David sat on the bed and took his shoes off. “Why would you get a bad head?”
“Because,” she sat on the side of the bed, “when adults drink too much alcohol, they can get a bad head in the morning. Sometimes they become sick.”
“So, why do they drink alcohol in the first place?” David scratched at his dark hair and added, “It doesn’t make sense.”
Helen had no immediate answer for her inquisitive son. Why do adults drink alcohol? “Um…” she paused for thought. “It helps them relax and feel merry.”
“And after that … they have a bad head and get sick?”
“Well … yeah, sometimes.”
“Adults are weird.”
“We are,” Helen giggled. She passed David a pencil and some paper, as well as a piece of cardboard to put his paper on, and asked him, “So what are you going to do while us adults are downstairs? Another picture?”
“No.” He shook his head and sat up against the headboard and put his knees up. “I’m thinking about doing a comic.”
“A comic? What about?”
David reached for the cardboard and paper on the bed and began scribbling. “I’m going to make it about what’s happening now, about the Canavars.”
“Oh.” Helen wasn’t sure about his idea, but then thought that maybe it was something he needed to get out of his system, a kind of therapy. “So … do you have an idea about what’s going to happen?”
“Not sure.” David hunched his shoulders and continued to scribble. “But I think we all die in the end.”
“That’s a bit morbid.” It was David’s story, but his mother was less than impressed with the ending he had planned. “Don’t you think you should have some hope in your story?”
“Maybe, but I’m trying to make it realistic.”
This comment made Helen extremely sad. She stood up and stared at her damaged little boy. David looked up at his mum, almost annoyed, and she got the impression that he wanted to be left alone to start his new project.
“If you need anything,” she said, “just come downstairs.”
“Okay,” said David without looking up.
Helen stepped out of the bedroom and onto the landing. She shut the door behind her and remained still. She ran her fingers through her dark bobbed hair and was worried for her son. He was all she had left and didn’t want him to become too damaged in this new world. Her nine-year-old was psychologically scarred from the experience of the last twelve months, but she was hoping that being at the farm would shield him from any future tragedies.
Since Imelda’s death, which affected him greatly, hardly an incident of any kind had happened. She just hoped it stayed that way.
She released a long slow breath out and went for the stairs, heading to the ground floor, but taking her time. The voices from downstairs were raucous already, and she knew that the volume would increase as the drinks flowed.
She hoped they knew what they were doing. She could understand why Simon had brought the booze back. It was to help the group bond. Most of them got on, but the main problem was Donald, which put Helen in an awkward position. She liked Donald, and he looked after her and David when they were in the woods, but he seemed to rub the rest of the people in the house up the wrong way. If he was kicked out, she’d feel terrible, but she wouldn’t leave with him. She had David to think of. She needed to be in the safest place for her and her son, and the safest place was at the farm, surrounded by people who could take care of themselves.
Donald could be an asset to the group. He was a strong man, a fighter, but his demeanour didn’t go down well with the rest of the adults in the house. This was a last attempt to build bridges, otherwise, or at least Helen thought, Donald would be out on his arse.
She opened the living room door and stepped inside.
Helen could see that all four Jack Daniels bottles were open and laughed as she realised that Simon, Donald, Yoler and Dicko had a bottle each.
“You guys are mad,” she said. “You’re gonna be wasted tonight.”
“We’ll probably be wasted when we get up in the morning as well,” Dicko laughed, and then took a swig from ‘his’ bottle.
Helen laughed and thought that she was going to have a lot of fun tomorrow morning when everybody else, except her and David, were going to be in a terrible state.
She sat down in the armchair and zoned out as they began to tell one another of their journeys over the last couple of months, conveniently avoiding the beginning of the apocalypse where some had possibly lost family members.
Being sober, Helen Willis was certain that it was going to be an interesting night, for sure. She was going to spend the evening sitting back, and whilst she did this, she was going to get to know the pasts of her housemates.
She was kind of looking forward to it.
Chapter Twenty-One
An hour had passed and Dicko, Yoler, Simon and Donald were getting merry from consuming the bourbon inbetween talking.
Dicko and Donald’s story was a brief summary of their experiences, but Yoler decided to go into further detail about her life before she met Simon and the rest.
“So you never met Mr. Right?” Donald asked, with his tongue in his cheek.
Yoler shook her head. “I’ve always been a free spirit. I was never looking for a Mr. Right, more a Mr. Right Now.”
“You like your men then, eh?” Donald was now slurring his words and had consumed half a bottle, more than any other individual.
“I like men, just the same as a man likes the women,” she said, a little too defensively.
Simon gazed over at Helen. Both looked concerned and were wondering if Donald was going to get too drunk and blow this evening with his snide remarks.
Simon decided to move away from the subject of Yoler and her free attitude, and concentrated more about what happened to her family when the apocalypse happened. Everybody else seemed to have avoided talking about family, but Yoler didn’t seem to mind.
“My parents have been dead for years,” Yoler began. “So I’m kind of thankful that they weren’t around to witness all the chaos when it all started.”
“They both died?” Simon said, and queried his female friend further. “Did they die together?”
Yoler nodded, but she wasn’t crestfallen. She was quite cool about talking about her past.
“They both died in a car crash,” she began. “They were coming home from a night out. Dad was sober and driving, but he lost control of the vehicle and crashed into a tree. Both dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Dicko.
“Don’t be. It was seven years ago.”
“Still…” Dicko tried to find the words. “You were only nineteen when it happened.”
“I had the support of my sister and other family members. And my work colleagues.”
“Sister? Work colleagues?” Simon tried to lighten the sombre mood and probed further. “You need to tell us about this sister of yours. And where did you used to work?”
Yoler snickered, “My sister is older than me by three years. Her name was … is … Margaret. She lives in Texas.”
“What’s she doing there?”
“She was over there with some pals and met somebody. She moved over two years ago.”
“What about this job?” Donald slurred, forcing Helen to drop her head in her hands. She was in two minds whether to ask him to lay off the booze now, but was concerned that it could cause an angry tirade from the man.
Yoler snickered, “I used to work in KFC.”
“Fuck off!” Dicko yelled. “No way. You serving people? I can’t see it.”
“Well …I did work there.” Yoler smiled. “It was okay, I suppose.”
“Listen to this,” Donald spoke up.
“Here we go,” Dicko sighed, knowing that a bad joke wasn’t far away.
“Why did the rooster go to KFC?” Donald cackled, and added, before any one had a chance to reply, “He wanted to see a chicken strip.�
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Simon was the only one that laughed and Yoler sighed. “I’ve heard all of these KFC jokes before. They’re all piss poor, and that’s one of the worst, Donnie.”
“KFC is like a woman,” Donald continued, slurring as he spoke. “After you’re done with the legs, thighs and breasts, you still have a greasy bone to put in the bucket.”
Yoler smiled and shook her head.
This time Simon decided to have his turn, “Someone once came up to me, and said that my mother was so poor that when she goes to KFC she has to lick other people’s fingers.”
Yoler moaned, “I’ve heard that one before as well, you pair of tossers.”
“I know what we can do to make this evening a bit more interesting.” Dicko stood up and went through the door that led to the first floor. He ran upstairs, leaving four bemused adults on the ground floor, and returned shortly with a box.
“What’s that?” Yoler asked him.
Dicko turned the red and white box round to show them all that it was a Monopoly board game that he was holding.
“Awesome,” Yoler cackled.
“God, I haven’t played that in a while,” said Helen.
Dicko put the box on the table and urged everyone to sit around. Helen opted to stay in the armchair and told the drunken adults to play without her.
The game was set up and they all picked their pieces. Donald was the dog, Yoler was the hat, Simon was the car, and Dicko opted for the iron.
They began the game and Helen seemed happy enough to watch, occasionally drifting off and reminiscing of the times she had spent with her husband.
They were only minutes into the game, when Helen could hear footsteps from the ceiling. David was up. She was about to get up and see to her little man, but she could hear that he was already making his way downstairs.
David entered the living room and Helen asked straightaway if he was okay.
David nodded and said, “I found some Lego in one of the cupboards. Can I play with it?”
“What about this comic you were going to do?”
“I’m going to start that tomorrow.” David sighed and asked once more, “Can I play with the Lego?”
“Of course you can,” she said with a smirk. “Just don’t go making a mess.”
The four adults were talking amongst themselves and Dicko looked over to the young man and asked him, “You okay over there, buddy?”
“I found some Lego,” David said excitedly. “I think I might make a house or a cave.”
“Great stuff.”
“Do you want to help me build it, Dicko?” David looked at the man with his wide, almost pleading eyes, but Dicko was lost for words. In truth, he would rather have stayed with the adults, play Monopoly, and get drunk, but he didn’t want to hurt the lad’s feelings.
“Dicko is already playing a game,” Helen spoke up. “But—”
“No, it’s okay.” Dicko winked at David and stood up. “You take my place, Helen. I’ll be down in half an hour or so.”
David produced a wide smile and this warmed Dicko’s heart, and both went upstairs to where Helen and David slept.
David went in first and Dicko followed. The adult could see that David had all the Lego scattered on the carpet. It was the usual different coloured blocks, but there were also figures.
David bent down and picked up one of the figures. “Look, Dicko. It’s ‘The Joker’.”
Dicko looked at the small green Joker figure and suddenly realised that the figures on the floor were from the Batman franchise.
“I think I might have enough blocks to build Arkham Asylum,” the little boy said elatedly.
Dicko was feeling emotional; he felt a pain in his stomach, and felt nauseous being around all these Lego toys. They were reminders, painful reminders. He could see the little boy was excited and didn’t want to rain on his parade.
He swallowed hard and played with the boy, helping him to build the asylum that he wanted, so he could put The Joker, Mr Freeze, The Riddler and Catwoman in there, as well as Bane.
For twenty minutes Dicko helped the boy, and left him on his own once the asylum was nearly built. The man then walked to the bathroom, tried to compose himself, and then went back downstairs.
Helen moved from his seat once Dicko returned, and he sat down. Yoler had made a comment right away that his eyes looked bloodshot. Dicko blamed it on the alcohol and spent the next hour playing Monopoly in a daze and hardly spoke to Simon, Yoler, Donald and Helen.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Gonna try and find a bed for the night, brothers,” Hando announced.
The four men looked crestfallen, and Q was the only member of the gang that was finding it difficult to hide his annoyance. The day had been uneventful and the usually mild mannered man was finding it difficult to stop moaning. They had strolled through streets of a village that they didn’t know. Now they had reached a country road. Hando had decided to try it, and hoped that they’d all come across something better than what they had experienced over the last few days.
Hando pointed up ahead and said, “There’s a little cottage up ahead, see?”
Dirty Ian and Wazza groaned, and Q moaned, “A little cottage? We had a whole caravan park to ourselves and ended up leaving there.”
“Keep your mouth shut!” Wazza snapped. “If it wasn’t for Hando…”
Wazza, real name Wayne Jennings, became quiet once he saw Hando raising his hand to quieten the man down. Hando, leading the way, stopped walking and dropped his bag to the floor. Everybody else did the same, but were confused why they were stopping when they could see that the cottage was a hundred yards away.
“Why are we stopping?” Q huffed and folded his arms. He looked angry, almost close to tears.
“What’s on your mind, brother?” Hando spoke with a smile, but it was a smile that sent a shiver down Q’s vertebrae. “You seem troubled.”
Q lowered his head and didn’t answer right away. He bit into his bottom lip and raised his head and gazed at the confused faces of Dirty Ian and Wazza.
“We have eaten and are reasonably hydrated.” Hando clicked his fingers at Q, and beckoned him with his forefinger to step closer, which he did, and added, “Yes, if we don’t find anything in the next two days, we’re gonna struggle. But us brothers always seem to find a way.”
“He’s still pissed off about what happened at that caravan.” Dirty Ian began to smirk. “I think he had a thing for that teenager, Hando. You know, the one you stabbed.”
“I had no thing for that teenager,” Q said with his teeth clenched. “I’m not a fucking paedophile.”
“You know what we’re like,” Hando said. “We’ve behaved the way we have because we want to survive more than the people we’ve had tussles with. Don’t you remember the four men that were driving that van of sodas? We killed them, because they put up a fight. If I remember rightly, you put a knife into the belly of the old man. You’re hardly a saint, so why are you behaving the way you are, brother? I’m intrigued.”
Q remained quiet, his head slightly lowered.
Hando persisted, “Is your attitude anything to do with that kid Ian had to take care of?”
“That boy…” Q began, but couldn’t find the words, so he tried again. “Killing that boy was uncalled for.”
“That boy was a mercy killing,” Ian chipped in, before Hando had a chance to respond.
“Okay,” Q gulped. “And what about what happened at the caravan? We didn’t need to harm that woman and her daughter.”
“No, we didn’t.” Hando nodded his head in agreement. “But the mother attacked me and I found that very disrespectful. Then she stabbed Ian in his left eye when he went back for her.” Hando then began to chuckle. “But I suppose that serves him right for being greedy.”
“So you gang raped her, and then stabbed her daughter who, a year ago, when the world was normal, was still in school?”
“What’s your point, brother?” Hando straightened up his post
ure, and Wazza and Dirty Ian folded their arms, glaring at Q.
“It’s not right. We’ve … you’ve never done anything like that before, not with me around.”
“So what are you saying?” Hando’s six-foot frame remained still. Q never answered him, so Hando huffed and clicked his fingers at Q, “Come on. Speak up.”
“Why do you always click your fingers at me,” Q moaned.
“You used to be a waiter, didn’t you, brother?”
Q never responded and wondered where things were going to go from here. He wasn’t happy with things that had happened in the recent past; he had expressed his views, and now the ball was in Hando’s court.
“Okay,” Hando sighed. “Let’s get to the cottage and check it out.” He picked his bag up and walked away. Q was thinking the same as Wazza and Dirty Ian. Is that it?
Once they reached the cottage, Hando ordered Wazza and Dirty Ian to check the place out, whilst he and Q stood outside and looked after their bags. The two men did as they were instructed and went around the back of the cottage. Over three minutes had passed, and Wazza and Ian exited the house from the front door.
“We managed to break into one of the windows,” Wazza explained, as the two men strolled down the garden path.
“All clear?” Hando asked.
“All clear, Hando,” Dirty Ian snickered.
Hando smiled. “Good.” He then turned to face Q and clapped his hands together. “Right then. Let’s get started.”
Hando palmed Q under the chin, completely taking him by surprise. Q bit his tongue and fell to the floor, dazed and confused. He rolled around and groaned, his head thumping and spinning at the same time.
“Okay, brothers,” Q could hear Hando say above him. “Do what needs to be done.”
Wayne ‘Wazza’ Jennings and ‘Dirty’ Ian Robinson began to kick Q as he lay on the floor, and only stopped once Hando told them to after a minute had passed.
Dirty Ian pulled a knife from the back of his black combats and asked Hando, “You want me to do it? I’ve never liked him anyway.”
Ghostland (Book 2): Ghostland 2 Page 9
