by Hatchett
“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Mamba shouted and slammed the steering wheel before getting back out, reaching out and stabbing a couple of zombies to ease his frustration. He saw Ahmed a few cars away, doing the same thing to another ex-car owner. “Nice one, smartarse, no fuckin’ keys,” he shouted, not caring if it attracted any unwanted attention.
“Don’t matter, got some here,” Ahmed replied, “and I can fit into this one.” It was an old green Land Rover Defender, a four door, or five if you included the back door, with a longer wheelbase than the two door version.
Mamba trotted over with a smile on his face. “A proper fuckin’ Land Rover, not one of those poofter Discos or them…them other ones. Always wanted one of these.”
He nudged Ahmed out of the way and jumped into the driver’s seat. Ahmed hurried around to get into the passenger seat.
Mamba fired up the Defender, put it in reverse and hit the accelerator without any regard for what might be behind him. He braked, put it into first and headed back towards the supermarket’s exit, accelerating as he went. Suddenly, he braked and swung the Defender down another row, smashing into any zombies that happened to be in the way. He then took the next row and doubled back to where he’d started.
“Mamba, what the fuck are ya doin’?” Ahmed asked.
“Jus’ thought of somethin’,” Mamba replied as he turned left and headed straight for the barricade, accelerating as he went.
“Mamba!” Ahmed shouted, but it was almost lost in the roar of the Defender’s engine.
The Defender hit the barricade doing forty miles an hour. It was smashed in all directions, bits of metal flying into the store like shrapnel from a mortar shell. The guy holding the pole had heard the vehicle before he saw it and tried to dive out of the way. He was hit by a flying shopping trolley which almost decapitated him, blood exploding from his torn neck.
Mamba braked and the Defender slid across the tiled floor before ploughing through some hollow metal barriers into a stand holding newspapers, magazines, birthday cards and the like. Once the Defender came to a standstill, Mamba took off again towards the back of the store and the corridor which went all the way along the back wall, smashing into carefully designed displays as he went. As soon as he turned into the corridor, he saw what he was looking for and accelerated. After just twenty metres he slammed on the brakes again, knowing that he would skid, and was trying to allow for it. He wasn’t far off.
Ahmed saw Daryl and Jenny standing beside one of the aisles, their mouths open in shock, and he knew what all this had been about; Mamba’s little head ruling his big one, or was that the other way around?
Mamba came to a stop right next to them and wound down his side window. “Get in if ya wanna live. There’s zombies pilin’ in here now so ya betta decide quick.”
Jenny and Daryl looked at each other, then at Mamba, then back at each other. There was an almost imperceptible nod and Daryl reached for the back door, swinging it open and allowing Jenny to hop in and scoot across the seat before he followed, slamming the door behind him.
Mamba set off again, stopping after a few yards to grab the CD player sitting on a shelf. He then took the first aisle on his left and accelerated. There were a couple of people in the aisle, but it was clear that Mamba wasn’t stopping. Luckily for them they were in the freezer aisle rather than a food aisle where there would have been nowhere to go. The long chest freezers had been emptied days ago when the electricity had stopped working so the couple were able to dive into them just before the Defender roared past.
At the end of the aisle, Mamba did a handbrake turn to go left and head back towards the exit. As he lined the Defender up, he saw ‘Hawaiian shirt’ running towards him, waving his hands in the air trying to attract attention, followed by a mob of zombies. Mamba floored the accelerator and bore down on him without stopping. There wasn’t enough distance to get up to any real speed but the front of the Defender slammed into ‘Hawaiian shirt’, breaking the odd bone, but the fucker managed to hang on with grim determination – as if his life depended on it, which it did, literally.
Mamba laughed and speeded up, slamming into the trailing zombies then braked hard, catapulting ‘Hawaiian shirt’ and the zombies down the corridor, sliding and rolling along the floor in a tangle of arms and legs until they thumped into a customer service desk at the far end. It didn’t take long before a dazed ‘Hawaiian shirt’ was being eaten alive.
The Defender skidded to a stop and Mamba turned the steering wheel to the right, ready to exit the store. He saw more zombies entering and, looking towards the dead pole guy, he saw Grandma leaning back against one of the store’s windows staring straight back at him with an accusing look on her face. She shook her head sadly as she succumbed to the zombies ripping away at her flesh.
Mamba turned to look towards the exit and spotted the pole sticking up at an angle in the surrounding debris.
“Get the pole Ahmed,” he ordered.
15
Day 9 – 14:00
ASDA Supermarket, Mile End Road, East London
Mamba drove slowly out of the store, Ahmed holding on to the pole through his side window for dear life. It was much heavier having to hold it away from his body but he managed to support his arms on the window sill.
“Ready?” Mamba asked.
“Fuck, yeah!” Ahmed replied. Daryl and Jenny looked at each other in confusion, wandering what these two nutters were going to do next. They were just thankful that they were in the relative safety of the vehicle rather than on the outside.
Mamba revved the engine and pulled forwards.
“Not too quick!” Ahmed shouted.
As Mamba drove slowly towards the cark park’s exit, Ahmed angled the pole and lined it up with a small zombie figure in front of them, possibly what was once a young boy closing in on his teenage years before the outbreak happened. The pole pierced the zombie’s chest and erupted out of its back, skewering him before Ahmed raised the pole so the zombie was off the ground. Ahmed was sweating and straining with effort, his biceps tightly bunched; despite the fact that the zombie had only been small, the impact had still nearly wrenched his arms out of their sockets and he was struggling to keep the pole and the zombie aloft. All the time Mamba was whooping and hollering in his ear and patting him on the back.
The zombie gradually began sliding along the pole towards Ahmed, the eyes still staring and teeth clacking together. The slide seemed to speed up with the help of the zombie’s blood providing lubrication. Ahmed quickly swung the pole around one hundred and eighty degrees until it was pointing behind them. He then lowered the zombie to the ground and allowed the contact with the ground to pull the zombie off the pole. He brought the pole forwards again until it was sticking out at ninety degrees from the vehicle, levelled it at head height and watched in awe as it scythed into zombies as they drove past.
Although it had been fun, it was extremely tiring, so Ahmed allowed the pole to drop as Mamba pulled out of the cark park and onto the main road.
“Now, that’s what I call joustin’!” Mamba shouted. Ahmed smiled and slumped back into his seat.
The main road was full of vehicles but Mamba managed to make a right turn and find enough gaps to weave his way along using both sides of the street, the bus lanes and pavements.
“Where are we going?” Daryl asked from the back seat.
“Time for a drink and a rest,” Mamba replied.
Mamba took the Defender down the Mile End Road for about five hundred metres until he reached a main junction, which was blocked with traffic. He managed to hop onto the pavement, smash a few tables and chairs out of the way, stopped and turned off the engine.
“What are we doing here?” Jenny asked, looking thoroughly confused.
Mamba picked up on an accent. “Where ya from?”
“South Africa,” she replied. “Why?”
“Ya talk funny,” Mamba responded.
Mamba pointed to the road leading off to the right and
said, “that’s the A107 Cambridge Heath Road which will take us where we’re goin’. That,” he indicated the building which he’d parked close to, “is a pub.”
He and Ahmed got out of the Defender as a few zombies came up to investigate what all the noise was about. A couple of blades and a couple of slashes later and the zombies had no further cause for interest.
Mamba headed towards the pub’s door, followed closely by Ahmed.
*****
“What are we doing?” Jenny asked, shaking her head slowly. “These two are lunatics and we’re stuck with them.”
“We’re still alive, that’s the main thing,” Daryl replied quietly, watching as Mamba and Ahmed entered the pub. “We can’t exactly walk away, can we?” he noted, indicating the zombies roaming around outside the vehicle.
“Yes, but at what cost?” Jenny asked. “You saw what they were like back at the supermarket. Crazy one minute, nice the next, now everyone’s dead.”
“As we would have been if Mamba hadn’t picked us up. Thank God he likes you.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Jenny replied quietly. “Have you seen the way he looks at me? My boob is still sore from when he grabbed me earlier and its probably only a matter of time before he does it again. I bet I’ve got five lovely bruises.”
“Yes, I saw,” Daryl replied in almost a whisper, as if it had been him in pain rather than Jenny.
“I thought you promised you were going to protect me!” Jenny pointed out accusingly.
“I have done!” Daryl reacted angrily before calming back down. “But, what can I do against these two?”
“I don’t know, but we need to keep our eyes and ears open for any opportunity.”
As she finished her sentence there was a bang on the window which made them both jump out of their skins. Their heads spun around in unison to see Mamba’s face grinning ear to ear.
“Arsehole,” Jenny muttered under her breath, but managed with a little effort to put a semblance of a smile on her own face.
Mamba opened the driver’s door, leant over and grabbed the CD player before slamming the door closed again. He then opened the rear door and ushered Daryl and Jenny towards the entrance to the pub a few paces away.
“That made ya fuckin’ jump!” Mamba laughed. “We’ve made sure it’s secure,” he added as he opened the door to let them enter. He then stabbed another zombie in the head and entered the pub, closing the door behind him.
Ahmed was behind the bar, rooting around to see what was available. He came up with a couple of bottles of Sol lager and popped the tops before handing one to Mamba and downing his own in one go. He wiped his mouth, burped and selected another bottle.
“What do ya want?” he asked.
“Coke, please,” Jenny replied.
“I’ll have a beer please,” Daryl added.
Ahmed got the drinks; thankfully they had bottled coke because he was sure the soft drink dispenser wouldn’t work, and even if it did, the liquid would be as flat as a pancake. He grabbed a few packets of crisps, nuts, scampi fries, bacon fries and pork scatchings and threw them on the bar for everyone to help themselves.
They found a table and settled down, Mamba and Ahmed making sure that Daryl and Jenny were separated. As soon as they sat down, Mamba had his hand on Jenny’s leg as if she was his property. Jenny tried to shift her leg, but Mamba’s hand wasn’t going anywhere. She wisely decided that it wouldn’t be a good idea to object, but she would be drinking Jack Daniels from now on.
“I can’t call ya Daryl,” Mamba advised. “You don’t look like a ‘Daryl’.”
“What do I look like?”
“Do ya really want me to answer that,” Mamba replied, starting to laugh. “Nah, you’re a ‘Luca’. Like Gianluca Vialli, the greatest Italian ever to play for the Blues, except for Gianfranco Zola.”
“And Roberto Di Matteo,” Ahmed added.
“Nah, man. Not in the same class.”
“Scored an FA Cup Final goal.”
“So?”
“OK. Casiraghi then?” Ahmed suggested.
“Shite.”
“Cudicini?”
“Shite.”
“I’ve got it,” Ahmed sat up eagerly, “Sam Dalla Bona.”
They both started laughing uncontrollably until Mamba managed to squeak “Shite.”
“Who are the Blues?” Daryl asked innocently.
Ahmed and Mamba stopped laughing and both looked at Daryl, both shaking their heads in despair and disappointment.
“Comes to something, Luca,” when you don’t know your own kith ‘n kin,” Mamba answered, already convinced that Daryl was really an Italian.
Mamba turned on the CD player, this time on low volume, and ‘Bad to the Bone’ by George Thorogood came through the speakers, causing Mamba and Ahmed to sing along as loud as they could.
Jenny looked at Daryl and raised her eyebrows.
Two songs and another drink later, Jenny asked if Mamba had any other music or what else was on the CD.
“Why? Ya bored of this?” he asked in surprise. “Ya can’t beat a bit of rock. Anyway, no, I ain’t got nothin’ else and I’ve no idea what’s on it except what we’ve heard.”
“It gets a bit boring after a while,” Jenny opined.
“Well, what do you like?” Ahmed asked.
“I like all sorts,” Jenny replied.
“I bet ya do!” Mamba intervened with a dirty smile on his face.
“I like most decades, but mainly 80’s onwards. I don’t tend to go for anything earlier,” Jenny carried on as if she hadn’t been interrupted.
“As long as ya don’t like that ‘Down Under’ shite,” Mamba stressed.
“I like it.” Ahmed piped up. “Nothin’ wrong with it. What do ya think Jenny?”
“It’s OK, I guess.”
“It is a bit crap,” Daryl stated and Mamba stuck his hand up for a ‘high five’.
“See? Fuckin’ told ya it was crap,” Mamba pointed out as he went off to get more drinks.
When he got back, Jenny said, “We could really do with some different music. Are there any other music shops around here?”
“Dunno, but what do ya want?”
“Just a variety.”
“I’ll be right back,” Mamba advised as he turned and left the pub. The next thing they heard was the engine of the Defender starting up and it heading off, the noise getting less and less with each passing second.
They were on yet another drink when Mamba returned about fifteen minutes later. He came in carrying a plastic bag bulging at the seams and proceeded to tip the contents onto the table, knocking Ahmed’s bottle over in the process and spilling his beer all over his leg.
“Fuckin’ Hell Mamba! Careful!” Ahmed raged. He got up and went to the bar for another bottle.
“Help yerself,” Mamba offered with a big grin on his face. He’d just dumped about forty or fifty CDs onto the table. “There’s more in the Defender,” he noted.
Jenny picked up a couple of CDs and started reading the back to see what songs were on them.
“Where’d you go to get them?” Daryl asked.
“Back to the supermarket,” Mamba replied. “No point looking for others when you know where there are some.”
Everyone was quiet for a few seconds before Jenny asked what everyone was thinking. “Were they all dead?”
“Dunno, didn’t stick around long enough to find out. Didn’t hear anyone.” Mamba replied.
Jenny continued looking at the CDs before selecting one and placing it in the machine. She flicked forward a few songs before hitting the ‘play’ button and a few seconds later the ethereal sound of ‘Mad World’ by Tears for Fears came though the speakers. She looked pointedly at Daryl sitting opposite and he nodded in agreement.
16
Day 9 – 18:30
Green Park Estate, East London
Dorothy White held on to the bannister tightly - well, as tightly as she could - as she lowered
herself down the last few concrete steps with help from her cane to reach the ground floor of the building before turning left to walk along the corridor leading to her apartment. Every day she cursed the lifts for not working; the stairs caused her arthritis to flare up and her legs and hips would be painful for hours to come. She’d been in an apartment on the fifth floor all afternoon, sharing the time with her small group of close friends and playing Bridge.
Dot, as she was known to everyone, was eighty two and only five feet two inches tall – although she’d been a few inches taller when she was younger – with a ‘blue rinse’ which was rapidly washing out to leave grey hair, and more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei. She had lived on the estate all her life; she was born there, grew up there, married and lived with her husband there and continued to live there after her husband, Les, died from cancer six years earlier.
She’d never ventured further than the town of Margate on the North Kent coast, about sixty miles as the crow flies, where she’d spent nearly all her holidays. The only change from Margate had been the occasional trip to Southend-on-Sea to break things up a bit. The thought of travelling abroad was a complete anathema to her; who wanted to go to somewhere too hot or too cold where they didn’t speak English and didn’t serve English food? She didn’t need it and certainly didn’t want it. She was more than happy in her own little world.
Dot approached her apartment, bringing her keys out of her pocket and up to the lock, hands shaking a little and thinking how many times she’d been through this act. She thought it was something she must have done millions of times. No, that was an exaggeration. Thousands of times. No, that wasn’t enough. Maybe tens of thousands of times or even hundreds of thousands of times, but definitely not millions of times. Maybe one million times? Who knows? How old was she? Eighty two, although a lady never admitted her real age. So, say she got her first set of keys at age eighteen, what was that, about sixty years of having keys. Say she opened the door four times a day on average. There were three hundred and sixty five days in a year, excluding leap years for which there were three hundred and sixty six days, and she’d seen a lot of leap years. So, where was she? She couldn’t remember and it was giving her a headache trying to figure it out. So, the answer was ‘a lot’ of times. But, it wasn’t all this lock and this set of keys; they’d changed a few times over the years, not least when she’d been burgled back in…when was it? 1974? Somewhere around there anyway. It was difficult to remember things these days, especially dates. Plus, it wasn’t the same door. That had also been changed a few times.
