Breaking News: An Autozombiography (38 page)

The process of digging into chalk was easy but messy. We used pick-axes to break it up, and spades to remove the rubble and smooth the surfaces. Walking into the building from the outside would take you down four chalk steps into the cool lower floor, which was around ten by fourteen feet, with enough room for fifteen or so thirsty campers. The wooden ceiling was no more than six feet high, less in some places, but a wooden ladder led up to a snug where that ceiling became the floor. It was more cramped up there, and the sloping roof meant that you could not stand up at the front of the pub. However, Jerry had built the front wall so it could lift up on rope hinges at roof level, which he could then prop open to create a canopy which felt rather like a cosmopolitan veranda. Towards the back of the snug Jerry had made a sleeping quarter for him and Jinny. He and my dad now both worked on making chairs and tables, whilst the first batches of brew bubbled away behind the bar. He intended to get back to their house in Tarring one day and raid their spirits cupboard, but for now he had plenty on his hands. He had lots of help too, as people cottoned on to what was being built.

There were fifty-two of us now, and the new arrivals had eventually slowed to a stop. We had filled three sides of A4 with signatures, and now we only met those who were simply passing through, like my parents had passed through all the camps they’d visited on their journey home. Many were seeking loved ones or just heading for whatever was left of home. Some, though, were keen to take advantage of the situation. The first chap we saw arrived with a heaped wheelbarrow and a backpack, waving away any assistance as he puffed his way up the slope. It was obvious that he hadn’t been bitten, and told us that he would just carry on with his journey if we made him get in a pit or anything stupid like that.

He had some serious defences. He too had gaffer-taped his trouser legs, but they were hardly visible under the coils of barbed wire he had strung around his belt - unsurprisingly he didn’t want to sit down quickly. He had ‘found’ a stab-proof vest which he wore under about half a dozen fur coats, a WWII German helmet and a spiked club. As the children gathered round him he handed out sweets to them, to the tutting of some of the parents. Once he had our attention, he began to unpack his wares. Someone, who had seen the packs of tobacco, had ran to their shelter and pulled out a wallet. The traveller laughed in his face.

‘
Now where the fuck do you think I’m going to spend that?’ he roared.

‘
I dunno. I thought… I thought you were selling stuff.’ He looked deflated.

‘
I am, but not for this. It’s useless paper, save it for wiping your red arse with.’ There was a slight Irish lilt to his voice, so ‘arse’ was ‘airse’.

‘
What currency do you take then?’ I asked him, eager for a smoke myself.

‘
Euros are good,’ he chuckled. ‘Nah, I’m always meeting people who have got things I like the look of. If it’s precious to you it may well be just as precious to me. Or less precious of course, I’ve got a wicked exchange rate,’ he chuckled to himself. ‘Now what have I got for you? Salt?’

‘
Got that,’ I said, as Lou curled her arm into mine.

‘
Bullets; cigarettes; whiskey;’ he said. Jerry said nothing. ‘Furs; some kind of meat. What can I do you for?’

‘
I’ll have some tobacco,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know what you’d want of mine.’

‘
Use your imagination, lad,’ he chuckled. ‘Aren’t you married?’ He asked, nodding to Lou. I bristled at the suggestion I assumed he was making.

‘
What did you say?’ I asked him, my face turning red and my ears warming. Jay was already at the man’s side and looking down at him, expressionless and unblinking. The man didn’t move his head, but merely looked at Jay through the corner of his good eye. He reached down and slowly drew back one of the animal skins at his side to reveal the dull glint of a gun barrel.

‘
Do you want to call of your bulldog?’ he asked me, but Jay was already backing off, although I watched Al silently moving to stand behind him all the same, one hand on his nail gun.

‘
I didn’t mean I’d like to screw the brains out of your lovely wife’s head there, you ignoramus feck. I’m talking jewellery.’

‘
Oh, I see. No,’ I said, rubbing my ring finger, ‘we… I lost them both.’

‘
Has my friend Pat already passed through this way then?’ the man asked with a cocked head.

‘
No, I was just… careless. I’ve got a meal for you, though. It’s hot. The pot’s over there.’ I nodded. The food, even though it was communal, was mine to barter with I guessed, and no-one objected.

‘
What, have you got a stew going on there? English stew?’ he roared with laughter. ‘I’m sure that’d be fine. The last people just had biscuits,’ he chuckled. ‘You’ve got a good-looking encampment here, that’s for sure. One of the best I’ve seen. Here. I’ll throw in a packet of rolling papers for you too.’

‘
Two.’ I said bluntly. ‘Two packets of rolling papers.’

He scratched his head. ‘Alright, but my appetite just got bigger,’ he said. ‘Anyone else for anything else?’

He watched with a beady eye as people rifled through the things he’d laid out. There was some cheap-looking jewellery; watches; women’s knickers still in the packet; tins of tuna; even fireworks. He had pencils; paper; condoms; toilet paper; matches; water purification tablets and some medicine. I wondered what he’d charge a sick man for antibiotics. He had a bible and some smoked fish. I saw some people bringing out their jewellery, to which he’d inevitably shake his head and push for more. I watched him thread his latest haul of rings onto a chain around his neck which was positively heaving with others. He tucked into his stew and bartered hard, gaining anything from sunglasses to books people had claimed back from the library. Eventually David had to take up position in the stores with an axe, as people got creative with what was rightfully theirs.

When most were relatively satisfied we all sat back around the fire, sucking sweets or rollups or miniature bottles of spirits. I was keen to get the visitor’s take on events, especially if he’d been around the country.

‘
I’ve seen the cities. I’ve seen the filth, the decay, if that’s what you’re after.’ He turned his eye on me. ‘There’s a pestilence afoot in the cities; a plague, and it won’t turn you into anything, it’ll make you shit and cough liquid fire for a week then die stone cold dead. If you were in a city on that day – you’re fucked now, I tell you. If you went to a medical centre – you’re fucked now. If you cared for a loved one who’d passed – you’re fucked now. If you thought with any emotions at all, well, God help you.’

He told us of the sounds he had heard coming from an army camp he’d passed one hot night, of men screaming and firing guns. He’d seen the vast hulks of two dozen ships washed up on Dorset beaches, and passenger aircraft which had taken out whole towns when they had come down. He’d seen men kill for water, and women kill for less. He said he had witnessed blood turning the Thames red, and babies turning on their mother’s teats.

‘
I think he’s exaggerating, rather,’ my mum whispered to me, having dared my father to even think of buying anything from the man. ‘He’s basically a tinker; a hawker of tat. Leave well alone,’ she had advised, but no-one else listened. My dad eyed a tiny die-cast Spitfire, but hadn’t been brave enough to make him an offer in front of my mum. I smelt something pungent, a sweet, sickly aroma I hadn’t smelt for a while, and Al prodded me on the shoulder holding out a generously packed doobie.

‘
Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘That’s…’ He was offering me a joint – a rare occurrence even before civilisation disappeared - and I accepted. I let the stiffness drain from my limbs and chased the busy thoughts from my brain.

‘
He’s got everything,’ Al said. He certainly had enough to net him a fine haul of rings and other shiny things, and I even saw him disappear with Jenna at one point. Slowly people drifted away to their straw beds, and the man began to pack away his goods.

‘
You’ve a fine pair of hounds there lads,’ he said to me and Al, the last two left around the fire and, if I’m honest, too stoned to actually move if we wanted to.

‘
Not for sale,’ exhaled Al, who was staring at the stars.

‘
No problem. Nice horses, too. Both useful, dogs and horses. Animals are getting harder to find. No-one’s really into feeding anything other than themselves any more. Is your young horse for sale?’ he enquired. They say jazz pianists love to get stoned before performing, as the drug opens up all the pathways in the brain at once, allowing for some truly inspired, instinctive decision-making. If he was serious, and it seemed he was, I had an inspired idea of my own. I found Dawn.

‘
Have we got enough horses?’ I asked her.

‘
Well, yes. There are only three useful horsemen up here, and a few amateurs who could end up being a liability. No offence.’

‘
None taken, but that’s good news - the fifth horse, the youngest one. He’s looking good now, isn’t he?’ I asked.

‘
The foal, yes, he’s looking fine. Why?’

‘
I think we should let him go.’ I said, and then explained what I had in mind. Dawn was all for it. I took the now strapping young horse back to the man, who was waiting for me.

‘
No tackle, I’m afraid.’ I said.

‘
Tack,’ he said. ‘What are you asking for him?’ I told him what I wanted in exchange for the horse.

‘
Oh, and that little die-cast Spitfire model you’ve got.’ I said.

‘
Okay,’ he chuckled. ‘That actually sounds more than fair, given the circumstances, but I can’t exactly give everything back. Know what I mean?’ If I didn’t know then, I certainly did the next day, when I saw Jenna parading her new fur coat.

Jerry beamed at me, a twinkle in his eye. He had an opening date set for his pub, one week before Christmas. He had gone back down to Tarring with Dawn on horseback, and retrieved every last scrap of alcohol from his house, as well as the houses of those neighbours whose drinks cabinets he knew the location of. He’d returned to stock up the pub, and had also brought a stack of glasses of all shapes and sizes. His three recipes of homebrew were ready and waiting for customers.

‘
The only thing I haven’t got is a sign,’ he said. ‘Know any good pub sign painters?’

‘
I think I know one. I laughed, and scratched my beard. ‘I’ve even got a half-finished one in my workshop. Dawn’ll have to drive me down there.’

‘
Drive you?’ Jerry chuckled.

‘
Well, you know. Horse me.’

‘
Okay. In return for painting me a sign, you can drink at The Cissbury Ring for free for one whole year,’ he told me.

‘
What happens after a year?’ I asked him.

‘
I’ll settle for extra dumplings whenever you cook them,’ he said pensively.

‘
Sounds like a very good deal. Is that what you’re calling it then?’ I asked.

‘
Yeah, it makes sense to call it that - at least people can remember where they are when they leave!’

Dawn and I went to the house the next day to find it completely gutted; a gas pipe had split in the house next door, but I don’t know what ignited it. Many of the houses in my street were burnt out, some with windows or whole walls blown out. Wooden beams splayed open like ribs, soaked and warped by the rain and fire. Roofs lay in the streets, and the tarmac on long lengths of the roads themselves had melted, along with the car wrecks they now seemed to have absorbed. Some of the cars jutted out at an angle, as if sinking into a tar pit.

Dawn had selected her favourite horse, and we moved at some speed. The few, weak stinkers we met were swatted away with little effort. Once inside (we were actually able to get the horse into the kitchen at the back of the house) I did a quick search. Snow and ice had made the stairs one flat slope, and all of the books were ruined by their exposure to the moisture. I grabbed the photo I had taken of me proposing to Lou, stuffed it in my bag and went upstairs. I took every coat we had, including a thirty year old duffle coat that I had inherited from my dad with fake animal tooth buttons, before making my way out to the shed and my half-finished pub sign.

It was still intact – luckily Lou had given my keys to Dawn as we left – and I set about gathering what I needed. I took one of the cast iron brackets I had commissioned from a chap with a forge up north, as well as all the acrylic paints I used for the illustrations. I grabbed some black and white gloss paints and all my brushes. Finally, I took the half-finished Royal Oak sign, mercifully smaller than the traditional three feet wide by four foot high, but nonetheless thickly framed and heavy. Dawn helped me to load the horse up, and we started up the road back home to Cissbury Ring. Back home.

When we were approaching camp we met up with Dal who was just finishing two people’s shifts patrolling the lower ring on his own, at speed on horseback. He waved to us, his long black hair flowing behind him – lately he had taken to leaving off his turban. When I’d asked him why, he had mysteriously said that he’d always been told that there were many paths to God, but he had not understood the phrase until now. Others, too, had recently expressed some reluctance to follow the familiar paths of their own religion. Even Glyn and his wife had stopped going to the weekly bible and prayer meetings someone had set up. People were drifting away from what they knew in the face of lots of things they didn’t.

When we reached camp, the children ran to see what we’d brought back with us.

‘
What is it?’ an indignant sounding Patveer asked me.