Class Four: Those Who Survive (18 page)

Let The Beat Control You – Part 3

Three, two, one, and you’re back in the room. Except I was in the driver’s seat of our ARV. For some reason I’ve got Bloater in the seat next to me. Thank fuck that some part of my brain was smart enough to put his seatbelt on.

He’s like the bloody Alien, jaw trying to snap at me; his face is just, well, a mess. He’d have a hard job getting on the Undateables, let’s put it that way.

In addition to no nose, how does he smell I hear you ask. I would say terrible, but that’s also how he looks. One of his eyes has a chunk bitten out of it. It looks like a deflated football hanging out of its socket, still on this bit of fleshy string.

If you say so pal, I ain’t a fucking doctor am I?

I’ve also had the foresight, or dumb luck, to put my seatbelt on, which I found out when I looked through the front window and see I’m heading towards a crowd of people running past Boots. Slammed the brakes on just in time. I work out I must have been heading back to HQ. I’m only like five minutes away?

It was bedlam out there. So many people, you couldn’t tell who was a deader and who was just trying to get the fuck out.

They say it’s why Manchester went so quick, ya know? All those pissheads out in town on a school night. Well, that and the fact that, unlike the South, we were spread thinner than a hotel portion of Nutella on toast.

Bloater, or whatever the fuck he was now, he wasn’t gonna get me, so figured I’d just head back, quick as you like. Even from the bottom of the street, you knew it was bad. Must have been about half eleven now, proper night time. The orange glow from the fire in the station lit up the entire road.

Still had nothing from DK; he was gonna be my next stop. Parked up out back, the barriers were down and no fucker was manning them. Got inside sharpish, headed towards the armoury.

The Sarge was there. Must’ve had the same idea as me. Gave me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, told me that everything’s gone to shit. Could’ve told him that myself. So, get inside the armoury, get a bag, and grab handfuls of mags, grab myself a Remington 870 shotgun, a couple of vests and we go. Sarge isn’t trained, but he’s keen enough. He doesn’t even ask me what I’m going to do, he just followed me.

Ha, poor bastard got a shock when we got back to the ARV. Completely forgot to tell him about Bloater, thought it’d be an ideal opportunity for the Sarge to break his duck. Gave him the Remington, told him all he had to do was point and shoot.

I knew Bloater was gone. The man I knew was fucking lying down dead in the entrance to that ice rink; that thing I pulled out and watched have its head turned into puree sure as hell wasn’t him. Sarge didn’t even blink, which was mad as him and Bloater were close.

We were halfway to the hospital before he spoke again, asked me what I’d seen that night. I’ve never sugar-coated anything, so I told him.

All of it. He went a bit pale, but said he was fine. That was good enough for me. Two were better than one right now, that much I knew.

It was a crap idea going there. I thought seeing that poor girl was bad enough, but the night had saved its best for last. We pull into the hospital car park, we can see their vehicle parked up, the doors are open, they must’ve got out fast.

The place is a mess, there’s shit everywhere, like someone had got every single bin from every single house in Manchester and just thrown it into the street. Crowds of people milling about in the half light, no idea if they were deaders or real people.

Ha.

Real people.

Right.

And then…there he was.

He was over with this nurse. She had blonde hair, which was all tied up. Guess you have to if you work in a hospital. Petite girl, too. She was dead pretty.

She was also pretty dead.

They were side by side, crouching on the ground, pulling at something. I got out of the car and walked closer to see what they were doing, not that it mattered. The fact that he was as dead as she was didn’t even register.

It was Mick. DK had pulled his arm off and was eating it like a chicken drumstick. Ha, there was even this bit where he licked his lips. It was mad, just like when we went to Nando’s after shift.

At least I knew. That’s what I told myself then. I know now, I can move on. Out of the side of my vision, I see Sarge stomp off to them, cock the shotgun.

BOOM.

Blondey doesn’t have to worry about tying her hair up anymore, cos she’s got no head left for the hair to be attached to.

The next bit goes by in super slo-mo. I know what Sarge is going to do, and I’ve got these two voices in me. One is going, ‘Good, blow that fucking deader away, better him than us.’ The other is shouting, ‘Are you gonna let him kill DK and do nothing about it?’

Saw the expended shell get ejected, it twirls around in the air like a coin being flipped, felt like shouting Tails.

Sarge had already called Heads.

No Matt, not a real coin, it’s a metaph—

Oh forget it.

I heard the click, and watched the barrel vomit fire and sparks. DK had clocked him by then. He was still chewing on Mick’s bicep; must have been a stringy bastard. Then just as the first tiny ball of shot hit him, time went back to normal, and DK’s head gets torn into pink gooey ribbons.

After that, we got back in the ARV and left. We stopped to help people out when we could, but we couldn’t do much. By about four in the morning we were knackered. We knew what we had to do, just couldn’t believe we were going to do it.

We stopped at mine first, then went round his. Sarge was living in this little bedsit in Salford, never thought we’d make it out of his digs alive, got pretty hairy. By then, though, we had ditched the uniform and the ARV. We got some water and food from the shop, then we left.

My family was abroad, and Sarge, well, he said he hoped the deaders would eat his soon-to-be ex-wife, but you can tell when someone’s bullshitting. His eyes were all red for starters.

Took us a few hours to get out of the city, but we figured we’d head south. The government would look after them better, more likely to vote for the pricks in power than us lot. We helped when we could and ducked out when we couldn’t.

We just kept going until we got here.

The.

End.

Chapter Eighteen

Steve’s pen stopped scratching in his notepad. “Dee, thank you, I th—”

“Why don’t you tell them the rest, Dee?”

The group turned around instinctively to see who the intruder in their session was. The Gaffer stood there, the atypical immovable object. He was wearing his sheepskin coat, the collar was pulled up around his thick corded neck.

Dee simmered with barely checked anger. The Gaffer pushed himself off the doorframe and strolled into the room, running a finger over a dust-laden shelf. He pulled his finger away and dropped a flaky brown caterpillar of filth, which floated lopsidedly to the floor.

“Go on, if you were such a pillar of the community, why are you here? Everyone knows why Matt is here, for instance.” A slab of a hand fell onto Matt’s shoulder. He looked up with a beaming grin.

“Is it cos I managed to go poo-poo in the bucket today?” he asked with an infectious enthusiasm.

“Ha, no Matt, though good job on that. Matt is here as he has the intellectual ability of a pencil sharpener, which was not helped in any way, shape or form by having to smash a rotary line through his dad’s head. Or witnessing his dead dad’s dick and realising it was still bigger than his, eh champ?”

Matt grinned even more. His face looked like it was unable to deal with the continued strain. “Whatever you say, Gaffer. I liked telling my story. Though I still miss Patches.”

The Gaffer pointed a marker pen of a finger at an empty chair. “Tristan there, you should’ve heard how my men found him. Bordering on feral, by all accounts. Didn’t say boo to a goose for three weeks. Some people thought he was deaf and mute, others thought he was a touch retarded. One look into his eyes, though, you could see what he went through.”

“So, come on, Dee. Now you’re sharing, why don’t you tell these nice people why you’re in here, and not out there, considering your background, hmm?” The Gaffer asked, resting his frame against a drainpipe.

Dee glowered at him. “Like you’re some kind of fucking saint? You run this place like—”

“LIKE WHAT?” The Gaffer boomed, his eyes wide open, burning with a passion and intensity which, if left unchecked, would burn up all the dust in the room. His demeanour softened. “Like what? Anyone here can leave at any time. Everyone knows that. They will get no problem from me or the men that guard them while they sleep. You take your stuff, food for a day, whatever weapon you came in with, and you can go. This isn’t a prison, Dee. You, of all people, know this.”

Dee crossed her arms, still incandescent with rage. “But what about the Remedials, eh? Mister fucking big man, aren’t you? Getting Grimm to beat people, lock them in that crap-hole or have them lashed up to the angel outside.”

The Gaffer held his arms out. “Yes, we have to. Without rules, we have disorder. Without rules, we have chaos. But what use are they if they are ignored? You need a punishment, you need a deterrent. If someone stole from you and got away with it, how would you feel?”

He walked behind the circle, like a shark monitoring the shoal. “If someone beat on you, and you got no justice, would you feel safer? If some piece of distended rectum fell asleep while keeping a watch on you when you were at your most vulnerable, would you want them to get off Scott free?”

“No Gaffer, I wouldn’t. Dad always stood up for me when I got sent home from school for things. Like when I went wee-wee in the bin in class, cos Mrs Copping wouldn’t let me go to the toilet. I told her I needed to go, but she just said no. I didn’t want to make my new shorts all wet,” Matt rattled out.

“No, Matt, we wouldn’t. So I make the hard decisions, so you don’t have to. The world, unless you haven’t been paying attention, has very much gone to shit. I am responsible for the safekeeping of forty eight people. You, Dee, are barely responsible for one, especially after what happened,” The Gaffer continued. “So, Treacle. Are you going to tell them why you’re here, or shall I?”

A Local Shop For Local People

Fine, so me and Sarge meet up with this complete bellend, yes,
you
, somewhere outside Oxford. We’d been travelling for a few weeks. Some days we managed to get a few miles down the road before we’d come across another roadblock, run out of fuel, or stop to try and help folk.

Everything had gone to shit by then. Gave up listening to the radio, same old crap they kept spouting. We were
out
there, we saw it all. Most survivors were holed up in their own gaffs, keeping their heads down, making sure the deaders didn’t get wind of ‘em. A few times we had to intervene to help out, nothing major like.

So me, Sarge, prickface over there, and a few others, we find this place after a bit. We could see the potential, even if the size of the place was a bit daunting. Didn’t even have to kill anyone to get it. Within a few weeks, though, with every supply run we’d do, or recce around the area, we’d get more and more people. He who shall not be named, Grimm and some of his pals, Matt—

Yes, hi Matt.

Along with some others, we start getting a proper little community going.

We knew by then we needed regular supplies, but it was all about risk versus reward. The supermarkets, especially the big out of town ones, were an obvious target, but me and Sarge found out the hard way that those places were more trouble than they were worth.

For one, every other fucker had already thought of this, so most of the good stuff had been chaved already. The power was pretty much gone by now, too. And on one run we did, we ran into both of those lovely groups that we now spend so much time avoiding.

Deaders and bandits.

Yeah, yeah, Romero would say that they were going back there from some sense of memory, or some emotional link to that place.

Bullshit.

They were
hungry
. They are
always
hungry. They knew people were there cos one of them, could’ve been days ago, saw a live one.

That deader moaned at the fucker, stopped doing what they were doing and followed them. That moan attracted other deaders, who also stop what they’re doing and follow, and before you know it, you’ve got a band of them walking in the same direction, following their lunch.

It was the only time so far I was glad to see those dead wankers.

We’d got into the warehouse out back; there was next to nothing there, though. Before we had a chance to take what we had, this bunch of pricks with baseball bats and god knows what had surrounded us. Sure, we had guns, but we could have got two, maybe three of them before their mates would be doing the Riverdance on our twitching bodies.

So, it’s like The Good, The Bad and the fucking Ugly. We’re eyeballing each other, waiting for someone to make the first move.

This is going to end,
badly.

Then the deaders strolled in through the doors. With all the commotion they just walked right in amongst us. It was mayhem. I don’t reckon the toe-rags even knew we were there when their mates were being snacked on. We left them to it and legged it out back.

So from then on, we stuck to the little newsagent shops, the Tesco Metros of the world. Sure, they’d been hit up, too, but not as much. You knew if you found one, you would come out with enough stuff to last a few days. We got a map of the area, and every couple of days we’d head off on bikes, fill up the trailers, and get back. In the early days a good run or two would feed us all for a week.

Then we started having to go further and further.

Yes, alright, I’m
getting
to it.

Fuck me, you really do want to rub my nose in this, eh?

Prick.

Me and An…I mean Sarge, used to do the runs up until a few months back. I had the Remington and Sarge took the Glock. We only had them for emergencies. He had that fucking sword by then. I preferred the subtlety of my knuckle dusters.

Bit more personal, y’know?

Find this little One Stop on the outskirts of some village, some weird name, Curry Fartpants or something. What is with those stupid names?

I go in first. Sarge is watching the street, making sure we get no surprises. Some of those little places look dead, literally, but the amount of times we came out of shops on a run and have a meet n’ greet waiting for us wasn’t even funny.

After a bit of a poke around, it looked pretty safe to me. Started loading up a basket. There wasn’t loads there, but some stuff we hadn’t had for a bit.

Got some Vanilla Hob Nob Creams for one. I nearly pissed myself with joy when I found those at the back of the shelf. Got some fags, too. Camel Lights, but when you’re desperate…

I drop the basket by the front, tell Sarge I’m just gonna do a sweep of the storeroom and head back in. The storeroom, though, well, it was pretty much bare. Some nappies and some of those piss-pads for men. Contemplated getting some for you Gaffer.

No?

Fine, fine, I’m getting to it.

Fucking hell.

I’m just about to head out, call it a day, when I see this rug on the floor. It just looked wrong, y’know? Really out of place. I gave it a bit of a kick and there’s this trapdoor under it. Felt like I was Tintin or something. Just needed a Snowy.

Got the door open, turn my Maglite on and mosey on down. The smell hit me first; smelt like spoilt meat and shit. It had been one bouquet we had gotten used to on our journey down south. The amount of times we kicked in a door hoping for a place for the night only to be greeted by that smell. If your luck was really out, it would be followed closely by a moan.

Guess my luck was out too when I got into that cellar.

Smell.

Moan.

Like some sick director bastard had done it on purpose.

I shine my light round and I find where most of the food is, stacked up against one wall. As nice as finding that was, the fact I hadn’t seen the deader who was making the sex noise wasn’t filling me with happy-happy-joy-joy thoughts, y’know?

See this wall of boxes halfway down. Again, doesn’t look right. Too neat and tidy. Just as I’m about to give it a nudge, a box of Quavers hits me on the head. The moan gets louder, and as sure as wiping follows a shit, this grey arm is fumbling around trying to give me a cuddle.

Thing is, he ain’t alone down there. Can see more movement behind him. I bring up the shotgun and I’m just about to fire when I notice that he’s got this metal collar round his neck. He’s reaching for me, but there’s no way he can get to me.

Time to have me some fun.

I move the boxes out of the way best I can, and can see four of them, two men, two women. They were proper rotten, looked like they had been melted, their skin was all saggy. So, I start laying into the first one, work the legs first, get him on the floor, on his back. They can’t do shit then.

Get my knife out and start taking his fingers off, one at a time.

Ha, it’s mad what you can do to them. Just stick the blade in above the knuckle and flick it, finger comes right off and they don’t even scream. The moan was the same. I’d done both hands and had started on his toes when it happened.

Thought the boxes were empty. They didn’t feel like they had anything in ‘em at all. I was kneeling on the deaders back, had my ass to the others. They were on a tighter leash by the looks of it. Either way, they weren’t any nearer to me.

Then, I feel this pain in my calf, like something’s pressing down on it. I look down and there’s this fucking zombie head. Its teeth were trying to chew through my combats and have a little nibble. I freaked, kicked out, and it went flying off into the dark. Heard this crack and this slurping sound. I’m wired now, I get that feeling again.

BA-BOOM.

BOOM.

BA-BOOM.

I try to breathe slower, and I think that’s nipped it in the bud.

Just like in that movie,
Se7en
, I shouldn’t have looked in the boxes. The nearest one was for Monster Munch. Ironic, really. Opened it up and there’s half a dozen chomper heads all looking back at me, packed in real tight.

The one that got to me, though, was this young girl. Her head had been lopped off at an awkward angle, sort of diagonally through her jaw. What was left of her mouth was going at it like she was coming up on a pill.

BA-BOOM.

I drop the box, my knife hits the floor.

BOOM.

When I came to, the lightbulb above me was swinging. Ha, fuck me, even when I’m gone, I can still find the light switch, eh? The room is like an abattoir; there are bits of brain everywhere. Looked like at one stage I had an eye fetish as there were rows of them. Must’ve played conkers with them, as some were smashed to fuck. This jelly stuff was, like, everywhere.

Looked like it was an hour after waking up on Christmas Day as a kid. Open boxes everywhere, but instead of Lego and Barbie, there were piles of caved-in deader heads. There were loads; it was like a preparation room for the Khmer Rouge.

My boots were caked in blood, and skull, and stuff I didn’t even know the name of. Even the deaders at the back were lying around in a hundred different pieces now. I found an ear in my pocket later on, when we got back and…

Yeah, I’ll skip that bit.
You
can tell ‘em if you want?

Whatever.

I get some food which isn’t covered in all the colours of the blood rainbow and climb back up the ladder.

Standing there at the top is this old couple, clutching each other real tight. They ask me what I’ve done.

I didn’t say anything at first. Wondered how the hell they had got there. Turns out they were upstairs the entire time. I tell them that I was in the basement and ran into some deaders, but it’s okay. I’d taken care of it, so they were safe.

That old bat screamed like I’d set fire to her saggy tits. She came flying at me, calling me all sorts. I ain’t taking shit from anyone, whether they carry a bus-pass or not. Hit the bitch when she got into range. She fell to the floor, got up, and did it again. The
noise
on her, fuck me.

Repeat.

She’s on the floor again, rubbing her jaw. Must’ve cracked something. She ain’t happy but it did shut her the fuck up.

Which was nice.

The husband, at least I
think
that’s what he was, picked her up and said it’d be okay. Then he looked at me and asked me what I’d done to the village. I said I hadn’t done anything to their village; I’d just took some stuff from the shop.

He squeezed the old bird and took a step towards me. Only then did I notice that his trousers were crusted with dried blood, and not just a little bit. It was like he had gone fly fishing in Blood Lake.

He then proceeds to regale me with the story about how they had kept everything tip-top, even when the dead came back.

How they kept the village together.

For the greater good, he said.

When they turned, they took care of them, took their heads off and stored them in the basement. Turns out the deaders down there had been their two sons and their daughters-in-law.

Aww, isn’t that sweet, I thought. Fucking chop everyone else’s heads off, but keep your own family in one piece.

Turns out that sometimes they didn’t always wait until they were dead, either.

BA-BOOM.

I had cocked the shotgun before I even knew it.

BOOM.

Sarge was the next thing I saw. I was in a room I didn’t recognise. Turns out I’d offed Mr and Mrs Natural Born Killers and gone upstairs, where other upstanding members of the community were hiding out from the looter—me—downstairs. In that state, I didn’t know any better. There were four bodies lying on the floor in a neat row, all had their backs to me, all of them missing something important.

Their heads.

One of them had blood caked all over their crusty jugular.

An—

Sarge got up the stairs just as the last one finished begging and started pissing blood following a sudden meeting with a twelve gauge shell, and piss from his, well, normal place. He said that I almost took him out too.

So there. That was the last run I went on. You happy
now,
Gaffer? Make you feel better?

Anyway, we got back here. Andy told The Gaffer here what had occurred. I got a week in the coal scuttle.

That really fucking helped.

Thanks.

I’m being sarcastic by the way.