Class Four: Those Who Survive (9 page)

Chapter Eleven

Francis woke with a start. Nathan sat at the foot of his sleeping bag, watching him. “You were having those dreams again,” he mumbled. Sleep had only just lost its claim on the boy, too.

“Skip it, kid. Everyone has dreams.” Francis rubbed his slumber encrusted eyes.

Nathan shifted uncomfortably on the unforgiving ground. “Who was she?”

“Doesn’t matter, Nate. Let’s get some breakfast. We got to make a move; got a bit of a journey ahead of us if we want to get to that place,” Francis grumbled, looking around at the misty interior.

“The man’s over there,” Nathan said, pointing to a side room. Francis got up uneasily and walked over to the room.

A half-open door led to a narrow chamber which looked like a disused medical bay. Well-kept beds covered in a blanket of brown dust were lined up against one wall. A silver tray glinted with the morning sun as it streaked through grimy windows. Surgical tools lay untouched on its surface.

“Someone lived here,” Philip said distractedly. He had his back to the entrance and was crouched down by a large ventilation cover. “Come here, look.”

Francis squatted down and looked into the shaft. Empty cans and stained bandages were strewn around the entrance. “How long since they left?” he asked, nose buried inside a can of beans. Remnants of tomato sauce had long since dried and left a thick brown-ridged skin on the inside of the tin.

“A while. Not much has been disturbed around here. They could have been one of the skinjob’s we met yesterday.” Philip nodded at the building behind. “It’s a damn shame about this place too. Used to love their Chocolate Crunchy Crème’s,” he muttered as he fished through a pile of rubbish.

Philip retracted his arm, groaned, and flicked a yellowing bandage onto the floor which had been affixed to his sleeve. “Fucking gross.” The pair walked back out to the burnt-out fire, where Nathan was reading.

“Ooohhh, what ya reading, kid? The deconstruction of metaphysical constructs?” Philip asked sarcastically, plonking himself down with a thump and an eruption of dust.

Nathan tore himself away and showed him the cover. “It’s called
The Red Mask from Mars
, about this man who went to Mars—”

“Woah, woah, hang on mate. You gotta let the ol’ King of Deduction, Phil ‘Genius’ Taylor, have a crack on this. I’m gonna hazard a guess it’s about a man who went to Mars. I also reckon he had a red mask. Am I right?” Philip interrupted again.

“No, silly, he was an astronaut, but then this thing got stuck to his face, and now he is like a superhero. Look, he’s beating up this alien with a hammer and all this goo is coming out of him.” Nathan displayed the page showing the titular character indeed beating the crap out of an alien, DIY implement in hand.

“Fuck me, he’s a handy bastard, eh?” Philip took the comic from the boy and flicked through it.

Francis loomed over him. “Mind your language slim.”

Philip glanced up. “Sure thing. Thuck me, this motherthucker don’t take no thit huh?” He flicked to the end, examined the back cover and flung the comic back to Nat. “Well, don’t know about you chaps, but I’ve got to make a move. Must’ve messed up with the last clue. Best have a mooch about and find out where next. You cool on the directions Cissy?” Philip picked up his weapon and checked the blades on each end.

Francis nodded. “Sure are. Think we’re gonna go through the forest, though, rather than follow the train tracks. Big ol’ clearing the other side which might be worth checking out. Nate, get your stuff together.” He tapped the kid with the toe of his boot. Nathan reluctantly started to pack away his stuff.

A brisk breeze blew through the factory, sending a chill down their backs. A faint odour of decaying meat and mustiness carried along with it. Francis slung his bag onto his back and held out his hand. Philip took it firmly. “Thanks for the help, slim. Not sure we would’ve made it out of here if you hadn’t shown up.”

Philip let out a sharp chuckle. “No bother, mate. I seem to recall you did the same for Jim. Least I can do, and it was good to see you. Tell my bumder of a brother I’m fine, yeah?”

The two men stood immobile like Roman statues; their weary stares conveyed more than words could share. “Good luck finding your door. Hope to see you back in…”

“Rhayader,” Philip finished off Francis’ sentence. “Cheers, I wonder some days why I’m bothering. What are they going to teach me that I don’t already know?”

Francis released his grip and pulled the other strap over his arm. “That’s the thing, pilgrim. There’s always something to learn, especially these days. Take care.”

With that, Philip nodded and trudged towards the back door. As he got to the frame he paused, saluted, and then disappeared into the morning mist.

Francis ran his thumbs under the shoulder straps. The motion soothed a nagging feeling scratching away inside his skull. Nathan broke the spell. “That man says a lot of naughty words.”

Stirred from his thoughts he looked down into the boy’s eyes. Through the grime on his face, they shone back like two headlights. “That he does. Hey, let’s get moving, eh? With some luck we’ll be through that forest before the end of the day.”

The pair took one last look round the derelict building and headed to the main double doors, passing the pile of bodies they had dragged into a heap after the run in the day before.

Grey appendages, with black lines traced over their surface, grew out of the macabre pile. Bowls of half skulls were stacked in each other, some vestiges of brain matter still clinging to the sides. Nathan took one last look, shrugged and walked off. Francis lingered a moment, looking from the kid to the stack of cadavers. “What world will he inherit when all of this is over? What will he tell people of these times?” he wondered aloud, before walking out into the grey morning.

Chapter Twelve

The teaspoon tinged and tanged its way around the bowels of the ‘I Heart Mondays’ mug. Dee stared, lost in its sepia contents; the stirring created a whirlpool within the tea. Dee’s imagination spawned narwhals and whaling boats spinning in the wake.

“Do I know you?” The words brought the beverage vortex to an abrupt end; both beast and boat sunk beneath the tannin seas.

Dee looked up and saw Sylvia’s crumpled sad face studying her. She scowled and grunted a swift, “Don’t think so,” in reply. Placing the spoon on the worktop, she moved away hurriedly, holding the mug to her chest with both of her hands. Sylvia looked on with a mix of half-recall and wistfulness. Steve walked into the room, her face lit up like a bonfire.

A squawk of squeaking chairs later and a rough corral was formed. Tristan was the last to settle, still forlorn and hushed. “Good morning all. Hope you’ve been alright since the last session? Yeah? Good. So, last week, Sylvia,” he flashed her a smile, “very kindly told us a bit about herself and a bit of background as to why she’s here.”

Anton coughed the word “Bullshit” into his hand. Dee shot him a look she hoped would maim or at least disfigure him some more.

“Sylvia, is there anything further you would like to add?” Steve sat back, opened his notebook and readied his scratchy pen.

Sylvia looked around the room at the disinterested and disengaged people she was stuck with. She pondered for a few moments before answering. “No thank you Steve. Some of it is still too painful to talk about right now. Particularly, you know. The end. I am feeling better though and I’m starting to remember more about those last few days, and the…other days. Here. When I was. You know. Silly.” She giggled nervously.

Steve gave her a comforting smile and a subtle wink. “No problem, Sylvia. You take your time; we’ll all be here. None of us are going anywhere. When you’re ready, you tell us, okay? So, who’s next? Do we have a willing volunteer?”

He scanned the room. Anton turned away, folding into himself. As he crossed his arms he stuck his middle finger up. “Sorry pal,” he muttered. Tristan was still incommunicado and Dee had kept some of the intensity of her stare just for Steve.

“Matt, how about you? Are you ready to share with the group?” he asked softly. Matt stirred from his floor-gazing, fingered his greasy hair behind his ears and began.

Conspiracy Theory - Part 1

Ha, so, me then, huh? Wow, that’ll be cool. I don’t mind too much, though my tongue is a little swollen today, like it’s been stung or summat.

Imagine that, though. Being stung on the tongue by summat, or like a little critter crawling in your mouth when you’re like watching summat or thinking about, I dunno, how much dust there is in the world. And then it crawls in and just goes
chomp
, and then you’d be all like, huh?

Well, I don’t have much of a story really. Don’t even know why I’m here. Not as if I’ve done anything, not since I did that test at school.

That was a good day.

I got to stay behind after class, and then the teacher gave me this special test, and then gave me some Rolos and a can of Fanta. It was dead cold, too. But he said that we had to keep the test hush-hush.

So, don’t you be asking about what I had to touch or play that afternoon, cos it was some kind of new recorder, or summat. I blew and blew, but just couldn’t get it to play ‘London’s Burning’.

Sounded like he had to go to a school later, though, as mum was reading the paper one day and said that he was on the register, which was strange as he was really old.

My mum and dad only had me, said that I was all the children that they wanted, which I always thought was dead nice of them. My dad used to be in the air force. Had to leave though, after thinking it would be a good idea to load up and try and bomb Russia. He was always worried about those Russians. It’s why we had the shelter.

Out back.

In the garden.

Any time he saw summat on telly that looked a bit iffy, that was it, off we went into the bunker. I remember when he saw the telly pictures of the missiles in the first Iraq war, he got it into his head that it was live pictures from Basingstoke.

I remember we were eating minced beef Crispy Pancakes, crinkle cut oven chips and baked beans.

Well, that came on the telly and Dad had us all down in the bunker before you could say Saddam Hussein.

A fortnight we were down there for. We only came out cos mum forgot to restock the toilet paper from the last time and we had to use the pages out of my diary.

That was awkward, wiping my bum-bum with the pages I had written about Emily on. When I saw her next I had to check to make sure she didn’t have a big brown line down her.

From my bum-bum.

When I think about it, we did spend a lot of time in the bunker. Dad got scared a lot I think, but I don’t blame him. He said that the aliens had done stuff with him. He didn’t want to say what, in case you know. They were listening. But he told me one day they put summat…you know.

Eh?

No, don’t be silly, they put it up his bum-bum.

I remember after the Twin Towers fell over, we spent about four months down there, I think. Only came out when Mum said that the water tasted funny.

Thing is, and this is a secret, so if you see her ghost, you can’t tell her. It was all of our wee-wee. That’s what Dad said, something about Phil Terr cleaning it, but I never met him and he must’ve cleaned it while I slept, cos there were only ever three of us in the bunker.

Well, three humans. Patches was in there as well. We didn’t use Phil to clean and drink his wee-wee, though. Dad said it tasted like Gran’s, so we never drank it after England got knocked out of the World Cup in 1998 and we were in the bunker again.

About three weeks I think. Dad always went a bit funny over those penalty shootouts.

Do you like it when you get tickled? Like when you’re not really expecting it, you’re just sat there, I dunno, reading Simon’s Cat, and then Patches snuffles up to you under the table. His little wet nose rubs on your foot and then, as you aren’t ready for it, your foot kinda goes KAPOW, and kicks out. I knocked over my cherryade once. Mum didn’t like it as the carpet was beige and she said it looked like Gorbachev’s head rash.

She cleaned it up well quick, said that dad wouldn’t have liked seeing that on the floor and we might have had to go to the bunker again. Irrespective of all the glass knots that Gorbachev brought to the world.

Or summat.

Eh?

Glasnost?

What’s that Steve, is that a music festival?

Mum said it was best if I stayed with them when I grew up and left school, because of, the, well, I don’t want to say it, but Dad basically. Said that it was safer for everyone if we were all together.

I don’t think that had anything to do with the fire.

I was eating a Toffee Crisp, and Martin had just called me a bellend cos of the mixtape I made Emily. I had to follow her for ages to find out where she lived.

So, I remember we were having tea. I had pork chops, mash and peas. Garden peas, just like Mum, only Dad had the marrowfat ones. I used to like them, but Mum said garden peas make you really clever, so I ate them.

We’re watching the telly and it starts going on about the people in Manchester and how they were attacking other people, and some were like eating them, or summat.

Anyway, I had just cut up to the pork chop bone. Always like to save the strip of meat next to the bone till last, except for the bit right up in the corner, that’s my favourite bit.

What’s your favourite bit of pork chop, Steve?

Ha ha, yeah Anton, I guess I should shut the fuck up, but I’m telling a story, so if I shut the fuck up, you won’t get to hear my story.

Are too.

Dee too?

Ha ha,  no, you haven’t said your stories yet have you? You’re silly.

We got to the bit where the news reporter in Manchester was talking, just before that zombie thing got hold of him by the neck and was making him bleed everywhere and he was asking for his mummy.

Dad threw down his knife and fork and off we went again to the bunker. Before we got outside, he asked Mum if she had remembered the toilet paper this time, and she said yes, of course she had.

Patches always got there first. I think he was more excited than we were to go back down there. Though he was getting quite old by then, and used to just eat pasta, because his kidneys were all wrong.

Ha ha, he used to eat his pasta, and then go for a poo, and then he used to eat the poo which made him throw up, and then he used to eat that too. Sometimes he went round and did the same again, but without the pasta.

I thought it was funny, but Mum said that it wasn’t. She said that it was all down to Reen Alfailure, but I never met her either. If so, I wouldn’t have liked her very much as she had made Patches ill, and that wasn’t very nice. I probably would’ve spat in my hand and then shaken her hand.

Yeah, reckon so.

It wasn’t the biggest place ever, but we had our own little bedrooms. Patches was in my room. There was a living room and kitchen, a little bathroom and that was it.

We used to play Monopoly, cards, dominos and Risk, but we didn’t play that much as Dad had cut out Russia from the board and eaten it one day with some French fries and Mexican refried beans.

Every hour one of us used to wind up the radio. Dad said we shouldn’t listen to it for too long, though, as that’s how propaganda starts. He used to say as well that the,
ahem,
you know what, in his bum-bum, used to itch if he listened to the radio too much, so we did Dangermouse jigsaws instead.