Dicko’s head lowered for a few seconds, and then he looked up to Helen and Yoler.
Dicko shook his head. “He’s gone.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“You’re gonna have to shut that moaning,” Hando snapped at his remaining comrade, and then touched his nose. It wasn't broken, but it was bleeding a little and very tender.
The pair of them were jogging down the road. Wazza was unsteady on his feet and losing a lot of blood, but he was getting no sympathy from Hando.
“Come on, brother,” the leader snapped. “Hurry up.”
“I can’t hurry, Hando,” Wazza cried, and tried to keep the injured arm raised. The pain was so excruciating that the tears were impairing his vision.
“Another mile or so and we’ll be near a village,” Hando panted and added, “We can stay the night at one of the houses and think of something come the morning. Need to get our revenge. Or we can go back in a few hours. Maybe tonight, when it’s dark.”
“Revenge? Tonight?” Wazza said with surprise. “I only have one hand left and they kicked our fucking arses anyway. I’m not going anywhere.”
Hando stopped jogging, now that he was sure that no one was following them and that they were a decent distance away from the place, and urged Wazza to slow his pace.
“I’m not gonna make it, Hando,” Wazza cried. “I’m losing too much blood. I don’t feel too good. I feel dizzy.”
“Okay, brother,” Hando sighed and patted Wazza on the shoulder. “Take off your T-shirt and I’ll wrap the stump up. But I warn you, it’s gonna be sore.”
“I don’t know, Hando!” Wazza cried.
“We need to stop the bleeding and then we’ll go back. I’ve made up my mind.”
“I’m not going back there.” Wazza furiously shook his head and kept on saying. “No way.”
“Is that right, brother?” Hando looked annoyed, straightened his back, and folded his arms.
“Hando, there were four of us a few days ago, and now there’s only two.”
“We’ll recruit more … eventually.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Hando raised his eyebrows and lifted his chin up. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Hando glared at the injured man, swallowed his anger, and asked Wazza, “You still have that lighter?”
“In my pocket.” Wazza nodded. “Much good it’s been. Haven’t come across a cigarette in weeks.”
Hando put a hand each in the front of Wazza’s pockets and fished out the lighter from the left one. He placed the disposable lighter into his own pocket and told Wazza that he had an idea, and took out his knife with his right hand.
Wazza began to take his T-shirt off, getting no help from Hando, and asked, “And what’s this idea?”
“Well, first of all it doesn’t involve you, brother.” Hando plunged his knife into Wazza’s throat. “So long.”
Wazza’s eyes were as wide as golf balls, blood poured out of his mutilated throat, and he dropped to the floor once Hando coldly removed the blade.
Without an ounce of remorse, Hando cleaned the blade on Wazza’s clothes, and headed back to the farmhouse as his comrade continued to lie on the floor, gurgling, seconds away from death.
Hando, real name Kevin Pritchard, looked up to the darkening bruised-like sky and instead of waiting, he thought that there was no time like the present. With revenge polluting his mind and his anger fresh, he wanted to attack the farmhouse as soon as possible.
With determined steps, leaving the mutilated corpse of Wazza in the middle of the road, Hando could feel his blood boiling and headed back to the farm, with the rucksack hanging off his shoulder. He had no idea how long he and Wazza had run when they fled, but he reckoned that he’d be back at the place within half an hour.
He returned to the place in twenty-three minutes.
He looked and could see that there was nobody outside at the front. He entered the woods that were opposite the farm, and stepped carefully until he was opposite the house and could see the main door. He knelt down.
He went through his bag and pulled out a half litre bottle of water he had filtered the day before. He drank the whole thing, tucked the plastic bottle under his arm, went through his bag and pulled out a two-foot long rubber hose piping that they used to siphon cars over the months, and then waited in the trees.
He lay down in the bracken and closed his eyes. He had fallen asleep. It wasn’t something that he had planned, but it had happened. He was in no rush. He had time on his side.
*
Hando woke up with a start and had no idea what time it was. He guessed that it was the early hours of the morning.
He sat up and went onto his knees, staring over at the farmhouse. He gazed for a while, but there was no sign of anyone standing at the front or even the sign of a curtain twitch. It appeared that everyone was inside. Maybe the people of the house who had killed one, severed the hand of another, and then made the remaining two run away … maybe they thought that that was enough to frighten them away for good. Maybe the attack on Hando’s men had made them over confident. Or maybe they were inside and consumed in grief for the loss of their friend. Hando knew he had killed the man he had stabbed in the back, because he drove the knife into the left side, through his heart, when the scuffle broke out.
Hando was growing impatient. Fuck it. It was now or never.
Grinding his teeth, and still consumed with rage, Hando crept out of the wooded area and over the road. He tiptoed around the side of the house and once he reached the corner of the place, he peered round to see that the back of the farmhouse was clear. He could see nothing apart from the desecrated grave that Dirty Ian and Wazza had wrecked when he had that guy hostage.
Hando approached the Mazda and tried to unscrew the petrol cap. It wasn’t budging. He assumed it was one of those that had to be opened from the inside of the vehicle, so he forced the cap off with his knife. He turned around to make sure once more that there was no one around, placed the tubing into the car, and then sucked on the pipe. Once he could taste the disgusting taste of petrol, he placed the tubing into the bottle that he had under his armpit. There was more than enough. He had filled the bottle, took out the tube, and placed it back into his bag.
After putting the petrol cap back on—he had no idea why he did this—he went to the front of the house. He was in two minds whether to wait a few hours until they were sleeping, but he was certain, especially after what had recently happened, that somebody would be on guard anyway to raise the alarm, so he approached the main door.
He sat down on the doorstep and placed his ear against the door. He couldn’t hear talking. Fuck it. Maybe they had all gone to bed, he thought. After all, it was … what? … One, two, three in the morning?
Hando shuffled to the side of the doorstep and lifted the plastic bottle that was full of gasoline. He opened the letterbox of the main door and began to pour the bottle through the letterbox. Once it was done, he ripped off a piece of his shirt, lit it with the disposable lighter he had taken from Wazza, and then put it through the letterbox and gently dropped it. Maybe he should do the car as well.
Satisfied with his ‘work’, Hando walked away from the place and strolled down the road as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He was heading for the village that he and Wazza were originally going to, before he decided to put a blade through the throat of the whining prick, and seemed content with what he had done.
He could have sat opposite the farmhouse and watched the panic from the woods, people fleeing, maybe even people dying and on fire, but he was happy enough just to burn the fucking place down, regardless whether the people in there lived or died.
It didn’t matter to him. If they burned to death … fine. Justice had been done. But if they escaped and had managed to flee the burning place … then that was fine as well with the man.
The comfort of living in that farm would have been taken away from them, and it meant they would h
ave to start again, scrapping for food, maybe eventually dying from dehydration or starvation.
Whichever way it had turned out for the remaining people on that farm, Hando was certain that they were being punished justifiably.
Chapter Thirty Five
The group sat around the living room, shocked, and never uttered a word to one another. Simon was dead. Only Yoler, Dicko, Helen and David were left. David was upstairs and Helen was about to go up and leave Dicko and Yoler alone, but she had something on her mind.
She approached the door that led to the upstairs and looked at the morose looking Yoler and Dicko. The pair of them were sitting on the sofa, struggling for words.
Helen asked them, “What are we going to do with Simon?”
Dicko looked up and paused before speaking. Simon had been wrapped up in a sheet and left outside. Dicko and Yoler had already agreed that Simon was going to be buried next to his daughter in the morning. Everyone was too exhausted to do it right away, plus it was pitch black outside.
“I’ll bury him next to Imelda in the morning,” said Dicko. “I’ll do it first thing. Try and get some sleep. Everybody, try and get some sleep.”
Helen cried, “Not too sure I’ll be able to after what’s happened.”
“I know.” Dicko nodded. “But you need to try, Helen. We all do.”
Helen shut the living room door behind her and disappeared upstairs. Dicko gazed at Yoler and told her to get some sleep.
“And what about you?” she said.
“I feel okay.” Dicko hunched his shoulders. “Maybe I’ll even bury Simon while you lot are sleeping. Probably be better if I stay up anyway, just in case.”
“Don’t be silly,” Yoler huffed. “Wait ‘til the morning, and we’ll fix Imelda’s grave as well.”
Dicko leaned over to give Yoler a kiss, but she moved her head back and asked him what he was doing.
“I was going to kiss you good night,” he said, baffled by her behaviour.
“Well … don’t, Dicky boy.”
“And why not?”
“Because that’s what couples do. And we are not, and never will be, a couple.”
Dicko gulped, a little hurt from the verbal response, and said, “Suit yourself.”
“I know it’s hard not to fall for me,” she began to tease. “But you’re gonna have to be strong. There ain’t many men about these days, and in the old world I wouldn’t have looked at you twice.”
“Well, that’s nice to know.” Dicko was baffled why Yoler was saying such things, epecially soon after losing their friend. He queried sarcastically, “So I should be thankful then?”
Yoler smiled. It was an imperfect smile, but it warmed Dicko’s heart nevertheless. It didn’t matter how much she pissed him off, her smile seemed to win him over every time.
She added, this time revealing a smirk, “Yes, you should be thankful. I bet after sleeping with me, you wake up on a morning, look over and have to pinch yourself.”
Realising that Yoler was kidding and trying to wind him up, he said, “You’ll be getting a kick in the growler if I get any more cheek off of you.”
“And you’ll be getting a punch in the plums, Dicky Boy.”
The two of them chortled gently, but suddenly stopped. They both never said a word and knew why they had both stopped. Simon had only died hours ago, and here they were making each other laugh.
Yoler closed her eyes and lay back on the sofa.
Dicko took the armchair.
No more words were spoken and Yoler had managed to fall asleep after eleven minutes had passed, leaving Dicko alone with his thoughts.
He thought about his family. He thought about his wife Julie, his daughter Bell, and his little boy Kyle. When it was first announced, Julie and Bell were out at the shops and Dicko was left with his son. He never saw his wife and daughter alive again.
His thoughts went back to those times when he and his son were stuck in that damn house, unsure whether his girls were alive or dead. To keep Kyle safe, Dicko set out some rules for the boy to stick with. The rules were chalked on his daughter’s blackboard and were there to keep his son safe.
Jesus, he thought. It felt like a lifetime ago now, and Dicko could still remember the set of rules, word by word.
1. Never look out of the window.
2. Don’t shout or make any other kinds of noises.
3. Don’t go outside.
4. Don’t play near doors or downstairs windows.
5. Always do as dad says.
6. Don’t moan, because there are people worse off.
7.
Rule number seven had never been completed. He couldn’t think of another one at the time, and it had been left blank.
It seemed like an age since he had left his house and bumped into a man called Bentley. The two of them went to a supermarket, to look for Dicko’s girls, and Dicko had spotted his wife’s car and went over to it.
He found his wife and daughter in the Renault. Bentley had taken care of Julie and Bell. Both had been bitten and had reanimated into those Canavars, Snatchers, Rotters … whatever people called them. Only a month or so later, Kyle had died.
He then thought about his son’s death on Sandy Lane. The image of his son’s ravaged body would never leave his mind. He was mentally scarred forever, and losing his son was the worst and most painful experience of his life. Kyle was all he had left, and then he had nothing. It had been ten months since his son’s passing, but Dicko, real name Paul Dickson, would never forget seeing his boy all messed up like that.
It wasn’t right for a young boy to die in such a way.
He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the armchair. His eyes filled and as soon as they were opened, tears spilled out and ran down his cheeks. He wiped his tears away as his bottom lip wobbled, and puffed out a breath as his throat began to get tighter, almost choking the upset man.
Unbelievably, he managed to fall asleep, despite his mind being polluted with images from the last twelve months. His last thoughts, before he drifted off into a sleep, were about the people at Colwyn Place. He hoped that the place was still going strong, as well as the people, and hoped for some kind of reunion one day.
He guessed he was about thirty or forty miles away from where he used to stay, and with this new world, and the dangers that came with it, he may as well be a thousand miles away, he thought. Just walking two miles on foot was a dangerous thing to do, especially a year ago when things were chaotic. Maybe not so much now, but it was still a dangerous world.
He fell asleep and his first dream was of Imelda Washington. Dicko was sitting on the couch, Imelda was at the table, drawing, and Simon was sitting in the armchair, trying to read his Jaws paperback novel. The dream was like the first days, when Dicko had just arrived on the scene.
He soon woke up, screwed his eyes in confusion, and began sniffing the air like a dog.
“What the…?” He sniffed again, and this time finished his sentence. “What the fuck is that smell?”
It took him a while to realise that he could smell burning.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dicko stood to his feet and continued to sniff the air. He went over to a sleeping Yoler on the couch, unsure whether he should wake her or not. Was he imagining this? He sniffed again, and then shook his head. No, I can definitely smell burning.
He began to shake Yoler, making the woman groan. He shook her again, and she groaned again, but never woke up, so he shook her harder, maybe a little too hard.
Her eyes opened and she suddenly sat up, making Dicko take a step back. “What is it?” she asked straightaway.
“I don’t know for sure yet.”
Her nose twitched and she stood to her feet. “Is that smoke I can smell?”
Dicko never answered her. He crept over to the door that led upstairs and placed the side of his head against it. He could hear a sound. He could feel the heat, and the smell of smoke was strong. It was fire. He knew it was fire.
“I think the place is on fire,” she said.
“I know, but I need to open this door because Helen and David are upstairs.”
He opened the door and took a step back as a precaution. The heat hit his face hard and the flames were all over the walls and carpet, licking the inside of the wooden main door, and the smoke was snaking its way up to the landing, ready to claim its first victim or victims.
He thought about running upstairs to alert Helen and the young boy, but there was not a chance he could run through those flames and not receive any kind of burn injuries. Not a chance! He decided to use his voice instead.
Dicko yelled upstairs, calling Helen’s name, hoping that’d be enough to wake the pair of them up.
He turned to Yoler and said, “Get round to the front of the house. Call on them; throw something at their window. Do anything to try and wake them up. I don’t care if you put the window through.”
She nodded, grabbed her machete that was lying on the floor, and went into the kitchen and unbolted the back door. She took a quick glance to the side before exiting the house, and could see Simon’s machete lying on the side.
She stepped outside and ran to the side to see the Mazda on fire.
She gasped, shook her head, and then headed to the front of the house. She reached the front door to see it ablaze. She looked up and could already see Helen opening the window above her. As soon as the window opened, Yoler could hear the panic-filled screams from young David. In her head, Yoler was telling the little boy to shut up, but had to remind herself that he was only young.
“Get David out first,” Yoler called up, trying to ignore the flames to her side that were burning away the front door and trying to lick her.
Helen had a hold of David, but he was refusing to leave his mum’s side. In the end, Helen had to grab the young man and dangle him over the edge, making his screaming even more frantic and louder, and she finally dropped him once Yoler reassured Helen that she would catch him at the bottom.
Ghostland (Book 2): Ghostland 2 Page 16
