Don't Fear The Reaper (11 page)

ALTHOUGH
it wasn’t reported in the newspapers or discussed on TV it was common knowledge
that those citizens who refused to believe that they would be eradicated in the
next couple of days in their panic began looting.

Ordinarily, John Hayes would see this behaviour as immoral, aggressive
and exclusively for those who sought revenge through violence and theft. But
this was as far from ordinary as you could get, and in order for he, his wife
and her best friend and Anthony’s family to survive they needed to prepare diligently.
It was all well and good discovering a sanctuary and finding refuge
underground, similar to those in the hierarchy being taken from their homes by
order of the government, but it would be as useful as a chocolate fireguard
without provisions and other accessories.

John had never broken a law or even considered it in his entire life. So
in order to go through with this deed he had to rationalise it for his
conscience to accept what he was doing was in fact proper.

All the big chain superstores such as Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury’s, LIDL’s,
had been broken into. The smaller convenience stores in the nearest villages
and the Tesco Extra shops also had their windows smashed by desperate folk,
rushing in and out, loading their cars with goods and racing off. John was well
aware that he needed to act without too much deliberation in these ungodly
times, otherwise he’d end up with nothing due to his hesitation.

Leaving his Peugeot in the driveway, John drove to St John the Baptist
Church and aided his wife, Natalie, in unloading the transit van. There were
two boxes of Diet Coke, two bottles of concentrate orange juice, bags of
crisps, two biscuit tins full to the brim, packets of chocolate bars, a bunch
of bananas, three punnets of fresh strawberries, nectarines, apples and all the
tin food they could find. Tuna, baked beans, spaghetti hoops; spaghetti
squares; two loaves of brown bread; four cartons of butter. They also unloaded
the remaining bottles of Sprite lemonade and a box of assorted chocolates and
two bottles of red wine.

Natalie was far better attuned to this madness that had not only befallen
the U.K. but the world over. She had the foresight to pack as much of their
clothing into suitcases for them and toiletries from the mirror cabinet in
their bathroom. She also dug out the Duracell batteries she kept in the sideboard
that occupied their dining room downstairs. She equipped them with an array of
knives and saucepans, plates and utensils.

Pleased, though unnerved by his wife’s studious attention to detail, John
pondered whether in another life his wife had been through something like this
before. He’d never mention it but she’d be an ideal nurse or guardian over
soldiers preparing for war.

A shudder coursed through him.

If the priest in the Vatican church’s prophecy was to be believed – and
let’s face it, it looked pretty darn accurate as far as present events
transpired – then this could very well be only the beginning of the nightmare
soon to quake the foundations they stood upon.

After carrying their items and provisions up and down the cobbled steps
into the vast bunker domain, aching from the heaving and exertion, John and
Natalie leapt back into the transit and roared down the inclined path out of
the entrance gates and back onto the highway.

Pedal to the metal, the bishop of the South Wales district leaned over
the steering wheel. In a white-knuckle ride he kept the van steady swerving
around two men on bicycles. He shot through a red light and laughed
humourlessly at the complete disregard he demonstrated for the rules of the
road and danced with the devil in the pale moonlight as he steered to the right
of the roundabout (instead of going around it), risking his and Natalie’s life
if another vehicle came flying around the blindsided corner and took the
off-ramp to Tesco superstore.

The transit shot past the sign indicating that this was a 10-mile max
limit zone in the excess of 30mph. Up ahead was a zebra crossing, practical for
those commuters and shoppers who travelled to and fro the big chain store on
foot. Fortunately no one was using it at the time John Hayes roared past,
scattering shredded newspapers and an empty can of Pepsi Max in his wake. He
fought the steering wheel as he took a sharp left. Tyres screeched, burning
rubber on the white lines.

John brought the transit to a jerking halt, not meaning to stand on the
brake pedal and throw his wife’s body forward only to be yanked back by the
seat belt that threatened to strangle her simultaneously.

‘Sorry,’ he gasped.

‘You’re like a vigilante,’ Natalie said, cheeks flushed rose red.

He shrugged at that comment, having no defence to dispute her
proclamation.

‘Listen,’ he said, when he’d unfastened the seat belt, ‘I gotta get the
petrol for the van, and see if there are any left petrol cans. If we survive
this… whatever is about to happen… then we’re gonna need petrol to get us
about. Otherwise we’ll be stranded. While I’m doing that you go and get us a
trolley and go to the entrance and take a gander at what bedlam is going down
in there. Don’t go in there without me. Even if by some miracle it’s deserted
we don’t have time to go searching the store for each other. It’ll be like
trying to catch Mars bar wrappers in a hurricane.’

Natalie was pulling the handle to open the passenger door when her husband
made the last comment and she laughed and slapped her knee. This had been one
of the pivotal reasons why Natalie had fallen in love with John. His gaunt,
sallow, pallid complexion sure as hell wasn’t the reason. Neither were the
doughy, pound dog face and eyes that appeared to have sunk beneath the leathery
rolls of flab. It was John’s spare-of-the-moment wit that had her laughing hard
when only moments ago she’d felt the fear weigh down on her from a grey-slatted
sky.

‘Well, you know what I mean, anyway,’ he said. Then spun the transit
around and shot forward and taking the left turn into the filling station.

A man with a moustache so thick and curly it looked as though it’d been
glued on gave him the thumbs-up signal. John considered the man might be an
escaped lunatic. Yet as he watched the man jogging towards a Fiat and removing
the nozzle from the cradle and inserted it into the hole where the petrol cap
had been unscrewed, John realised the man was saying, ‘I turned all the pumps
on.’

Silently chastising himself for pre-judging the man with the awesome
moustache, John called out, ‘Thanks, man.’

Thanks, man? What are you, a hippie?  

Once the man in blue denim jeans and a leather jacket got into his Fiat
and roared past him, pumping his fist, John noticed the petrol had filled the
van and was now discharging on his new Addidas trainers. ‘Bum fart!’

Seizing the perfect opportunity, John ran full pelt to the kiosk and
grabbed all the petrol cans he could from the bottom shelves. By the time he’d
done four journeys there were no more left. He opened the rear doors of the
transit and pushed all the cans towards the far end in the corner. Then he
upended three two-litre bottles of Strongbow cider and filled them up with
petrol and hauled them into the back of the transit. From the kiosk he
collected all the ready-to-eat food in the refrigerator section. There wasn’t
much left, just two packs of bacon and lettuce sandwiches, and a pack of Fajita
wraps. He also collected four two-litre bottles of water.

When he loaded them onto the van, John winced at the dull ache writhing
in the small of his back. He slammed the rear doors, the noise reverberating
off the roof of the filling station, slid behind the wheel and raced over to
where Natalie was waiting for him holding not one, but two trolleys. The glass
enclosure that was used as a portico kept her out of sight until he brought the
transit to a skidding halt.

Even from the driver’s seat he could see the chagrin smile on Natalie’s
harried face. He swung the door open and dropped down, holding his hands up,
palms facing her. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Bit of a delay. But I might’ve saved us some
time, and got some more food and drink.’

Natalie shook her head at him in disdain.

Panting, John followed her as they entered the store and saw such horror
in all its explicit detail…    

*

Vincent
Lawton had moved from Birmingham where he worked as a bouncer for the local
nightclubs. He also trained at a local YMCA gym devotedly. He’d left home in
Cardiff, Wales, when his mother caught him in possession of steroids. She’d
given her son a choice: either she called the police and report him before he
ended up dying of a heart attack or he moved out. Until then she bought his
lies about how he was strapped for cash and that his security guard position at
HMV didn’t pay very good wages. Evidently that didn’t appear to be the case… at
all.

Realising the seriousness of his mother’s ultimatum, Vince opted for the
latter option. He continued with the course of steroids he’d bought, but now he
reduced his dosage and saved money to rent a flat. The gym owner gave him
discounts on high quality protein shakes and let him train a couple of times
for free during the week. Eventually, Vince had built himself up to a steady
220 pound all muscle build. And at five feet ten inches that was a stout frame.

Like everyone else in the world, Vince’s mundane existence got turned
upside down when Armageddon had been officially announced worldwide. He’d
caught a train back to Cardiff and then helped his mother – who didn’t even
greet him when he arrived – pack her clothes and some belongings and help his
younger sister, Beth get her suitcases ready. Then together they got onto the
M4 and headed to Grandma’s house in Port Talbot.

Before he departed Birmingham, for what was likely to be the last time,
Vince decided to see his friend who had been extricated from his duties in Iraq
and returned home.

Jason Park returned home, reciting tales he’d heard that had taken place
about a mysterious fog with a strange pulsing green light that had swept
through the Middle East. One night in a barracks in Iran a commanding officer
of the U.S. military had gone mad – there were no other words to describe it.
Armed with his AK-47 he’d gone into the sleeping quarters and gunned down
soldiers in their hammocks until an officer put a slug in the back of his head
100 yards away. In total twenty-eight soldiers lost their lives when they’d
been resting at what most people would consider the safest place to be. 

As tough as he was, Vince Lawton didn’t have what it took to join the
army. That was way beyond his bravery. To beat an unarmed, skinny, gaunt fellow
made him feel indestructible. But really that was easy to what Jason Park
endured. A punch could and had caused a lot of damage. However, most people he
took care of only need to be seized by the collar and dragged out of the
nightclub. The half a dozen who had tried it on he grabbed in reverse headlock
and threw into the gutter. Most of the men were drunk, anyway. Their punches
were wild and uncoordinated. A bullet though. All it took was one accurate shot
from a sniper you couldn’t even sense let alone see and it was lights out.

Ta ta. So long.

Nevertheless, what really gave Vince the willies more than anything else
was that he’d seen the exact same fog that Jason had described. He couldn’t
recall the precise date. What he did recall was it was a Sunday night when the
thickest, creepiest looking fog clouded everything in sight. He couldn’t even
see one of the solar streetlights either on his street or across the vista.
He’d been in his bedroom training his deltoids with his 8kg and 15kg dumbbells.
If Vince had remembered to close the shutters he wouldn’t have had the
misfortune of this seemingly unnatural fog or the green luminescence pulsing in
his eyes even after he’d turned away.

Furthermore, he recalled a few stories around the UK at that time of
similar madness that Jason told of that had befallen a phalanx of American
comrades. Although Vince wasn’t an avid or causal viewer of the news either on
TV, radio or the papers, he did recall a story about how a man had slit the
throats of his wife and two sons, and then went night prowling for other
victims. In total another six residents of his street had died at his hands
before a man had shot him dead with his Remington shotgun.

There was also another story in Leeds a day or two later regarding an
infant schoolteacher who’d set fire to the junior school. Children and teachers
alike tried to escape but quickly realised their fate when every emergency exit
had been barricaded externally.

Jason told him to be ‘real fuckin’ careful.’ Perplexed, Vince asked him
to elaborate on this nebulous remark. To which Jason said, ‘Somethin’s going
down. I don’t mean like a government cover-up or any other type of propaganda
shit, either. Somethin’ fuckin’ bad is going down and come this meteorite
shower anyone not wearin’ two million pounds’ worth of sun-block is gonna have
a real bad day, get it?’

Vince worried now, not relishing the haunted expression in his friend’s
eyes. Jason had seen comrades he’d been laughing with and messing about with
hours earlier get blown to bits right in front of him, all because they had the
misfortune to step on a landmine. He never talked about the deaths of his
comrades, and had Vince not known what he did for a living he’d never have
guessed he was an army officer. He didn’t come across as one either in his
demeanour or what he said. But the whole strange fog episode had shaken him to
his boots and threatened to suck his soul into oblivion the way the meteorite
shower threatened to blow Earth to oblivion.

Vince told him he was clueless as to how he could defend himself against
such madness. Jason knew in his heart of hearts that as brawny as his friend
was, his muscles, no matter how well-defined, couldn’t prevent similar
atrocities to the ones he’d mentioned taking place. He invited Vince to his
home and beckoned him to his bedroom. Once the door was closed, Jason got down
on all fours and reached under the bed and retrieved what he’d stolen from his
base.