by Hatchett
Ahmed got a drink and went over to where Mamba was sitting. He helped himself to a cigarette and lit up.
“How’d ya reckon the Turks are doin’?” he asked.
“Who cares?” Mamba replied. “As long as Ayla makes it.”
“Ah shit!” Ahmed said. “She your next target? Well, ya betta be careful ‘cos I reckon Sully will chop your gonads off if you mistreat her. And, anyway, you need the Turks so ya betta hope they’re all OK.”
Mamba thought for a moment. “Greyhound’s gonads!”
“What?” Ahmed asked, confused.
“Dog’s bollocks, Greyhound’s gonads”
“Don’t fuckin’ start that shit again,” Ahmed pleaded.
“Terrier’s testicles.”
“Fuck man! That’s enough.”
“Anyway,” Mamba said, “I don’t trust the Turks.”
“You don’t trust anyone. Still, neither do I, but we don’t have much choice, do we?”
“Anyway, who says I’m gonna treat Ayla badly?”
“In love are ya?”
“Well, no, ‘course not, but…”
“But nothing. I know what you’re like, Mamba, remember? Shag, dump. Shag, dump. Repeat. You shag and dump ‘er, yer in the shit mate. Simples.”
Mamba shrugged and took another drag of his cigarette.
“Guess, we betta get goin’,” Mamba suggested.
“Let me finish my fuckin’ drink first. I’ve only jus’ got here.”
“Hurry up then.”
“For fuck’s sake Mamba, what’s the fuckin’ rush? Missin’ yer girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend!” Mamba protested.
Ahmed downed the rest of his beer and stood up, ready to go. He walked towards the exit with Mamba following.
“You like ‘er?” he asked Ahmed.
“I don’t know ‘er and neither do you.”
“She’s got the hots for me,” Mamba continued.
“In yer opinion, every female on the planet has the hots for ya.”
“It’s my winnin’ personality.”
Ahmed didn’t respond but pulled open the door and slowly stepped outside. He looked left and right and took in his surroundings. There were a number of boats tied up along the sides of the canal, warehouses converted into apartments and businesses with windows and balconies overlooking the water.
They turned to their right and headed West until the canal split into two.
“We need to cross,” Ahmed suggested, pointing to the City Road Basin on the other side.
“Yeah,” Mamba agreed. He consulted his map. “Follow me.”
They continued along the path for sixty metres until they came to the next bridge, crossed it, then took the steps back down to the South side of the canal. They found themselves in an open corridor with a building sitting above them, held up by massive concrete columns. They headed South along the City Road Basin, Mamba pointing and laughing as a couple of zombies inadvertently walked straight off the walkway and into the canal with a big splash.
“Hey, maybe that’s how we get rid of ‘em,” Mamba advised, as if he’d had a ‘Eureka’ moment. “We lure the fuckers into the water.”
“What happens when the water’s full?”
“Don’t be daft, Ahmed, there’s more than enough water.”
“We’re talkin’ millions of zombies and that canal ain’t big enough.”
“There’s other water, you moron,” Mamba pointed out, “like the sea, for example.”
“Yeah, but what happens if the virus gets into the water and we drink it?”
Mamba thought for a moment but struggled for an answer. He didn’t like not having the last word so he replied, “we stick to bottled water.”
“Oh yeah? And how long’s that gonna last?” Ahmed queried.
“Fucking Hell Ahmed, who am I? Fuckin’ Professor Know-it-all? There’s gotta be millions of bottles of water lyin’ around!”
“Jus’ thinkin’,” Ahmed responded meekly.
“Well, unless ya got somethin’ useful to say, shut the fuck up.”
“Anyway,” Ahmed started, “even if the zombies were chucked into the sea, they won’t die under water and they’d eventually walk back up the beach onto land.”
“Not if the fuckin’ sharks have ‘em for dinner.”
“Yeah, but then we might have zombie sharks.”
“You’ve been watchin’ too much fuckin’ Sharknado or some other shite. Either that or yer on somethin’.” Mamba didn’t like to admit that perhaps Ahmed had a good point, but the thought of zombie sharks made him feel ill. What next? Zombie snakes? Zombie tigers? Zombie gorillas? Now that would be fuckin’ scary, animals becoming zombies. He wondered why he hadn’t seen any zombie dogs; there were shit loads of dogs around, so it stood to reason that some of ‘em must’ve been eaten.
The two of them carried along the corridor until the end of the building and came out into the sunlight. They continued along the path, stabbing the odd zombie along the way and making sure they didn’t walk side by side. ‘We’d look like a fuckin’ marchin’ band to them that’s lookin’,’ Mamba had suggested. So, they kept their distance, didn’t shuffle in a straight line and made sure they detoured under cover whenever there was an opportunity.
They passed a canoe club and eventually came to the end of the canal, taking the steps back up to street level and City Road.
From where they were standing the road was littered with building sites hidden behind secure fencing, with tall cranes stretching up into the sky. Turning left would take them back to Old Street but they effectively needed to go straight ahead. With the building sites in the way, this was not possible, so Mamba took them right, heading towards Pentonville. After a hundred metres, Mamba crossed the road and headed South down Central Street.
There wasn’t much to see along Central Street, just high rise apartments separated by a few shops and restaurants. Mamba and Ahmed took their time, they were in no rush. They both stabbed the odd zombie on the way to relieve the boredom and Mamba took a piss in a shop doorway. That felt better.
They reached the junction with Lever Street and continued straight across. There were a couple of pubs at the intersection and Mamba was tempted to try them out until Ahmed reminded him that he had something far better waiting for him at their destination. The thought of seeing Ayla again focused his mind and spurred him on.
Mamba had never really thought about the size of London, especially as he rarely left his own neck of the woods in Stepney. There were totally different worlds in other parts of the capital, and he had to admit, it was fuckin’ knackering not being able to use the tube to get to them. From what he’d seen in the last few days, none of these other places were any better than Stepney. One shithole looked much the same as the next. The only real thing that changed was the local population and the standard of living. It was funny how high rise blocks seemed to disappear from affluent neighbourhoods and the cars parked along the road increased in value. This area certainly wasn’t one of them.
They passed some offices then an inner-city football pitch, which surprisingly looked half decent. At least the nets on the goals were still intact. They wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in Stepney, so perhaps this was a nicer area after all.
They passed a row of about fifteen bikes in their docking stations, all part of the Transport for London scheme to encourage people to use bikes rather than cars and sponsored by some bank or other. Mamba took a closer look, as if he was contemplating taking one.
“You got any cash?” he asked.
“What ya want cash for?” Ahmed asked. “Nobody ‘round here lookin’ to be paid, unless you’ve seen a zombie prostitute ya fancy. But, she’d bite yer cock off in payment.”
“For one of the bikes,” Mamba explained patiently.
“Mamba, for fuck’s sake,” Ahmed replied. “No, I don’t have any money and we ‘ain’t got far to go anyway. And in any case, don’t ya think the eye in the
sky might think it a bit odd a zombie hirin’ a bike?”
“Yeah, good point,” Mamba replied wistfully. He quite fancied the idea of a bike ride.
They continued along Central Street until they reached the end at the Old Street junction. They turned right onto the main road and scanned the row of shops on each side. This was definitely a busier road; there were more zombies milling about, more stranded vehicles, including Routemaster buses, and far more litter. They passed cars and vans with the zombies still stuck in them, vehicles which had slammed into each other and a couple that had ploughed into the front of one of the shops. After a hundred and fifty metres they arrived at the junction of Clerkenwell Road and Goswell Road, and they spotted their destination, The Fox, for the first time.
Mamba stopped next to a traffic bollard and surveyed the area. It was a four-way junction, packed with vehicles and zombies but Mamba wasn’t looking at that. He was looking to see if he could spot any of the Turks, but more importantly, anyone who shouldn’t be there. He now wished he’d found a sheltered spot somewhere around Kingsland Road where he could’ve seen what happened once they had left. A mistake, but at the time it was more important to flee the area and not get caught or killed.
After ten minutes of shuffling around in a small area, Mamba deemed the area was safe, well as safe as it could be under the circumstances and headed across the road to the pub. Light was fading fast and it wouldn’t be long until it was dark. He wondered whether the eye in the sky could see in the dark.
41
Day 11 – 18:00
The Fox, Clerkenwell Road
Mamba ordered Ahmed to go through the front door while he watched and waited, then he slowly made his way around towards the back of the pub. Mamba hadn’t fancied walking into a Turkish ambush, so Ahmed was the perfect guinea pig to go first. Cannon fodder. Dispensable. He’d told Ahmed to say that he hadn’t seen him, if anyone bothered asking.
At the rear of the pub, Mamba found a small beer garden and a couple of zombies shuffling around. He soon put them out of their misery then went to the back wall and took a peek through the windows.
There wasn’t much to see through the first window; it gave Mamba a view of a kitchen with shiny metallic equipment all over the place, but there was no movement.
Mamba sidled along the back wall until he came to a set of patio doors which led into the bar area. Luckily, the patio doors were mainly glass so Mamba could see into the pub.
He saw Ahmed walk behind the bar then come back out with a couple of bottles of beer in his hands and move towards three men sitting around one of the tables. One he thought was Mesut, but he couldn’t tell who the others were because their backs were towards him. There were a number of dead bodies littered around the bar, all looking like recent kills. There looked to be battery-operated lanterns on some of the tables, although the one at their table was the only one which had been turned on. It provided a decent amount of light around the table, but not much further.
Mamba was happy with what he saw so he rose from his crouch and tried the handle on the patio door. It opened without any problem and swung outwards. Mamba sauntered into the bar and made his way across to the table.
He was right. The Turk he had seen from outside was Mesut and the other two turned out to be Umit and Faruk.
“Jus’ you lot?” he asked, not bothering to say hello.
“Yes, just us for now,” Mesut replied.
“I see you’ve killed a few zombies,” Mamba noted, looking around the floor at the bodies, “they need to be put outside in the garden to stop the smell. Have ya checked upstairs?”
“Not yet,” Mesut replied. “We were thirsty after a long journey.”
“Ya didn’t all arrive together?” Mamba asked, alarmed.
“No, we arrived separately as you instructed.”
“Good. Get these bodies outside. Ahmed, close all the curtains and check upstairs and the rest of the buildin’.”
The three Turks rose to start hauling the dead bodies outside while Ahmed closed all the curtains and began his search. Mamba switched on a few more of the battery-operated lanterns as he made his way to the bar to get a drink. As he did so, the front door slowly creaked open and Mamba reached for his pistol. He then lowered it as Temel entered the room.
“Saw you arrive and go around the back,” Temel advised. “Thought I’d give you some time to get settled before I joined you.” He wandered over towards the bar and Mamba handed him a bottle of beer.
“Unit, Farak and Mesut are already here. They’ve cleared the downstairs and Ahmed is checkin’ upstairs. Have ya seen any of the others?”
“I think I spotted a couple wandering around outside, probably waiting to stagger their entrances.”
Mamba noticed that the jubbah Temel had been wearing had been replaced by jeans and a shirt. He then realised that the other three had also changed during the journey. It was good to see they were listening to his orders.
Over the next couple of hours more of the group started arriving; Basir, Emre, Ismet and Khalid. That meant Ayla and Osman were still out there somewhere. Mamba wasn’t worried but found he was a little disappointed. He was looking forward to seeing Ayla again.
The Turks had brought along loads of provisions, mostly stored in rucksacks or holdalls which they’d obviously taken from shops along the route. They’d brought food and water, but more importantly, they’d brought items to replace those they’d lost when they had to abandon the Defenders.
As they sat around drinking and talking, Ismet and Basir lined up the various ingredients and equipment on the tables and were busy making up various compounds.
“I hope ya don’t set them fuckers off accidentally,” Mamba remarked.
Basir smiled and threw what looked like a lump of plasticine towards Mamba. Mamba almost dropped his beer as he caught the lump, half expecting his hand to disappear in a massive explosion, and a bit of sweat broke out on his forehead.
The Turks started laughing and Mamba stared at Basir as if he was going to kill him. He stood up and threw the lump back at Basir hard, the lump thumping into his chest before falling to the floor. Basir stared back at Mamba and that was enough. Mamba launched himself at Basir, smashing his fist into the young Turk’s face, splitting his lip and causing blood to stream from his mouth. Mamba wasn’t finished. He punched Basir in the stomach and smiled as all the air left his body and he bent over winded. Mamba then brought his knee up into Basir’s face and he flew into the air before landing on his back. Mamba strode forwards to deliver a stamp to Basir’s head but was held back by two or three Turks who had finally reacted to what was happening. The entire event had happened so quickly that Mamba had delivered three hard blows before any of them could react.
Temel stepped quickly between the stricken Basir and Mamba and held up his hands for calm. Mamba was straining to get out of the clutches of those holding him, the red mist of his temper still firmly in place.
Ahmed joined Temel and between them they slowly tried to calm Mamba down, although he was still held by Mesut, Emre and Faruk, all of whom were straining to keep hold of him.
Ismet and Khalid tended to Basir, who was still down on the ground, blood pouring from his face. Umit went to get some water and see if he could find a cloth to wipe Basir’s face.
This was the scene that met Ayla when she entered the pub. She took everything in within seconds before saying, “What’s going on?”
At the sound of her voice, Mamba’s head snapped around in her direction. He hadn’t notice her come in. In fact, he wasn’t aware of much except his target, Basir, on the floor a couple of metres away. The tension in Mamba’s body immediately relaxed and a smile appeared on his face. Mesut, Emre and Faruk noticed the change and felt it was safe to relax their grip on Mamba’s arms.
“Jus’ boys being boys,” Mamba replied, his grin widening. “Fancy a drink?” he asked as he pulled away from his minders and headed towards the bar, all thoughts about Basir now l
ong gone.
The tension in the room relaxed and while Ayla followed Mamba towards the bar, the others checked on Basir’s condition.
“What was all that about?” Ayla asked, as Mamba passed her a bottle of beer.
“He threw a bomb at me,” Mamba replied.
“If he’d thrown a bomb at you, you wouldn’t be here to talk about it,” Ayla stated. “Basir is an expert bomb maker who knows exactly what he is doing. We need him, preferably fit and healthy.”
“OK, point taken,” Mamba replied with a grin. He picked up another bottle, opened it and carried it over to hand to a shaky and bloody Basir before heading back to the bar. “Sorted.”
Ayla looked around the room, taking in the occupants and provisions. “Where’s Osman?”
“Dunno. Not here,” Mamba replied.
“Anyone seen Osman on their travels?” Ayla asked the room. There were shakes of the head before they went back to what they were doing.
“He’s got ‘til the mornin’ to get here,” Mamba noted. “There’s no rush.” He stared at Ayla. Although she still had blood and guts all over her, he saw again that she was very pretty underneath. She was now wearing a pink t-shirt which was moulded to the shape of her small breasts and some sort of navy blue tracksuit top. Her dark hair flowed down her back and her eyes were like deep pools you could drown in. His gaze settled on her breasts without realising what he was doing until she raised her hand and pointed it to her face. Mamba smiled like a naughty boy who’d been caught with his hand in the sweet jar.
“Sorry, couldn’t help myself,” he muttered. “Been too long.”
“Yeah, I bet!” Ayla replied sarcastically, shaking her head at the same time. “We’ve got work to do, so get me another beer and come tell me your plans,” she ordered as she moved away to a table in the corner where they could talk in private.
An hour later there was still no sign of Osman and the group were beginning to think he’d either got lost or had met with an accident. A number of beers had been drunk and the group was beginning to tire.
