by A L Carter
Jones shook himself back to reality after being shoved into the bar. Was Jenkins okay after Donna had landed on him? He turned to look and was greeted with an amusing and provocative sight. Jenkins appeared to be out cold but appeared to be alive and breathing. Donna was further down his body, breasts and head resting on his lap. Jenkins' hand was not visible as it was between his groin and her face. Above all the cherry on the cake was the lengthy section of police issue baton now sticking out of the back of her head. Jones had a sudden thought and he knew that he should not do it but found himself powerless not to. Taking out his smartphone he preceded in taking several shots of the happy couple, pity the lads were not around he would have enjoyed showing them these. Then as an afterthought, he decided to do some selfies with them, yes he thought pure genius.
Jenkins felt light coming back into his vision as well as a familiar voice welcoming him back.
"You okay sir you were out for a good 20 minutes," Jones informed slight worry audible in his voice.
He pushed himself up on his elbows he realised that he did not feel that bad apart from a slight headache. With there being a carpet down the impact was less than it could have been and feeling behind his head there was no tissue damage. He slowly and cautiously got to his feet checking himself over in the process.
"No apparent harm done Jones, but just shows you how dangerous barmaids can be," he concluded.
"Your right there sir but I'd advise you sit in a comfy chair for awhile," Jones suggested gesturing to the nearest one.
Jenkins took the advice and sat in it. His head already clearing he felt in a good mood which wasn't bad considering he had just lost his wife and it appeared to be the end of the world as he knew it.
"What happened to the barmaid," he enquired.
"Oh Donna you mean, sorry but I had to sling her out for indecent behaviour," Jones informed.
"Yes it was rather indecent wasn't it," he agreed unable to restrain a large grin. "I'm sure that mental image will stay with me for a long time."
Jenkins burst out laughing, "Yes sir it'll sure stay with me."
"The male one where is it and were there any others," he asked.
"Oh you mean John the barman he's with Donna, he never used to like letting her out of his sight, so I put them together outside," Jones replied. "And the rest of the house is clear which means we've got the place to ourselves sir."
"Excellent time for a pint then," he encouraged.
"Good heavens not at this time sir, it's still before lunchtime," he answered, a mock shocked expression in place.
"Oh sorry," Jenkins faltered for a moment.
"Tea first, then a pint," he offered going behind the bar to make tea.
He had to hand it to Jones he was a man full of surprises and principles.
Not too long after tea, a proper drink was soon to follow, and Jones expertly poured two fine real ales with an accompanying bag off pork scratchings each. They both sat back to enjoy their current surroundings listening to easy tunes on the jukebox which was set at low volume. Well, they did not want to disturb the neighbours.
Several hours of this passed along with several more pints and cheese cobs courtesy of Jones the genius. The bread was a bit stale but it was still marvellous nonetheless. Luckily even in the apocalypse the power still seemed to be going and there was a well-stocked fridge and freezer. As well as a pantry full of dry goods and tins, if they could keep the pub defended then things might even be enjoyable. He took another swallow of the fine ale then thought of something.
"Jones I take it when Donna knocked me out you intervened otherwise I'd probably not be sitting here now enjoying these fine pints," he asked.
Jenkins seemed to choke on his pint for a moment or maybe it was a lingering piece of pork scratching stuck at the back of his throat.
"Eeerrr...yes sir it was nothing sir she was already downed from the fall and of course you'd managed to break the harpies spell and save me sir, thus ensuring that we were both here to enjoy our current libations," he recovered as best he could.
"Well thank you anyway, indeed thanks for everything yesterday I felt close to giving in and now today I feel more alive than ever," Jenkins confessed.
"Don't mention it sir but I must warn you up front that I never commit myself to a long term relationship and I'll never marry you," he said straight-faced but the eyes gave the humour in them as usual.
"Well I'll have to bare it anyway," Jenkins replied trying to play along with it but didn't have nearly as good poker a face.
More time passed and he thought he was close to getting heavily inebriated again when a sudden important question came into his head.
"Jones how much real ale is there and how long will it last," he asked with a serious edge to his voice.
"Good question sir and one I have already done an inventory, there are six more cask's of real ale untouched as yet and maybe another half left of what we're drinking now, and at our current rate of expenditure that may only last only 3 weeks," Jones answered calmly.
"Oh no only that long," he replied hiccupping.
"But there are about another six crates of bottled ales which could stay us maybe just over a week, there's also a couple of crates of decent single malt whiskeys we need to dabble in," Jones continued.
"But of course it would be rude not to," he contemplated.
"Then, of course, there's the regular beers and spirits which could be more than a few months worth," Jones added.
"Well I suppose we can't complain too much then," Jenkins sighed settling further back into his chair.
"But then there's the worst thing sir we've only got barrels of fizzy lager and Cinzano left," he informed mock horror over his face.
With that Jenkins suddenly sat bolt upright in shock at the realisation of his words and then immediately flopped back down again passed out. Jones chuckled to himself the chief really did need training up in the drinking art's but this would come with time, still it was great having someone to banter with. With that, he settled down with an excellent bottle of single malt.
The waft of frying bacon reached his nostrils and began to bring him round gently unlike yesterday's early morning unpleasantness, namely a loud buzzer and a gang of thugs. Opening his eyes he realised that his head did not hurt too badly, but his mouth was terribly dry and his bladder was past full. He got up to go to the gents, the pub that now appeared to be his new home. Strange how things had changed so fast he thought as he emptied his bladder. As he washed his hands and face he appraised himself. Bloody hell he looked rough, day’s worth of stubble, hair all over the place and dark rings under the eyes. The missus would have gone spare and would have been straight onto the phone to her sister. That made him think of their relationship, although he always knew that he loved her but it often felt one-sided. At home, he always felt that she controlled him and everything ended up being her decision, holidays, cars they had, house decorations and furniture. However, she never took any responsibility for the cost or offered to help. Then he would still get moaned at and moaned about. Work seemed like his only escape where he was in control and people looked up to him and respected him. Even there she had exerted pressure nagging at him to keep pushing for promotion, which of course brought more money and of course status. When he thought about it now he never really wanted to get so high in the ranks, which brought with it more stress. He would have settled to be content at Sergeant and been one of the lads like Jones. Then he realised that even in these strange days he was catching up on lost time and so be it. Now he was determined to live his life his own way. Even though he was uncertain how long that would last and not feel guilty for it. He washed his face with cold water enjoying its refreshing feel.
Back out in the bar Jones had laid out two magnificent full English breakfasts with all the works.
"Jones I honestly don't think I've seen anything so delicious," he exclaimed gratefully.
"I beg to differ, sir, remember Donna?" Jones pointed
out amusement in his eyes.
"Well yes apart from that of course," he grinned at the memory.
During breakfast, they discussed their plans and it was agreed that it was a great place to hold up. But it was probably a beacon for looters and nut jobs. Hopefully, Mick and his gang would leave them alone and stick to the town where there were plenty of shops and pubs to loot. Then there were, of course, the zombies, undead or infected. They both agreed that it didn't really matter what they called them, Jones even suggested the ‘not quite dead yet’ but perhaps that was a bit long winded. They talked about the inevitable increase in numbers and a decrease in the livings numbers. Even though they were relatively easy to deal with in small groups then large groups could be their undoing. What they needed were better weapons and better defences. Deciding that the latter would be the best to start with so they went on the scrounge around the properly. Jones found a good supply of tools and Jenkins found some wood outside. There were several sheets of exterior ply stacked against a wall and a good pile of planks. The ply was cut to fit the windows and managed to cover the front windows. The front door was nailed shut and reinforced with planks. This noise brought some unwanted attention of course of the ‘not quite dead’ variety forcing them to down tools every now and then. This proved claw hammers to be excellent at multitasking, and superior to the police batons. Round the back, they used the rest of the planks to board up the downstairs windows. The back door was reinforced but kept as their only entrance but handily there was a small reception area where shoes and coats could be put and then there was another door. So this acted like an airlock meaning double security. A spy hole was added to each door so they were not taken by surprise. Time had flown by and it was now passed four thirty. Both now felt far more secure and were pleased with their day's work.
"Not bad eh Jones," Jenkins said with pride.
"A fine job sir and should stand up to a fair amount of damage," came the reply.
"Right then Jones you sit there and take a well-earned rest and I'll look after you for a change," he instructed.
"Thank you, sir," as he sat down as instructed.
Jenkins went behind the bar and poured a real ale and obviously, he had been paying attention because he did an acceptable job of it. He took this over along with a few nibbles.
"Don't eat too much because I'm going fix us up a solid meal," he announced.
"Right you are sir," Jones said supping on his pint.
With that Jenkins disappeared into the kitchen. Earlier in the morning, he had the forethought to get a couple of hefty steaks out the freezer so they were already defrosted. He turned on the fryer to get it up to temperature along with the griddle his mouth watering in anticipation. When everything was hot enough he started to cook.
Later they sat in the bar totally stuffed. The ale was flowing and they had also started on a single malt whiskey.
"Thank you, sir, bloody fine meal," he complimented.
"No bloody problem it's only fair to equal out the work," came the reply.
"Sir I would like to make a suggestion about an idea I've had about additional security," Jones asked.
"Go ahead you don't have to ask were equal now no rank," he encouraged.
"Well it's a bit of gruesome idea actually and you may think me very strange," he explained ominously.
"Jones I think after what I've seen done lately the strange has now become normal," he said a matter-of-factly.
"Very well sir, well the main threats to our survival are zombies and humans, I may have a strategy repel both, both military and criminals are never opposed to using fear to keep civilizations under control and zombies are attracted to us, maybe the smell," Jones said sharing his thoughts.
"Yes I think I know where you’re going with this," Jenkins speculated.
"Okay then straight to the point then, I think we should hang a load of zombies on spikes out the front and use their blood to paint warning signs," he suggested.
There was silence for what felt like ages, Jones face etched with worry that maybe he had gone too far.
"What a bloody good idea Jones," breaking the silence at last.
Chapter 13
We’ll will meet again
He gently lowered her to her feet, feeling stupid and not knowing what to say. She looked up at him, five foot two and medium build. Looking like she'd lost weight too, it seemed like the apocalypse was the perfect weight loss plan. Of course, the baseball cap was in place, this one aptly displaying zombies must die on the front of it. Wearing a black t-shirt with a Harley Davidson on the front and well-worn blue jeans. On her feet were army boots, again well worn. What worried him the most was that she held her fists tightly at her side appearing to shake. Eyes showing several emotions, distrust, confusion, betrayal, but above all anger. Even Dinah looked worried and looked up whining. Suddenly he felt distracted a sense of danger. Quickly looking around he saw the lone zombie, maybe some were more intelligent than others were, two hundred meters away. It did not appear that any others had followed yet. Reaching behind him in a fluid motion, he unclipped the bow, pulled an arrow and notched it. In less than a second, it was flat in the road with an arrow embedded in the eye.
"Max could never have seen that far without his glasses let alone hit anything!" she announced. "You have hair, you look taller and are some kind of steroid freak!" continuing her observation. "You are not my Max!"
He felt deflated and accused and did not know what to do next. Dinah barked at her in disapproval, knowing something was wrong. Yes, Dinah would save him she would get her to understand.
"And you Dinah, you betrayed me leaving me on my own to hook up with some stranger," she said scolding her.
Dinah cowered down looking down, ashamed of herself but not sure why? Hadn't she brought her the master?
"Do you know where Max is can you take me to him, as you seem to know something about him?" she demanded.
A spark of hope ignited, he would go with it.
"Yes sorry, he sent me to get you, by any means necessary he said even if I have to carry you the whole way," It didn't sound very convincing. "He really cares about you," he added as if that made things better.
"Cares about me, he fucking left me!" she accused.
Shit, he was in big trouble he thought.
"Yeah that's right he says but he'll explain when he sees you," he explained.
This seemed to calm her somewhat.
"Then take me to him," she replied, calmer.
But he still had the feeling that she was just suppressing it for now.
"Please take me to him," she asked politely.
She followed behind the stranger, although he did seem somehow familiar. Her mind whirled and she did not quite believe his story. But he just couldn't be Max, physically there was no match. This man had hair, hair didn't normally grow back. In the ten years, she had known him he had always been bald. Max had been blind as a bat without his glasses and this guy seemed to have amazing eyesight. He also looked military trained; he had run with her at that speed, it did not seem possible. Without hardly looking winded. Appearing as if he'd trained in the gym every day for years. Muscles stuck out everywhere; she could even see his stomach muscles through his top. For fuck's sake, he must be four inches taller than Max that just could not be. Something deep down in her told her it was true. Before she had seen him when she hid in the dumper bucket he had spoken to her, and at that point, she had had hope. Sure that it was him and he had finally come back for her. But seeing him she had panicked, afraid and feeling cheated. He did not look like Max, even appearing younger. Then a memory triggered in her head. When they'd been at his mum and dad’s house she would look through the old photo albums. There hadn't been many of Max; she knew this because he was embarrassed about his size. So most of his pictures of his childhood, looking cute dressed as a cowboy or sitting on a six-foot wombles knee looking terrified. But there were a few in his twenties. He had lost a lot of weight, he was doing marti
al arts, weight training and running at the time, and he was lean and muscular. But the face looked almost the same. Could it be true? She felt more confused than ever. She realized she had no weapon, he had disarmed her to easily. This bothered her; she had survived a lot during the apocalypse and could handle herself. She needed a weapon.
"You took my weapon," she accused.
"Oh sorry about that," he replied.
Then in one swift motion, he pulled the crowbar from his pack and held it out to her.
"Ugh it's covered in zombie blood and bits," She explained, withdrawing. "Aren't you afraid of infection?"
"Errr... I've got gloves on," he dithered.
He put the bar back then unfastened a large combat knife from his belt and handed that to her.
"Sorry it's not as good for zombies but will do in a fix," he offered.
She took it gratefully, their eyes connected for a moment. Deep down her hope increased, but she wouldn't allow herself to show it. They were Max's eyes. She fastened the sheath to her own belt, but it didn't feel adequate.
"We'll find you something better soon," he promised looking into her eyes.
With that, he turned a continued on his way, Dinah trotting merrily at his side. Traitor she thought, but that was not like Dinah. She had always been loyal and distrusting of others, even other dogs. They had always classed her as antisocial. Feeling the blade at her hip, it might not be as handy for zombies as some, but could easily dispatch a human. She pulled it free and studied the heavy blade. He never responded to the sound and she suspected that he had heard it being unsheathed. Was this total trust or plain stupidity. She had learned to trust nobody in the apocalypse. Eventually, he paused at a small sidetrack, which probably led to a farm. He hesitated longer than he should have done if he knew the way.
