Class Four: Those Who Survive (5 page)

Chapter Five

A throng of people stood shoulder to shoulder at the far end of the factory floor. The machinery had long since been sold. ‘Netzach’s Biscuits’ had gone tits up during the ’08 recession. Too many lines with dubious chocolate quality, coupled with the rather unsavoury Bexley Heath Cub Scout poisoning incident, sounded the death knoll for a company that had been around since the reign of Queen Victoria.

Once the administrators had picked the bones clean and sold anything of use, including every single plastic cup used for the imbibing of cooled water, the building was locked up and sealed behind its barbed wire-trimmed stainless steel fence. Its location did nothing to appeal to prospective investors.

Netzach’s factory was in the middle of nowhere. The train line that it used to take advantage of had closed in the sixties. The town it supported had withered away to a puckered up old hag’s teat.

Yet, the reason why it didn’t appeal to those looking to make money became a beacon when the dead stopped staying dead.

The world had gone to hell in a heartbeat, and those who were left were exceptionally keen on staying out of built up areas.

Netzach’s was a godsend.

The military had set up a safe zone in each county, utilising the many mothballed bases which had been closed down over the years due to budget cuts. But those who couldn’t get to them, or who wanted to remain…independent, needed to find alternative accommodation. One such man now looked out of the manager’s office windows, across to the forest, which straddled the concrete road leading from the main gate like a pair of hairy legs.

He looked down to the imposing bastions of metal, the sole thing keeping
them
out. He saw a number of shapes bump and scrape against the chain-link fence. A cough from behind him jolted him back into the room. “Gaffer, it’s time,” Jones reported, not wishing to disturb, but realising that timekeeping was as important to this man as keeping
them
out.

The Gaffer turned to Jones, who looked to the floor, unsure whether he had caused displeasure. It seemed an eternity before he spoke. “Andy, thank you. Tell me, who is on Heads-Up detail today?” His cockney accent was laden with honey on the surface, yet an undercurrent of venom bubbled beneath.

Andy looked up. One hand rested on the rapier tucked into his belt. “Is something wrong, Gaffer?” he asked cautiously.

The Gaffer turned his sizeable frame back to the window and gestured for Jones to come closer. “We have stragglers, Andy. Heads-Up is responsible for ensuring that we do not have a build up at the gates, because if we have a build up at the gates, Andy, where does that leave us?”

Andy mumbled a reply into his hand.

“Pardon?” The Gaffer asked forcefully. His round, well-built face turned to look at Jones directly.

Andy cleared his throat and replied, “It leaves us at home to Mr Fuck Up. Gaffer.”

“Precisely. Now, I’m going to ask again, and you know I hate repeating myself. Who the fuck is on Heads-Up detail today?” The Gaffer’s eyes seemed to emit a shrieking sound which burrowed into Andy’s skull.

Andy’s eyes rolled up and to the left. “It’s Jackson and Coates today, Gaffer. They’re new, though. They don’t know about the rules, do they?” No sooner had the words left the safety of his oesophagus, his brain demanded that they were taken back; his buttocks clenched in disapproval.

A T-bone steak of a hand rested on Andy’s shoulder. The digits closed on his scapula like a multitude of adjustable pipe wrenches, the pressure started off slight and rose, seemingly with no effort exerted by the operator.

Andy’s sphincter was clenched so tight that not even a quark could have escaped. He felt the hot, clammy breath being expelled on his cheek. He stared at the floor, hoping it would deposit him into a bottomless pit of doom.

A hearty hand slapped him on the back. “Ha, this is why you’re my number two, Andy. Good man. I think I’ll let them off this time. Besides, I’m sure after Remedial, Jackson and…”

“Coates, Gaffer,” Andy spat out, followed by a small squeak of happy gas from his relieved cheeks. The Gaffer waved a hand and turned his nose up.

“I thought you were lactose intolerant, Andy. Stay off the milk, okay?” The Gaffer patted Jones on the shoulder again and turned towards the door which led to the factory floor. He pulled a sheepskin coat from a hook on the back of the door and swung it on. Andy followed in quick pursuit.

The hubbub on the factory floor fell to an instant silence the moment the formidable form of The Gaffer strode from his office and onto the top of the balcony which crested the stairs leading to his office. He had a bandolier of shotgun shells over one shoulder; over the other was a leather strap which was affixed to the top and bottom of a parking meter, the coin end of which was scratched and pitted.

“Good evening everyone. I trust your day has been one of joyful servitude for our happy little camp, down here in the spleen of our fine country.” The Gaffer’s voice carried out easily into the vacuous space, enveloping all who craned their necks up to see him. He turned and started to walk down the metal staircase. Jones followed five paces behind, his face a welt of concentration on not tripping up.

The small procession made their way to a small raised concrete area just in front of the floor where the inhabitants of Netzach’s biscuit factory stood and shivered. The raised area was flanked by four men dressed all in black. They wore masks, body armour, and each cradled a double-headed fire axe.

The Gaffer reached the middle of the concrete stage and looked out into the crowd. His voice boomed around the masses. “Friends, we all work hard to keep this place safe. We grow food, we wash each other’s clothes, babysit our neighbour’s children, keep watch and make sure that the chompers don’t tear down the wall and rip asunder all that we have worked for.”

He gave it a moment to let the words sink in. “But with that safety, with this FREEDOM, we must have a code, one that is unyielding, yet fair and true. So if your neighbour steals from you, if they fail in their given duty, if they do not keep the chompers from forming en masse at the gates or if they FUCKING FALL ASLEEP WHILST ON SENTRY DUTY, then they know they will be punished.”

Hushed murmurings ran through the crowd. People covered their mouths and talked to their friends, trying to work out who was missing and who was in deep shit. It didn’t take long before they were revealed.

“Grimm, if you please, bring them out, let them look the people in the eye who they could’ve gotten killed. Bring them out
now
,” growled The Gaffer. He moved to one side. His fists cracked as they formed into orbs of rage.

At the bottom of the stairs, a red windowless door opened into a forbidding chamber. From the murk skulked two men covered in sweat and soot; it looked like they had been left in a toaster for too long.

Pushing them out into the pallid light of the factory floor was a rotund man, his bulk barely able to squeeze through the doorframe. He wore a black jumpsuit, a silver mask similar to the guards, and two lump hammers tucked into the front of his belt.

The two men were forced onto their knees. Both looked on the edge of exhaustion. The transition from dark to light forced squints into their eyes. The Gaffer moved behind them. “Both of these men were caught sleeping when they were supposed to be keeping watch over
you
and your neighbours. We all know that all it takes is one lapse and those bastards will get in here. Some of you here will remember when we first made this our home, and what Douglas’ neglect of duty caused.” The Gaffer pointed to a makeshift memorial on the wall behind him.

“We lost seven people that day. Seven people who would be here, standing with you now, if only Douglas had done his goddamn MOTHERFUCKING JOB.” Strands of spittle laced his lips.

The Gaffer cast a steely gaze around the room. Nodding to some of the old guard who remembered those times, he continued. “Since that day, I decided that if anyone, no matter who, was remiss in their duty,  they get one strike. If you get three strikes, then, well, to coin a phrase from our friends across the pond, then you’re outta here. Luckily we don’t get too many of these little Remedial sessions anymore.”

Some people started to clap and holler. The Gaffer raised his hands to stifle their excitement.

One of the kneeling men was hauled to his feet. His weedy dirty arm was held up by an uncaring gloved hand. The Gaffer turned to him. “Ian, this is your first strike, you know what that means don’t ya?”

Ian nodded weakly. “Yes Gaffer. I know what it means. I’m sorry. Everyone, I’m sorry,” he stuttered. A tear cut through the grime on his face, making his pale skin show through in one small streak.

The Gaffer turned to the room. “Some of you newbies here won’t know the punishments we have. Ian here does. Strike one means you get to spend a week out there, in Chomperville. On your journey to the gate, you might have seen a coal scuttle next to the path. Some of you might not have done. It’s not the biggest thing in the world. If you fuck up, strike one means you get put in there for a week. You’ll get a blanket and two meals a day, reduced rations of course. If you feel like you want to break out and stretch your legs, be my fucking guest. I remember Lana thought that and made it all of fifty feet before she got turned into gut-sushi.”

Ian began to cry in earnest, his face scrunched up. “Shhh, don’t worry, Ian, you’ll be safe, as long as one of these fine men remembers to lock the scuttle, or, well, you might not be. But don’t go just yet, my friend. Let’s see what you could win if you fuck up again.” The Gaffer gestured with two fingers, and Ian was dragged to one side. His legs and bladder control both gave way.

Two of the guards hauled the other dishevelled man to the centre of the dais. The room fell silent. Even Ian suppressed his crying. The Gaffer sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.

He regained his composure and looked at the second man. “Strike Two, however, well…Yohann here, he also thought that instead of being his brother’s keeper, he would be his brother’s sleeper. This will not do. Grimm, if you please.”

The two men turned Yohann around. His naked back glistened with beads of sweat. A guard grabbed hold of an arm each and twisted them at the shoulder, so that Yohann’s head was bent over. Grimm stood off to one side and reached a hand behind his back. It reappeared brandishing a barbed riding crop; he swished it in the air to emphasise the effect.

“Ten strokes for Strike Two, and one day on the angel outside. Grimm, if you please…” The Gaffer ordered. The blubberous mass of Grimm shuddered as each strike resonated throughout the factory. Only the cries of pain from Yohann came out. The crowd held its breath and waited for it to finish.

The Gaffer ran a hand through his slicked-back, black hair and looked on, impassively.

Chapter Six

The jawbone, propelled by a small child’s foot, flew through the air, bounced off a rusting railway sleeper and landed in a clump of nettles, which had sprouted amongst its brethren.

“Weeeeee,” Nathan squealed as he lined up his next punt. The second shot thundered a piece of collarbone down the long abandoned train line. “Choo-choo,” he shouted and ran after the nub of greyed bone.

Francis picked through the remnants of a corpse draped over the tracks as if it were wrapping paper. The body itself was nothing more than a collection of bones held together with bits of sinew the maggots couldn’t be bothered with.

Fingers peeled open the dirt covered dark red top and peered through the ribcage and into the inside of the clothing. A family of disgruntled beetles scattered upon the intrusion and trotted up and over the coccyx, before they disappeared into the pelvic region, no doubt forming a bad review of the accommodation.

Turning out the trouser pockets yielded nothing except some low grade grit and a tissue which had been through the wash cycle once and dried into a firm lump of useless matter. He scoured the area and rolled over some spent shotgun shells, a sign of the violence that happened here a while ago. “Hey, Nate, don’t go too far,” Francis shouted.

Nathan booted the hacky sack bone once more and it sailed through the air before its journey was brought to an abrupt conclusion by a chain-link fence. “Francis, look,” he shouted. A finger, which had just stopped a preliminary nasal cavity search for dried mucus, pointed to a large building.

Leaving the skeletal remains behind, Francis walked over to the boy, who was still indicating the building, the only thing in the entire area which wasn’t defined wholly as ‘Nature’.

“Can we go in? Please, please, please, can we go in Francis?” Nathan beseeched, bouncing up and down with the combined excitement of Chris Rabbit on a pogo stick.

Francis peered at the foreboding building and its surroundings. Patches of long grass and weeds suggested that it hadn’t been visited for some time. “Fine, but you know the rules. Stay behind me, okay?”

Nathan nodded furiously. “Yay,” he shouted and ran to the fence. “How are we going to get in, Francis. I can’t climb over this, and it looks like it goes on for
miles
.”

Pulling the rucksack up higher, Francis pointed through the fence to a gateway in the distance. “Looks like only one way in, kid. Over there, see? Stay with me, don’t run off. There could be anything in the forest that we can’t see, okay?”

A loud sigh answered him in the affirmative, and Nathan grudgingly trudged by Francis’ side, running his fingers along the fence making dull thuds and clangs as he pulled on it. “What do you think it is, Francis? Is it a hospital or something? Did men work here? Why was it near the train track? Wh—”

Francis raised his finger to his mouth. “Slow down, kid, too many questions. Sometimes you need to just take your time and see for yourself, okay? It ain’t going anywhere. It’s not as if we’ll get to the gate and it’ll disappear, eh? Just relax, have a look around, try and get a feel for the lay of the land, you know?”

Nathan rubbed his hands together to get rid of the rust flakes he had collected thus far. He grinned inanely and nodded. Francis smiled.

“So who do you reckon lived here? Do you think there are any comics here? Is that a dead man over there? Do you reckon he was dead-dead or just dead?” Nathan gibbered.

Francis sighed and picked up the pace.

“Why is that skellington tied to the gate door, Francis? Is he like a Halloween man to keep the baddies out?” Nathan asked.

Francis looked over the pile of bones lying at the base of the closed half of the gateway. He picked through the macabre collection, but couldn’t find anything of use. “There were a couple of people here, look.” He pointed to two spinal columns; one still with a skull atop was affixed to the fence with twine, another lay on a mound of bones.

A pair of wrists and the withered remains of hands were bound to the fence with cable ties. Teeth-marks were visible as little indentations in the black plastic. “Stay close to me, Nate. There might still be some around, okay?”

Nathan nodded solemnly and looked through the open side and pointed to a scorched patch of ground beyond. “Look over there, Francis.”

The pair walked into a barren area of ground. A large blackened patch of concrete was the picnic blanket for yet more bones. Francis walked to the epicentre and surveyed the scene.

A charred, chipped metal bar lay atop a ragged and weather-ruined sheepskin coat, which covered a pile of scorched bones. What looked like metal teeth were embedded in the ground. It was as if they stood in the retort of a crematorium.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” muttered Francis.

Nathan tugged the man’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go inside and have a look, pur-lease, you did say.”

Francis flicked the police baton and it extended swiftly. “I did, but I still don’t like it. Come on, let’s get this done.” A rub of the beard and Francis cautiously edged towards the front double doors, which swung lazily off the latch.

Inside looked like an ossuary. From the entrance, looking down towards the far end where haphazard rows of foldaway beds lay dormant, it was clear that a feasting frenzy had gone on here.

Clumps of gnawed bone and rags of cloth formed cairns which were dotted around in a seemingly random pattern. There were clusters here and there, mainly towards the side doors; the draught made the tattered flags flutter gently.

Even Nathan’s youthful enthusiasm had been left at the door. The musty smell of broken bone, rotten meat and death was all pervading. Not even an overdose of Vanish would purge the stench from their clothes.

“I’m scared, Francis,” Nathan whimpered and held out his hand to his protector. Francis closed his hand over it and held on tight.

“Let’s have a look up here, see if we can find anything. This place is giving me the creeps.” Francis sidled over to a metal stairway, taking a moment to stare at a collection of photos and handwritten notes on a wall. It seemed to be some kind of memorial. Upon looking at a picture of a sleeping child, with an emotional eulogy scrawled into the paintwork beneath, he led the way up the stairs, the baton held out, ready.

A door opened into an office. A large chair faced out towards the window, as if a game of football was going on outside. Another decomposing body lay on the floor; its limbs were splayed out like a starfish amputee. Where the head should’ve been was a mass of congealed blood and jelly. Chips of skull and assorted head bone were arrayed around the impact site. “Go and check the desk, Nate. I’ll have a look through these cabinets.”

All of the drawers were bereft of useful items; some held bushels of yellowing invoices on official looking headed paper. A faded cherubic angel grinned back. Within another, he found partially completed performance reviews. He wondered what a Mr Squire had done to merit so many HR ‘discussions’.

“Francis, do you know who Mr Daniels is?” Nathan asked, barely visible behind the desk.

“No, what have you got?”

“I think Mr Daniels left his drink at work. It’s got his name on it. Jack Daniels, do you think he worked here?” Nathan held up a square bottle of bourbon, the label was badly faded except for the name.

“Ha, no, I haven’t spoken to Jack Daniels in a long time now,” Francis said, looking down at the floor and rubbing his beard.

“Did you and Jack have a falling out? Is he not your friend anymore?” Nathan asked, turning the bottle round in his hands. Taking the lid off, one whiff made his nose scrunch up and he screwed it back on. “Smells horrible.”

Francis took the bottle and held it up to the light. “Yeah, you could say we don’t see eye to eye anymore. How about we leave this here, in case Mr Daniels gets back and looks for it, yeah?”

Nathan nodded, took the offered item and put it back into the hinterland of the drawer where he had found it. “Nothing else here, except some pens and these little metal faces.” Small fingers held up the item for inspection.

“Paper clips, they’re paper clips. You never know, though, they might be handy. Put them in your pocket. Could make fish hooks at a push,” Francis said distractedly. “Did you hear something?”

Francis got to the office doorway and looked into the guts of the building. There was a scraping sound composed with a familiar moaning melody. Across the far end, there was a folding bed being taken for a walk. Well, it was being dragged by the feet of a figure that didn’t look quite right. In the sense that their head was tilted at an angle which would only be of use if you wanted to look round a corner whilst standing flush to a wall.

One moan became legion as shapes loomed from shadowy corners of the building. The room was alive with the sound of undead music. “Nate, get here now, we gotta leave,” Francis hissed. He ducked down, but his guts, and their rapid loosening, told him that they had already been spotted.

Nathan scooted across the office floor to Francis, taking a detour round grey dead person, past the brain goo roundabout and over to the one and only exit which didn’t end in face-planting concrete.

With optional pirouette and screaming.

“Right kid, here’s what we are gonna do…”