He Runs (Part One) (10 page)

'Excellent show! Excellent show!' 

A balding fat man is clapping his hands in a slow, rhythmic beat. Man stares at him, catchs his eyes and is shocked by their blackness; two olives sitting in a doughy ball. The bald man wears glasses and above his top lip sits a large moustache. 

'Excellent show, indeed! Now, if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you didn't kill my guards. Excellent work, but that’s not necessary.'.

Man sees him, the real leader, not the one he presumed to be, the bald bruiser with the scarred horse. He has a hand gun raised high in the air, as if he's about to start a school egg and spoon race. Man sees the butcher and his skinny assistant and a gathering of others, bald men and haggard looking women, their faces beaten by their chosen life. Man had once heard that eating the same flesh over and over can cause the body to function improperly. He looks at the crowd before him and wonders if that's the case. 

'Who are you?' asks the leader. 

'A man,' replies Man. 'A hungry man. A weary man.'

'And you don our sign. Let me guess, you've been watching us and thought it would create some, um, common ground.'

Man nods. 

'Well, Man, with what I've just seen it looks as though you don't want to fit in in my town. Kevin here, can help you fit in.' He points a pudgy hand towards the battle-scarred brute.  

'Your town?' asks Man.

'Yes, you heard correctly.
My
town. I am the mayor of this fine place.'

'The mayor...' says Man as he grips the karambit a bit tighter. 

'Once again, great hearing. So why did you injure my men?'

'They threatened me.' 

'Sounds about right,' says the mayor with a chuckle. He moves forward, opens the gate as Kevin follows him closely, the gun's barrel having shifted to Man. 'Barry, Jimmy, how on Earth did you let this skinny man get the better of you?' 

The injured guards mumble inaudible responses. 

Man drops to one knee under the pressure of the gun, places the karambit on the floor and slides it over. 

'They wanted me to give up my blade,' says Man. 

'Understandingly so, seeing how good you are with it. And they never thought to shoot you! It's a good job I'm not paying them. Pick the knife up, son.'

'It's a karambit.'

'Whatever it is, pick it up. But be warned, if you have decide to have a crack at me then Kevin will shoot you.'

'I won't. Thank you, um...'

'Michael. But Mick is what I get.'

'Okay,' says Man in an amused tone. ‘I am afraid I have no name to offer. I cannot remember it.’

'We’ll just call you, Man, then. I bet you've got some questions,' says Mick, motioning to the cage.

'A few.' Man rises to his feet. 

'Well come on in. Just don't be rough. I could use a man like you. We'll just have to get you, shall we say, settled in.'

'Okay,' says Man, as he gathers the ruck sack and bone-axe, his mind working hard to absorb all that is occurring around him. He has no trust for these people, for this deathly town and for the ways of the beasts of the New World. But he is starved and thirsty and needs to rest. Even if it means putting his life on the line.

'Kevin, pick the lads up and take them to the doctor,' says Mick. And together he and Man walk, across the cobbled bridge and through the gate. 

In the distance Man can see the church and the heads on spikes. He sees people flying in and out of doors to get a look at the stranger as he's led up a past abandoned shop fronts and a moss covered water fountain, faces of men, women and children appearing randomly in dirty windows. The mayor walks behind him, his heavy feet pounding on the cobbles. Man knows he could turn and kill the fat slob easily. But he also knows that he would die. And that isn’t on his agenda just yet.

As they near the church Man gets a closer look at the heads set on spikes. The one he thought was decaying isn’t. From what he can see it looks quite fresh and it belongs to a black man.

‘The darky tried to get one over on us,’ says Mick, as if he knows what’s going through Man’s mind. ‘Tried to steal from us. You’re not going to steal from us, are you, Man?’

Man shakes his head from side to side, enough for Mick to see that he is playing along nicely.

They walk past the church and up the street until they come to a fork in the road. To the left, appearing out of nowhere is a grassed area, tall blades trampled under the weight of many feet.

‘We had a party the other night,’ offers Mick. ‘A summer fete, of sorts. There was dancing and games. It was an excellent night.’

Man stops, turns to face Mick and sees that they have acquired some followers.

‘A fucking summer fete?’ asks Man. ‘A summer fete?’

‘Yes, son, you heard me well, again. We can definitely assume that you’re not deaf.’

A heat rises in Man’s stomach, a blackening mass of energy that follows anger closely, swimming in its slip stream like a pilot fish. He breathes slowly, calms the heart and stops the adrenaline from surging once again.

‘No,’ says Man, ‘I’m not.’ He turns and they walk on. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the Dog and Pony.’

‘The what?’

‘It’s a pub. Just along the way, there. On your right.’

‘Do they have beer?’ Man cannot help himself.

‘That, they do, although it’s more of an ale. We brew it ourselves.’

‘Thank fuck for that,’ says Man, his mouth wetting slightly.

They pass the grassed area and Man sees something he was expecting to see, although not on such a grand scale. A larger area of grassland, fenced in and muddied by the scraping of boots. Two walls of Harris fencing, loaded with barbed wire and chained together. A number of bald men in shorts and vests and boots guard the fencing with guns and knives. Inside the pen are people, just like those on the outside except without weapons or clothes. They stand naked, men and women, white and black and Asian, congregating around water troughs and buckets of what Man takes to be food. He tries to count but the numbers are too many.

‘As you can see, there’s the livestock,’ says Mick. ‘Now before you go losing that temper of yours, and believe me, I see that fire behind your eyes, remember that I’ll answer all your questions soon. And yes, I agree, it was awful to have our summer fete in their presence but we did leave them some food.’

Man shudders to think what kind of morsels they were left.

‘Just over there, on your right. Do you see it?’

Man looks and sees the pub. The Dog and Pony, a pub that he imagines would have been cheery in its day, the type that served homemade pies and beef dripping chips and was full to the gunwales with bank holiday tourists. A sign hangs over the pub, swaying slightly in the breeze, depicting a dog and pony drinking out of the same watering hole. Two different animals, united in thirst.

'That's the one,' says Mick, 'push the door, it's open.' 

Man does as he is told, and it distresses him. Man isn't used to being told what to do. He never has been. But survival is key; he knows that he must play their game. 

The dark wooden door opens with an effortless push and Man is hit with an acrid pong, a scent of dirt and festering evil. He looks about, sees the windows caked in grime, the sunlight barely breaking through glass. He feels Mick walk in behind him, the air changing with the shift of a large, flabby mass. 

The pub is dingy, a hole full of assorted villainy; brutish, balding men sit around, their faces looking up at the stranger, their eyes vacant, souls lost to the abyss of the apocalypse. Among them he sees no humans, just empty vessels, devoid of empathy. They disgust him.

And then he looks at the bar, a dismal sight of cracked mahogany, bereft of beer taps. Behind the bar he sees wooden barrels lined up, half expects them to be labelled with the word
Grog
. He plods slowly towards the bar and as he nears it the smell of home-brewed booze hits his nostrils, sends his taste buds into overdrive. His body is starving and needs to eat but all he can think of is the booze. The sweet, numbing booze. 

'Go to the bar!' barks Mick in pompous tone. 'Get a drink!'

Man feels the heat rise in his guts, the rage that he saves for those who deserve it. He quells it with a few deep breaths.

'Rose! Rose! Where the hell are ya, girl?'

Quickly a woman emerges from the other side of the bar, her actions hurried but confident. Man looks at her and she looks at him. Humans. Broken, but held together by something he cannot identify. 

She smiles and opens her mouth, a beautiful smile even with her teeth yellowing. 

'This the lad everyone's been chewing on about?' she asks. 

'Word spreads fast!' says Mick. 'And yes, it is. He...'

'Took out four of your guards,' Rose interjects.

'Two,' offers Man. 'Only two.'

She looks him up and down, the smile fading slightly when she sees the symbol on his chest. 

Man, for the first time since he saw Celeste, is captivated. Rose's hair hangs wildly in red ringlets, her eyes the colour of kale; dark, with a hint of life left in them. Her lips pucker together nicely under a button nose. Man looks her up and down, sees she is wearing a long, flowing dress, black and thin like a night gown. Her breasts are pushed up, more than likely for the punters; Man can tell there's a good body underneath all of it.

'What'll it be then, stranger?' she asks, throwing Mick an incredulous glance.

'What do you have?' asks Man.

'Plum wine. Cider, weak and strong. Barley wine. Carrot and pine beer.'

'Lots of choice. How do I pay?' 

Rose and Mick laugh heartily. 

'No one pays here, son,' says Mick. 'Think of us like, communists. We all pitch in.'

'Oh,' says Man. 'Barley wine, please.'

'Coming up, chuck!' says Rose.

'And the cider for me, love,' adds Mick. Rose nods her head as she works away, pouring the booze into dirty pint glasses. She hands them over and smiles politely at Man.

It takes effort but Man turns from her, faces Mick who motions for him to sit down. 

They find a table near the dirty windows. Next to it stands a redundant fruit machine, the lights and wheels long dead. Man wonders how much money is left inside it. Not that it matters these days. People don't use it. Haven't for years. As soon as the lights went out and the lightning died people had no use for currency. It became clear then that money was only ever a device to control the masses, make them believe that their worth began with a series of numbers and decimal points displayed on a computer screen. A more potent drug than nicotine and heroine combined. Once the lights went out the people who survived discovered their own worth. And like the accumulation of currency it required blood to be spilled.

Man positions himself so he can face the bar, so he can watch Rose go about her business, an act not unnoticed by Mick. 

The mayor settles his bulky frame onto a strained chair, twiddles with his moustache for a moment and then sets those dark olive eyes on Man. 

'So, what questions do you have?' asks Mick, as though he's wrapping up a job interview. 

Man sips the barley wine, tastes a pungent surge of strong alcohol as it swills around his mouth. He swallows and knows that he can't drink too much of it. Can't leave himself any more vulnerable than he already is. 

'Firstly,' says Man, 'is there any tobacco?'

Mick laughs loudly, slaps the table and almost knocks over their drinks. 

'Of all the bloody questions! Of course we do, son. Here.' Mick reaches into his pocket, pulls out a tobacco tin and opens it. Inside sits a score of thin, immaculately rolled cigarettes, complete with filters. Man reaches over and takes one, puts it in between his lips. A fat thumb rolls against a flint wheel and sparks give way to fire. 

Man sits back, sucks hard on the fag and fills his lungs with fire. Immediately he can feel his head lighten and his bowels loosen. 

'How long's it been, son?'

'How long's what been? Since I last smoked?'

'That. But also how long have you been wandering? Did you come from a place nearby? I don't think you did because my lads would've told me about someone like you.' Mick lights his own cigarette and Man observes how puny the thing looks in between his chubby fingers. 

'Well I last smoked a long time ago. And no, I'm not from nearby. I thought I was asking the questions.'

'Ask away, boy, ask away.'

Hovering around the bar is Rose, throwing random glances at Man as he sits, smoking and drinking, tightening his guts so as not to shit himself. 

'Why people? Why eat them? There are plenty of animals around. I stumbled across a farm a few weeks back and they had cows and chickens. Why not do that?'

Mick sips his beer and stubs out his half smoked fag. Crosses his hands over his belly and leans back. 

'Do you want the honest answer?'

'That's the only one I want.'

'Ease, son. It's easy.'

'So you're telling me that it's easier to hunt humans than it is hunt or farm animals. That’s a lie. It’s not honest at all.'

'I am telling you that. Especially these days, since most of them are so weak.'

'I don't believe you,' says Man bluntly. 

'Don't believe me. But it's in your best interest to. Especially if you want to live here.'

'Who said anything about living here?'

'I did. Maybe not to you, but I said it. Your skill set, we need it. You'll make a valuable hunter.'

'Of rabbits, maybe. But not fucking humans.'

Mick drinks more beer, lays his glass on the table, leaving his moustache soaking wet. 

'You are reluctant, son. I understand. We were as well. Very reluctant. But when food supplies run out and your home is under siege from those who wish to take everything from you, unforeseen eventualities occur. I never wanted to eat anybody. But we had to.'

'And after this siege you kept on doing it? Why not stop? Why not accept it as a one-time thing?'

'Unless you've tasted the flesh of a fellow human then you have no idea. It, shall we say, it empowers you. It's as if you're taking part of their soul and adding it to your own. After we ate the weak, the dying, we were able to beat back those who had sieged us. And since then, no one has tried.'

Man sits back, sips his barley wine and looks around the pub, his eyes not wanting to fix on the maniac in front of him. Instead he sees a small army of soulless eyes fixed on him, weighing him up and wondering which cut will be the juiciest. He turns back to Mick.

'Why the swastika?' asks Man.

'That's an easy one, son. Fear! The Nazi's took that symbol, manipulated it for their purposes and it changed. It became a symbol attached to evil.'

'So you're a Nazi then?'

'No! God, no!'

'And before the lights went out?'

‘What do you mean? Before the war?’

‘If that’s what you call it,’ says Man. ‘I’d call it the end of days.’

'Well, I was never a Nazi. My political interests might have been, shall we say, quite far to the right, but I was never a Nazi.'

'BNP? EDL? You were one of them?'

Mick smiles, his moustache arcing upwards so that the bristles jut out haphazardly.

'An MP.'

'In my eyes,' says Man, trying to his pick his words carefully, 'you are a Nazi. You represented a faction of fucking morons who thought that some people had more right to life than others. And now you use that to justify your cannibalism. It’s a crock of shit.’

'Listen, son, I'm only going to say this once and be warned that you're treading on very fucking thin ice with me at the moment. I've let you in to my village, offered you a beer, some food if you're willing and a place to stay. Don't be rude again or these lads who are sat around will cut you to ribbons and I'll be eating your flesh tonight. Understand?'

Man nods, doing his best to feign an impression of fear.

'Some men and women are better than others, son. It's natural selection. Even back in the old days, when society got on so bloody well. Think about it. CEOs, bankers, solicitors. Were they not superior to the underlings? Were politicians not superior to the masses? The power evolved from physical violence to political and financial manipulation. Those born with the brains rose to the top of the pile. Exactly the same as it's always been, except with a lot less murder. And yes I've always thought I was better than most. Call me a narcissist if you want. Take the Paki’s for instance. It's because of them that the world is how it is. Them and their fucking EMP strategy.'

Man stares hard at Mick, contemplates slicing the bigot's throat in two. A glimpse of red distracts him for a second, the flowing locks of the barmaid, Rose. He knows that if any murder was to happen then she could be caught in the melee. And that won't do. There have been too many women die under his watch. 

'But why are we talking about dead politics?' says Mick, breaking the mood. 'There's no place for politics in a world like this. You should know that more than any of us.'

‘I do,’ replies Man, solemnly. ‘More than you.’

‘Careful, son. That ice I was talking about is cracking and any more insults could cause it to break. Now, I’m going to ask you plain and simple: are you going to stay with us?’

Man shifts in his seat, looks over at the bar and catches Rose’s eye, notices her face light up in the dimness.

‘Another drink, some food and some tobacco, then yes, I’ll stay. At least for a while.’

‘Good lad! You get your strength up.’

‘But I’m not eating human flesh. I can hunt, that’s what I’m good at.’

‘You’re not hunting. But we do grow vegetables. You can eat them.’

Man smiles, his lips barely visibly underneath the beard. He’s gotten his way. For now.

‘One more thing,’ adds Mick. ‘You can’t be walking around with your fucking mane like that. I’ll get someone to shave it for you. Rose can do it. She cuts my hair.’

‘I rather like my hair like this.’

‘You look like a fucking pansy! Keep the beard, lose the hair.’

Mick turns to Rose, summons her with a wave and orders two more drinks. They arrive quickly and as she walks away Man watches her hips move side to side, the elegant sensuality of a woman who wants someone.

‘You can stay here,’ says Mick as the drinks arrive. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it darlin’?’ Rose nods and Mick smacks her arse as she walks away. ‘Drink up, Man. Go see Rose, she’ll show to your room. She’ll bring up some food. Cheese and vegetables and bread. We’ll talk later.’

Mick stands up, drinks his pint quickly and liquid spills down his barrel chest. He wipes at it with a chubby hand and moves to Man. Man’s hand instinctively flinches for the karambit but he doesn’t take it. He knows that at any moment Mick could have him killed. And if he’d wanted it done it would’ve happened at the bridge. A fat hand pats Man on the shoulder.

‘Eat something,’ says Mick in a malevolent tone. He turns and walks away, a small number of brutes in the pub following closely behind him.

*******************

He sits in a ceramic, stand-alone bath tub, the lukewarm water refracting the sunny rays that illuminate and magnify the brown streaks of rust that adorn the walls. It’s the second lot of water he’s sat in; the first turned a murky brown as soon as the dirt loosened with wetness. The bathroom is small and cramped, the flowered wallpaper torn in various places and furnished with the cheaply made furniture that people used to buy in discount shops.

He runs a hand over his head, feels the bristly layer of skin where his mane used to be. Rose did a good job of shaving his head. She found lice and he felt embarrassed. Then she left and he fell into the bath, the water scolding and soothing at the same time.

Man lifts his arm up, inspects the cut he opened. The water rinsed it, removed the dirt and lessened the chance of infection. He looks at the collection of white and pink scars and sees some more appear out of the depths of his mind. His mind does this sometimes, mini-hallucinations of events to come. Happens when he doesn’t take his medication; even though there’s no medication left to take. Before he leaves the village he now has to call home he knows there will be more cuts to add. More lives he must take. It’s a waiting game. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Man stands and steps out of the bath, catching a quick glimpse of his clean body in a cracked mirror that hangs loosely on a nearby wall. His skin is tanned and tight, clinging to the sinewy strands of muscle he has left. A poor supply of food has diminished his mass and while he settles he has the chance the build his body again. A strict regimen of body weight exercises and protein will regain his strength.

He moves closer to the mirror, looking at his alabaster-white scalp, covered in red bumps. He sees his face for the first time in weeks, scans over the scar tissue and blocked pores and down to his beard. He squeezes his skin in intervals, watches as black and yellow worms squeeze out of skin burrows widened with steam. He sees that his moustache has grown long and covers his lips so that when he speaks his mouth is hardly seen to be moving. He likes it this way.

A booming rap on the door shocks him and as he turns it opens. Rose stands there, her jaw hung loose, a tray of food in her hands. Man covers himself with his hands and they both stand, silent and motionless, a tangible awkwardness sucking in the atmosphere.

‘I, I’m sorry,’ she says, her cheeks a pale shade of red. ‘I thought you’d be finished, I thought…I’m so sorry.’

Man reaches for the old, raggedy towel that hangs over the side of the bath, wraps it around his malnourished body. Rose comes fully into the room, rests the tray on a beaten-up cabinet.

‘Thank you,’ says Man, sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that.’

‘When did it happen?’ she asks without looking him in the eye.

‘A long time ago,’ he replies, moving to the cabinet. ‘You can tell Mick if you’d like. He can be safe in the knowledge that I will not rape anyone.’

‘Who did it?’

‘This world we live in. The New World.’

Rose turns to him, her green eyes meeting his, her cherry lips arching into a cheery smile. The redness has subsided in her cheeks.

‘This world has given me a lot of men that I never wanted to meet,’ she says. ‘Every day I meet men that no women should ever meet.’

Man smiles knowingly. His mind spins into a mini-hurricane of pulsing synapses, throwing images into his eyes of Rose being raped, over and over, by a line of animalistic brutes. He shakes his head and it dissipates.

‘What have you brought me?’ he asks, changing the subject.

‘Some bread, it’s made from spelt. The baker is bloody good. Also, some cheese and homemade pickle. There’s some carrots and cold potatoes, too.’