by Hatchett
Mamba noticed that Ahmed had stooped down to listen as well.
“I like that tune,” Ahmed whispered.
Mamba shook his head in absolute disgust before standing back up. Ahmed joined him.
“There’s someone in there,” Ahmed suggested, still whispering.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Mamba mocked, whispering back. “Of course, there’s someone in there ya fuckin’ plank. The music ain’t gonna play by itself. The question is ‘who’s in there’.”
“Well, it’s gotta be Jamelia, ‘er boyfriend Gary or Gavin or whatever his name is, or Jamelia’s two girls,” Ahmed surmised.
“Well, let’s fuckin’ find out,” Mamba replied, making sure his knife was in his hand before knocking lightly on the door.
There was no answer so he knocked again a little louder. There was the sound of footsteps before a voice came through the door. “Who is it?”
‘Good, it’s Jamelia,’ Mamba thought with a slight smile. He nodded to Ahmed to answer.
“It’s Ahmed.”
“Ahmed who?”
“Ahmed from across the road. Ya know who I am.”
There was a pause as Jamelia considered what was going on.
“What do ya want? I’d heard ya were dead.”
Ahmed ignored the question and asked one of his own, “Who said I was dead?”
“They’re all talkin’ ‘bout it across the road. Ya had some run in with another group and they wiped ya out.”
“Hardly,” Ahmed replied. “If that was the case then I wouldn’t be here, so open up before I kick the fuckin’ door in.”
The door was swiftly unlatched and the door swung open. Jamelia knew there was no point in refusing, especially if the 39 Stepz were still around and the grapevine was wrong. They ruled the area and her life wouldn’t be worth living if she got on the wrong side of them. She just couldn’t understand why they were coming to her…until she spotted Mamba in her doorway. “Oh fuck,” she uttered as she tried to close the door, but she was too late. Mamba came striding in with Ahmed closing the door behind him.
Jamelia backed away until she bumped into her sofa and fell into the seat. “Mamba, good to see ya,” she said with a forced smile. “What can I do for ya?”
Mamba looked around. “Who else is here?”
“Jus’ me and the girls.”
“Where’s Gavin or Gary or whatever?”
“I dunno. I ain’t seen him since it all began so I assume he’s one of ‘em now.”
Mamba turned to Ahmed, “Check the rooms.”
Ahmed disappeared down the short corridor while Mamba eyed up Jamelia. She was a very pretty half-caste woman with long legs, trim figure and long dark hair. She was in her mid-thirties and was around Mamba’s height at around five feet nine inches. She was currently wearing a pair of grey leggings and red t-shirt with ‘San Francisco 49ers’ across the front. On her feet she had a pair of sheep slippers.
“Ya look like a zombie,” she said to Mamba.
“That’s the point,” Mamba replied absently as he waited for Ahmed to return.
It was a relatively small apartment, with a lounge / dining room, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms so it didn’t take long before he was back.
“Anythin’?” Mamba asked.
“Nah, jus’ the two girls in their room.”
Mamba smiled and turned to Jamelia. “How old are they?” he asked.
“Don’t even go there, Mamba,” Jamelia replied, her face hardening. “So, what do ya want?”
“Who says I want anythin’?” Mamba replied.
“Someone like ya doesn’t come ‘round unless they want somethin’.”
“Funnily enough, I do want somethin’. I want a shower.”
“Well, ya need it if ya don’t mind me sayin’ so. Help yerself.”
“Keep an eye out Ahmed,” Mamba ordered as he walked towards the corridor. Jamelia was concerned that Mamba was heading to the girls’ room and quickly rose from the sofa. She was relieved to see Mamba heading into the bathroom before the door was closed and the shower turned on.
She went back to sit on the sofa and watched Ahmed as he watched her.
5
Day 8 – 17:45
Sunrise Apartments, East London
The water was freezing but at least it was good to get all the muck off his skin. He stood under the shower head letting the water course over his well-defined body. His various tattoos writhed as he soaped himself down, spending more time than was absolutely necessary around his genitals. He didn’t want the cold water making him look like a eunuch.
After he’d finished washing, he turned off the water, stepped out of the bath and helped himself to a pink fluffy towel before drying himself off. Again, he gave his genitals more attention than was warranted before he dropped the towel, picked up his knife and headed back to the lounge.
Jamelia watched from her seat on the sofa as Mamba entered the lounge stark naked and closed her eyes momentarily. ‘This is what he wants’ she thought to herself and mentally steeled herself for what was about to happen.
“Go get a shower Ahmed,” Mamba ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.
Ahmed brushed past Mamba as Mamba advanced towards Jamelia, becoming more aroused with every step.
Jamelia watched Mamba until he was standing right in front of her with his legs slightly apart, hands resting on his hips, knife casually gripped in one hand pointing towards her. As she looked up at him she demanded, “Ya promise me, on yer life, that ya won’t harm me or my kids and ya don’t go near ‘em.”
“I promise,” Mamba complied.
Jamelia continued to stare into Mamba’s eyes to see if there was any hint of sincerity or insincerity. All she could see were two black pools with a reflection of herself sitting in front of him.
“Whatcha waitin’ for?” Mamba asked casually.
Jamelia took her eyes away from Mamba’s face and with a defeated sigh focussed on his engorged member bobbing in front of her. She reached out to hold it steady before she moistened her lips with her tongue and leant forwards.
6
Day 8 – 18:00
Sunrise Apartments, East London
Mamba sat on the sofa wearing some of Gary or Gavin’s clothes and had a warm bottle of beer in his hand.
Ahmed sat next to him, also wearing Gavin or Gary’s clothes and also had a warm bottle of beer in his hand.
Gary or Gavin must have been bigger than Mamba but smaller than Ahmed because the clothes looked baggy on Mamba and skin-tight on Ahmed. At least Gavin or Gary obviously hadn’t been a golfer because the threads weren’t all that bad considering.
The sun was slowly going down and darkness was beginning to take over so Jamelia had lit the half dozen candles dotted around the room. She had also checked on her kids and made sure that they had something to do and stayed in their room before she started to prepare some cold food for them all to eat.
By the time the food arrived – a selection of cold meats, pickled onions, beetroot, pork-pies, sausages and sausage rolls – Mamba was beginning to get bored.
“How the fuck are we gonna live without TV?” he asked no one in particular.
There was no response. Jamelia had taken some food down to the bedroom for her girls and explained that she had visitors before coming back and taking a chair in the lounge, facing Mamba and Ahmed. She didn’t want to be near either of these two but she also didn’t want to let them out of her sight while they were in her home. She’d offered to wash their filthy clothes, thinking that once they were clean they’d piss off, but Mamba wanted the disgustingly smelly garments left as they were and she couldn’t for the life of her think why.
“How long are you two stayin’?” she asked cautiously. “Ain’t ya got anywhere else ya need to be…like across the road? Perhaps ya can come back another time, Mamba?” She desperately wanted them out of her apartment and the suggestion of future Mamba visits could be worried about and dealt with at a
later date.
“A day or so,” Mamba replied, around a mouthful of pork-pie. He took a drink of his beer before continuing, “We wanna see what’s goin’ on over the road.”
“Why’d ya wanna do that? I thought it was yer home.”
“It is, but there’s jus’ some people ya can’t fuckin’ trust.”
‘I can well understand that’, Jamelia thought to herself, thinking that Mamba was the perfect example of the ‘people’ he was talking about.
“How are ya survivin’ over here?” Mamba asked.
“The people in Green Park are organised and are continually scavengin’ for food and stuff. My mother lives over there and she made sure this block is on their delivery route.”
“How’d they do it?”
“I don’t know the detail, but they have vans which they use to scavenge, then use the same vans to drive ‘round and deliver the stuff to people like me.
“How do they pass ya the food?”
“By pullin’ up by the back gate and passin’ it through the window. That way, no one is in any danger.”
“When’s the next delivery?”
“Tomorrow afternoon sometime, usually ‘round four-thirty or five.”
“And how many people do they deliver to in this block?”
Jamelia paused. She didn’t want to get her neighbours involved with any of this, but she couldn’t see any way around it. If Mamba and Ahmed found out she was lying then she was dead. “There are ten or twelve apartments in use.”
“How many people are in the van?” Mamba asked.
“Usually jus’ two; the driver and the helper.”
“Are they armed?” Ahmed piped up.
Jamelia turned her attention to Ahmed. She had almost forgotten he was there because he hardly ever said a word and generally left everything to Mamba. A strong, silent type but she had no illusions about his capacity for violence.
“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen any weapons, but I guess they must be carryin’ knives or somethin’ for self-defence or in case they get into trouble.”
“How’d ya get music?” Ahmed asked.
“What?” Jamelia asked, confused by the sudden change in subject. “Oh, batteries for my CD player.”
“How old are the girls?” Mamba asked with a sly smile.
Another sudden change of subject to keep her off balance. Jamelia’s head spun in his direction and she stared at him as if he’d already broken the promise he made earlier, her knuckles going white from clenching the knife and fork she was holding.
Mamba looked back at her challengingly and said in a happy voice, “Jus’ makin’ conversation.”
Jamelia didn’t believe him for one moment, but what could she do? What use was a blunt knife and fork when Mamba had a proper knife…and a gun or two. She looked back to her plate but found that she’d lost her appetite.
Mamba finished his food, gulped down the remainder of his beer and burped before putting the bottle down on a side table.
“Right, time for bed. I’m sharin’ with ‘er,” he said pointing at Jamelia. “Ahmed, yer on the couch, but I want ya on the balcony for a while, checkin’ out the comin’s and goin’s across the road. Right, let’s go.”
Ahmed stood and made his way to the sliding doors and the balcony beyond. Jamelia collected the plates, cutlery and empty bottles and took them into the kitchen before throwing the leftovers and rubbish into the bin and dumping the rest in the sink to be washed another time. As she turned, she saw Mamba leaning in the doorway watching her, or looking at her arse more like, with a lascivious smile on his face.
Jamelia pushed past him and turned left, following the corridor down to her bedroom, gritting her teeth and praying to an unseen God that this ordeal would be over soon. Mamba followed just a pace or so behind.
Once they had passed the bedroom’s threshold and the door had been slammed shut by Mamba, he grabbed her shoulders from behind, forcing her to stand still. Jamelia trembled slightly under his touch, but not through desire. Mamba kept his left hand on her shoulder as he moved his right hand under her t-shirt and deftly undid her bra. He then slid his hand under her right arm to cup her right breast, searching for her erect nipple before giving it a hard squeeze.
*****
Ahmed had found a couple of plastic white chairs and a small table next to them on the balcony and had chosen a seat and begun watching what was going on across the road. He was sitting in the dark so he couldn’t be seen but there was no emotion on his face as he watched the comings and goings.
He fancied another beer, so he went back inside and headed towards the kitchen. He found the stash, opened the bottle and headed back towards the balcony. As he crossed the lounge he heard the first loud grunts and squeals of pain coming from down the corridor.
7
Day 9 – 07:00
Hilton Hotel, Heathrow
In her bed on the first floor of the Hilton Hotel, with her room closest to the lifts and stairs, Issy yawned, stretched her arms out, slowly opened her eyes and looked towards the window on her left and the dull grey sky outside. After the events at the Tower of London the night before last, she’d been totally worn out and had slept most of the previous day. Most, but not all.
Issy had been a Captain in the Army before the outbreak, serving under Major Simon Fellows who was also in Heathrow. She was thirty-two, five feet five inches tall with short spiky pink hair and piercing green eyes, although she had noticed that the pink was beginning to grow out leaving her natural blond hair on show at the roots.
Issy had various piercing marks on and around her face and had various tattoos, none of which were visible when she was clothed. At this moment, she was naked and the bed cover had somehow ended up on the floor, so she could see some of her more private designs.
She was a closet punk who had unfortunately missed out on the punk era of the late 70’s and early 80’s but loved the music and what it stood for. She also loved action and was as hard as nails.
She grew up in the East End of London, with a violent and abusive drunk for a father. As a kid, she was always in trouble and the army seemed to be the best place to curb her rebellious nature, get some much-needed discipline and at the same time let off steam. It wasn’t long before she realised that she was a match for any man and excelled in her role. Her utter determination and loyalty had brought her to where she was today. Issy’s colleagues always looked to her to take the lead, and she was more than happy to get her hands dirty and put herself in danger.
Issy glanced to her right and saw Andy Graves with his back towards her, snoring softly in the direction of the door. She’d met him on the very first day of the outbreak and they had clicked almost immediately; they were both skilled at what they did, they were both competitive, smart and resilient. Issy had to admit that she was probably a bit more competitive and stubborn, but this was the first man she had allowed into her bed in a very, very long time. What had happened to her during her childhood had stayed with her, and she had great difficulty trusting anyone, especially men.
Andy had been a US Federal Air Marshall or Sky Marshall for the past six years and had been on the plane which brought the virus to the UK. He was thirty-four, six feet tall with long brown hair and blue eyes. He was a native of Texas and was proficient in the use of weapons and unarmed combat.
He’d enjoyed his job; the shooting part was second nature, but he found the unarmed combat more testing, partly due to his height and partly because he was so unfit when he first started training at the age of twenty-eight. He blamed his physical and mental condition at the time on the years of partying and not caring about anyone, including himself. His parents had both perished in a car accident when he was twenty-four, and although he and his brother Dan, who was twenty-three, enjoyed a large inheritance, neither of them could come to terms with the senseless deaths of their parents.
The brothers had turned to drink, women and fighting as an escape from their grief. They made a good
double-team in any argument with local rednecks, although it was often their drink-fueled behavior that started the trouble in the first place. It was all a bit hazy now, but Andy had finally woken up when one particular fight in one of the numerous shitholes they drank in, escalated into a gun fight with three people being killed. Andy decided there and then that there had to be more to life, so he turned it around, his broken nose now a constant reminder of his younger misadventures.
Issy nudged Andy in the back and his snoring stopped immediately. She could tell he was now wide awake and wondering what had woken him. After a few seconds of holding his breath, he let it out slowly and turned to face her, his eyes roaming up and down her body.
“Not again, surely?” he asked with a wicked smile, as his left hand propped up his head and his right hand reached across to stroke her flat belly before travelling slowly to trace a pattern around her right nipple then travelling back down in the direction of her nether regions.
“You’ve got to be joking, cowboy!” Issy laughed as she smacked his hand away. “You’re incorrigible! Next, you’ll be telling me you’re not getting enough!”
“I’m not!” he protested. “I want you all day, every day.”
“Now you’re just being corny again, and you know I don’t like corn.”
“Nothing wrong with corn, it’s sweet, like you. That’s why it’s called sweetcorn.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Issy replied, feigning putting her middle finger down her throat and retching. “I’m going for a shower,” she advised as she swung herself off the bed and headed for the bathroom. “Time to get up, Leaders’ meeting soon.”
