Chapter Seventeen
They had spent the night in the garden, but felt it was reasonably safe with the fence and the gate as protection. The owner had offered them the poky shed, but once they took a look inside, they kindly refused and wondered when was the last time it had been cleaned. It stunk of animal droppings.
This wasn't the first time these pair had slept under the stars, but it was the first time that they had had a good night's sleep in a long while.
Karen was the first to wake.
Still lying on the floor, she stretched out her arms and felt amazing. For the first time in a long time, she had slept for more than five hours—in this case, nine—and was hydrated. Her throat wasn't sore with dryness anymore and her headaches had disappeared. She sat up in the sleeping bag that had been given to her by the owner of the cabin, and she looked over to Pickle who was still sleeping.
After much talk, the pair of them had convinced the occupier that they came in peace, and only arrived at the cabin in hope that it was empty. They were honest with the man and each one told him their story, from the moment the outbreak occurred to the present day. The man had then lowered his gun, told them that he believed them, but made them sleep outside and appeased them that it would be safe.
He had been a man of his word.
The occupier off the cabin was called Wolfgang Kindl. He was a sixty-nine-year-old man with grey hair, a thick grey beard, with a straw hat sitting on top of his head. His appearance was like something out of Deadwood in the nineteenth century, and his shotgun was an old thing, and he admitted to the pair that he only had one box of shells to his name.
Karen heard the door of the cabin swing open and slowly stood to her feet. Wolfgang stepped out into the new day and greeted Karen with a smile.
She said nervously, "Good morning, Mr—"
"None of that
Mr
bollocks, Karen." He tittered, and revealed his yellow grin. "I told you before; it's Wolf, and Wolf only."
"Sorry...er, Wolf." Karen felt silly calling him that; it was like something out of a DC comic. Karen watched as the old man began to walk the perimeter of the fence, checking for irregularities. She took a deep breath in and had to ask, "How did you get the name Wolfgang Kindl anyway? You sound English; you don't sound foreign."
"My parents were Austrian. They moved over here in the fifties." He walked over to a little black part of the grass where it looked like there used to be a fire or two in the past. He went to the corner of the garden to pick some already-chopped sticks and disappeared into the cabin, only to return with some firelighters. He placed the firelighters under the sticks and pulled out a lighter. He used the lighter to light them and they both watched in silence while the fire began to take shape. Karen looked over to him with slight confusion and consternation on her face.
As if he could read her mind, he said, "Relax. It gives out a little smoke, but not too much. I've been doing this for two weeks now, and I haven't attracted much attention. Just make sure when you put it out, you do it with dirt, not water. Water makes the fire smokier, plus it's a waste of water." He pulled out a frying pan from the end of the cabin that must have been sitting in the grass, checked it was clean—ish—and put it by Karen's feet.
Wolf explained, "I'm sorry I didn't offer you any food last night. I'm pretty short, but if you are going to eat, and you can only have one meal a day, it has to be breakfast. You hungry?"
Karen nodded. "Starving. We both are."
"Well, have
I
got a treat for you two." He began to chuckle and disappeared into the cabin once again. He returned into the enclosed garden with six rashers of bacon and an egg box with eight eggs.
Karen couldn't help but smile. "Oh my God. I think I'm gonna cry."
"Happy?" he asked.
"Like a pig in shit." As he began making breakfast, she looked over to Pickle who was still sleeping. "Wait till Pickle sees this."
He hovered the pan over the fire and explained to Karen it may take a while. Wolf said, "Probably one of the best feelings is waking up on a morning to the smell of bacon. My wife used to cook the stuff every Sunday morning."
Wolf lowered his head sadly at the mention of his wife, but continued to cook. Karen was dying to ask him about her, but feared of upsetting the kind man that had just taken them both in. She tried a different approach and asked him where he was when the outbreak was announced. He knew all about
them
, when he had the shotgun pointing at them, it was now
his
turn to be grilled a little.
He stroked his grey beard in deliberation and rolled his eyes. He finally spoke. "Well, at the beginning, the first thing I did was pack our things and told my Grace that we were heading for our cabin."
"Oh." Karen looked around the place, and thought at first that maybe Wolfgang had come up to the cabin on his own accord, and claimed it for himself. "So this place is yours?"
"Yeah. I used to come up here on the weekends to shoot, relax—that kind of stuff. The hill was beginning to kill my back, and Grace had stopped going altogether, so we decided that next year we were going to sell it. I'm seventy years old next year."
"So why didn't you stay indoors like we were told to?"
Wolf gave off a laugh that was infectious and stroked his grey beard again with his left hand, while gently shaking the pan with his other hand so the bacon and eggs wouldn't stick too much. There was just two of each on the pan, and Karen assumed that he was making them all breakfast individually. Wolf spoke, "Once all the rules of society have disappeared, you're on your own. We had to escape, from those things, and from man."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm too old to be fighting, Karen. If those things or looters came into our house, we wouldn't stand a chance, so we had to be somewhere away from the public. We came up here before the weekend announcement; I knew something wasn't right beforehand. There were reports for weeks about biting epidemics, riots. You know what the main cause of this disaster is?"
Karen shook her head.
"Denial. Denial occurs because of the arrogance of the government, and also one of the worst things governments hates is social panic."
"You said,
we
. Is your wife here?"
Wolf lowered his head despondently, the first breakfast was nearly ready. "She's dead. She's in the back room. Another reason why I didn't want you guys sleeping in there."
"I'm sorry." Karen felt a shiver rattle her vertebrae, and thought that it was rather odd and unhealthy to have his dead wife still in the cabin. She thought that the stench must have been awful. Was that why he didn't want them to stay inside for the night, or was it the fact that they were strangers and he didn't trust them yet?
She had noticed when she and Pickle turned in, he had locked the door from the inside. Despite taking them in, it was too early to trust them.
Why didn't he just tell us to go away?
Karen decided to tackle the subject a little later as she didn't want to piss off her host so soon. She then looked over to Pickle; he was stirring. It appeared the smell of the bacon was working its magic. To break the silence between her and Wolf, she asked, "You have kids?"
Wolf nodded his head. "Somewhere; well, not really kids anymore, they're grown ups." He then changed the subject. "Right, your breakfast's up." He slid the contents onto a plastic plate which was accompanied with a plastic fork. "I'll do your friend next."
The body of the woman inside was still irking Karen. She couldn't help herself. She couldn't keep her mouth shut. "Look," Karen forced a full rash of bacon in her mouth, quickly chewed, and swallowed before finishing off the sentence she had started. "We can give your wife a decent burial, if you want. It's not healthy for you to have her—"
"I'll deal with it!" Wolf snapped. His face was thunderous, but as soon as he released a long breath out, the redness in his cheeks quickly diminished and he put on a brave smile, knowing that Karen didn't mean anything by her interfering. He was sure she was just trying to help.
Karen nodded her head apologetically; she didn't mean to upset the man, but it appeared he had forgotten all about the incident within seconds. Karen tried to lighten the mood. "By the way; the cabin being on a hill is a stroke of genius."
Wolf tittered a little. "I know. The hill's that steep, the atrophy stops them from getting up here. Some have crawled, but they can only get so far. There's a few at the bottom of the hill; did you see them by the hedge?"
Karen shook her head, and became a little unnerved once he had revealed this information. "For a person who has hardly any contact with these things, you seem confident they can't get up."
"I am." He released a smirk. "They've been there for nearly two weeks now. They won't turn back knowing I'm up here. These things don't walk away; there's no surrender, and that's what makes them so dangerous. As long as you have a heartbeat, you're a meal."
"What about humans? Have you had any bother with
people
coming up here?"
"No. Just you two. I think most people have moved elsewhere, barricaded themselves in, or dead. I listened for the first week on my radio, before the batteries conked out, and I was pleased when they informed us that these things were unable to run, climb—whatever."
"You're a lucky man, Wolf."
"Am I?"
Karen had briefly forgot about his wife and was about to apologise once again, but Wolf had halted her temporarily.
Said Wolf, "Aren't we just putting off the inevitable?"
"You mean...death?"
Wolf smiled and watched Karen tucking into her eggs. He wished he had more food on offer; she looked ravenous. "Karen, the trouble now is that the boats have stopped sailing, and the trucks have stopped moving. Where are we going to get food and medicine in the long-term? These things are not just killing the human race by eating us, they're killing us with starvation, dehydration and disease."
Karen nodded, and already knew that this disaster was in its infancy and their problems were just beginning. Even though the dead were the main source of the collapse of the old world she loved and had taken for granted, just like every other human, she was certain that the Snatchers were eventually just going to be put in the background and the main problem was going to be humans and how the desperate survivors were going to react. Most of the people out there were scared, hungry, and psychologically scarred by witnessing death in such a destructive and bloody way, and some of that death may have been members of their own family.
She finished her meal, but she refrained from telling Wolf that it was a meal she could have eaten four times over. She didn't want to offend her gracious host, so she told him it was lovely, and verbally greeted Pickle with a 'good morning' when he opened his eyes.
Wolf looked at the two of them; they seemed like a nice, genuine pair, and was contemplating on telling them something that they probably had a right to know about if they were to stay for a day or two.
He decided to hold off. It can wait, he thought.
Chapter Eighteen
Jack and Johnny had spent most of the time blocking off windows and the entrance to the front door that led out onto the road. It had been a laborious couple of hours, but they still had air in their lungs and there was scraps of food and liquid in the residence that could be consumed.
"Fill the bath," Jack commanded Johnny.
"What?"
"Fill the bath." Jack tried to explain, "The power's out. Running water could be next. It's the power helps the water pump."
Johnny didn't really understand what Jack was talking about; he even thought that Jack was unsure himself, as he didn't seem convincing in his explanation.
Johnny went into the bathroom and tried both hot and cold taps from the bath and the sink. Nothing came out, and Johnny cussed under his breath. He tried the taps again, but his efforts was ineffectual. "There's no running water," Johnny announced. "I did try earlier."
"Shit." Jack stroked his chin in thought. "There's a kettle full of water downstairs, some juice and a few cans of vimto. It'll have to do for now."
"I'll have a can; is that okay?"
Jack's nod of the head informed Johnny it was okay by him, and Johnny trotted down to the ground floor, leaving Jack Slade alone upstairs.
Jack walked into the bathroom and inspected his features in the mirror that was hanging over the sink. Even after a couple of weeks, his hair looked a little longer—that was to be expected in the long-term. His thick eyebrows hadn't been plucked for a while either. He knew that if he didn't pluck, his monobrow would return. His toenails needed trimming as well. It seemed like a trivial thing with the world they were living in now, but with time on their side, Jack decided to prune himself, even if he did smell like a horse's arse.
He walked into Kerry's bedroom and went through her dresser drawers. He pulled out a little white bag and found some nail-cutters. He looked to the right of the mirror and saw a school photograph of Thomas. He must have been only five years old. Jack took the photograph and gently lay it face down, and stroked the back of it as if it was a living thing.
He peered into the mirror and thought, God, I'm looking old. His annoying stubble over the last few days had now turned into a thin beard, and he scowled at the grey bits at the chin area.
Jack then looked at the back of the picture frame of Thomas and picked it up. He sat on the end of the bed, gave off a heavy sigh, and turned the frame around to see the picture of his boy. He was beautiful. His dark eyes and gleaming white smile twanged Jack's heartstrings, and he looked at his boy's cute, overgrown Beatle haircut.
With his forefinger, he stroked his son's hair on the picture and released a small laugh. Thomas was a nightmare to take to the hairdressers.
When Kerry first took him, Thomas had his mouth open and cried while the patient lady was cutting his mop. The loose hair had fallen into his mouth, which made him panic and upset. Sometimes Kerry would have to drag him round for his haircut; he would spend the whole time, from leaving the house to once his hair had been finished by the hairdresser, screaming. Other times she didn't have the mental and physical energy, and would give in to him when he refused to go.
Jack placed both hands on the back of the frame and lay back on the bed. His sobbing was loud, and the tears ran plentifully down the side of his cheeks and onto the bed sheets, staining them a little. He held the frame tighter against his chest, as his heart continued to break, and wished briefly that the leather belt in the sports centre hadn't of weakened. If it hadn't, he would have been out of this nightmare for good.
A few minutes had passed, and suddenly Jack heard the voice of Johnny from the bottom of the stairs. "Jack! You need to come down and see this shit!"
Jack wiped his eyes quickly with the backs of his hands and headed for the window. The curtains were already closed, and he peered from them. There were two pick-up trucks sitting outside the street, and Jack could see eight people, six men and two women, standing around the vehicles. None of them were armed with fire-power, but all were holding some kind of weapon, whether it was a knife, a baseball bat, or a cleaver.
Johnny returned from downstairs. "Did you hear me shouting?"
Jack nodded, and continued to observe what was unfolding. "You get a better view from here."
Johnny asked, "What's happening?"
"Hazard a guess," Jack began. "These people are trying to survive, but at other peoples' expense."
"What?"
"They're robbing the whole street." Jack then beckoned Johnny to take a step forward to stand next to him, which he did. They both watched out into the street. "And whoever puts up a fight, gets punished."
They both glared out as a father, whose family were outside their house, was thrown to the ground. Jack looked to the side to see his wife—he presumed—and two little girls crying as the man struggled to get to his feet.
Jack and Johnny heard one of the men shout, "You don't ever tell me to go and fuck myself again. You hear me, cunt?"
Two big men, carrying baseball bats, walked over to the man as he staggered to his feet, while three others went inside the house to see what they could get. The men began swinging their bats at the individual. He collapsed to the floor after receiving his seventh blow and his wife and children screamed so loud, one of the men yelled at the woman to shut the fuck up.
As the two men with bats walked away from the victim lying on the road, another individual from the truck, a red-headed woman, went over to the man, pulled out her knife and stabbed him three times in the back.
The man never got back up. He was dead.
"Fucking hell," was all Johnny could muster. And Jack Slade knew how he felt. He wasn't expecting that; he was expecting the man to get a bit of a slap and be told to be on his way; that was it. It seemed incredible to Jack that the country was only in its third week of this disaster and people were already behaving like this.
Jack looked to Johnny. "I wasn't expecting that."
Johnny's frame shuddered and felt like slapping Jack for bringing him out of the factory; starvation didn't seem so bad after seeing that. "We gotta get out of here."
"No chance. I'm going nowhere." Jack was obstinate, and Johnny could see the determination scrawled over the man's face.
"Didn't you see what—?"
"Of course I did, but I'm not backing down to bullies. Fuck 'em."
"So what're you gonna do?"
Jack peered out of the window and saw that the gang were starting from the end of the street and working their way down.
They were three houses away from them.
Jack looked at Johnny and gave him a psychotic smile. "If they come in," Jack began. "I may have to introduce them to Mr Bar." Jack crouched down in the dim room and picked up the crowbar and revealed a smile reminiscent of Alex from A Clockwork Orange.
"You're fuckin' nuts."
"Possibly." Jack snarled, and puffed out his chest. "I've got fuck all to lose, Johnny. I've already lost everything. I
am
gonna hide, but if my back's against the wall..."