suffice. He spots a window to a clothes shop and considers smashing it to get clean clothes. But the alarm will go off and wake the boy. No good. The pub across the road will have water to use, but again that means leaving the boy.
With a frown he steps round the bodies to peer into the deep doorway of the store, watching the steady rise and fall of the child as he sleeps with his back turned to the carnage. Maybe he could pick him up then they can both get washed up?
He looks down at his perfectly red hands dripping with blood, his sleeves the same, his chest, neck and his trousers too.
‘Hey,’ a weak, scared voice comes from behind. Gregori spins, dropping one knife to yank a pistol free and already up and locked on the target by the time his body has completed the rotation. ‘Don’t shoot!’ the man whimpers and drops down into a half crouch with his hands above his head, ‘please…shit, please…’
Gregori watches him closely, looking for any signs of the man being infected or behaving like the others. But he’s just a civilian, terrified and gibbering with tears spilling down his face. He lowers the pistol and flicks his gaze back to the boy.
‘I saw you,’ the man gabbles, ‘I saw you…’ he repeats as though just by saying the words again he can make sense of what he saw, ‘you…all of them…you did all of them…what’s happened? What’s happening?’
Gregori doesn't answer but stares back at the man now tentatively approaching. Gregori watches him closely, staring at his height and build. Perfect.
‘Give me clothes,’ guttural and gruff.
‘What?’ The man stops walking and stares in complete shock. Wide eyed. Slack jawed, his mouth moves to speak but no words come out, ‘what?’
‘Give me clothes,’ Gregori snaps and lifts the pistol.
‘Okay…no…no…you want clothes? Shit…er…I can get some…I’ll get some…er…’
‘No. You clothes. Give me now.’
It’s too much for the man to compute. Bodies everywhere. Shit, piss and blood stenches hang in the air. He saw this man slaughter them one by one with just two knives. Like something from a movie but…but it was real. The sight of the pistol aimed steadily at his head has his fingers working before his brain catches up. The black short sleeve shirt is undone and slipped off.
‘I…’
‘No speak,’ Gregori orders, ‘clothes,’ he waggles the gun forcing the man to go faster.
‘Okay,’ he gabbles, ‘shit man…oh my god…fuck, I mean…’
‘Speak and I kill,’ Gregori stares, impassioned and cold, not a tremor of emotion displays on his face. Weeping tears of fear, the man rushes to strip off.
‘Water.’
‘What?’
‘Need water…blood…too much…water.’
‘I’ll get it,’ the man nods, ‘I work here,’ he tries to motion behind him but his body trembles too much, ‘I’m a barman…er…shit, please don’t kill me…’
‘I count,’ Gregori states quietly, ‘One minute…water…or I kill.’
‘Okay, okay….please…’ the man starts to back away, heading for the door after placing his clothes neatly down on a patch of clean pavement. He turns to run and Gregori knows he’ll come back. He’s seen fear like that many times. The man will not even consider running off or going for a back door.
Within the allotted minute, the man is running back out into the street carrying bottles of water and cloths from behind the bar, running so fast he comes to a sudden stop at the place he laid the clothes down. Gregori waves the gun, motioning the man to put the water down before he strolls over.
Moving calmly, Gregori places the two pistols at his feet beside the knives. He starts to undress, staring hard at the man until he is completely, and unashamedly naked. Using the water bottles he sluices the gore from his body, rubbing vigorously to get the already ingrained scum off himself. Then he waits. He watches the young barman while letting the hot night air dry his skin. The man stares at him, then looks away. Tears still sting his eyes but he doesn't speak. His bottom lip trembles and his nerves are so great he doesn’t know how to stand, whether to fold his arms, put them in his pockets or stand smartly with them held in front.
Gregori dresses in the black trousers and black short sleeve shirt. Black is a colour he would only wear for covert missions. It was too suggestive, too easily noticeable. Greys and light pastel shades would have been preferable, but at least they’re clean.
He tucks the pistols back into his belt then uses another bottle of water to wash the blood from the knives, drying them thoroughly on a clean cloth left aside for that very purpose.
‘Wait,’ the man calls out when Gregori turns and walks off, ‘what…where…where you going?’
Gregori turns, stares hard then carries on walking. The man is no longer of interest to him. Not a threat. Not a risk. Worthless.
Gently he pushes his arms under the boys sleeping form and lifts him easily into the same one arm carrying position. Without a word uttered to the semi-naked barman, he walks off heading towards the dark shadows and away from this place of death.
Fifteen
‘Cheers.’ Nick hands me the bottle of Pepsi found in the debris of what was once the snack shop within the circus big top. ‘I prefer Coca Cola.’ The blue label seems so foreign now. Such an alien thing but yet so familiar. Something about the sight of it upsets my mind and makes me bite the rage down while I twist the cap off and glug the warm sugary content. Energy. That’s all it is. Just glucose and energy. It doesn't matter that this bottle represents a world now gone. There are hundreds of things in plain sight that represent the old world, all of this shit scattered abou
t was once made for the old world. But this bottle. This bottle in my hands harks to a period in my life when everything seemed innocent and nice. The advertising wars between the two mammoth Cola producers. Who could get the biggest stars on their adverts. Who could sponsor the biggest sporting events. Shit, that in itself was mass deception on an international level. Finely tuned athletes promoted by a drink so full of sugar it could actually make you diabetic.
Still. The sugar is good now. It surges into my system, replenishing the lost electrolytes from running, fighting, shouting and killing. There’s blood everywhere again but the sight of blood, guts and mangled corpses has become more familiar to me than this fucking bottle now.
I can describe in graphic detail what entrails look like, what a human heart feels and even bloody tastes like. What colour the liver is. I can spot the lungs of a smoker from the dismembered corpses, their intestines, kidney, liver, bowel. I know what bone looks like when it’s fractured, broken, splintered, cut cleanly or torn apart by the teeth of a German Shepherd.
How did they make this drink though? No fucking clue. I can tell you the benefits of a double versus single headed axe in the use of killing humans. What strikes work best depending on positioning. I can re-load a shotgun or 9mm pistol with my eyes closed. I can use a hand-held knife to slice throats open and know the fastest ways to kill a human with my bare hands. I’m not Dave. None of us have his level of skill, but all of us have become proficient at what we do now. Killing.
Scavengers that will survive on the shit left over from the old world. We eat the crap junk food to boost our sugar levels, giving us carbohydrates so we can get back up and carry on killing. We drink when we get the chance and kill no matter what chances we get.
Look at them. How the fuck have we survived when so many have perished? The answer is right there. Sitting quietly and as strategically close to me as he always is. Dave.
‘How long do you think it took to learn that shit,’ I ask Dave with a nod towards the pile of dead acrobat zombies he killed so easily.
