Meadowside (4 page)

A hand grasped at the back of Smiffy’s football shirt. Smiffy spun, raising his fists. He caught a glimpse of a wrinkled, grey-haired face just before he lashed out. His fist struck the old woman in the chin and sent her reeling away in the same direction as the false teeth that flew from her mouth.

Smiffy’s eyes widened. He raised his hands, palms facing the old woman, and backed away from her. “Sorry missus, I thought you was a CBeebie.”

The old woman hissed like a cat, then lunged at Smiffy with her arms outstretched. Bony fingers curled around his neck and squeezed. Smiffy’s eyes bulged in surprise. What the fuck was she doing? She was older than his granny, but she was going to try and take him on? She should be at home, knitting jumpers or whatever the fuck it is old people do, not starting fights with seasoned football veterans.

Johnno cried out in pain, breaking Smiffy’s train of thought. A Skumfucker in trouble, something Smiffy couldn’t ignore. He didn’t want to hurt the old woman any more than he had already, even if she was bat-shit fucking crazy, but he had to get her off him so he could go and help Johnno. He grabbed her wrists and wrenched her hands away from his neck, then stretched them out by her sides. If she was a rival football fan Smiffy would have nutted her in the face, or brought his knee up into her bollocks, but with an old woman he wasn’t sure what the protocol was. So he just held her there while she hissed and snarled at him, spittle flying from her mouth.

The old woman’s head slumped forward and her gummy mouth slobbered over Smiffy’s face. Like she was trying to kiss him or something. Smiffy recoiled in revulsion. He released her wrists and pushed out at her chest. She stumbled back a few paces, then lunged forward again with a screech. Her hands grasped, her gnarled, arthritic fingers clenched like claws around his face.

Smiffy lashed out and punched her in the forehead. He’d had enough of her nonsense, and just wanted her to fuck off out of it. The old woman’s head snapped back but she didn’t let go. Her fingernails raked down Smiffy’s face, tearing through skin. Smiffy cried out and kicked at the old woman’s leg. A bone snapped with a loud crack. The old woman toppled over sideways, her body stiff, making no attempt to break her fall. She looked up at Smiffy and hissed as she rolled onto her stomach.

Smiffy resisted the urge to give the old woman the kicking she deserved and skirted around her, looking for Johnno. He found him nearby, laying into a young boy no more than nine or ten years old.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Smiffy yelled. He grabbed the back of Johnno’s football shirt and pulled him away from the boy. “You don’t smack a fucking junior.”

“The little fucker bit me,” Johnno said, turning to Smiffy. He held up an arm. Blood dripped from a ring of tiny incisions surrounded by angry yellow bruising. “The little cunt just fucking lunged at me from behind and fucking bit me. He needs to be taught a fucking lesson not to mess with his elders and betters.”

Smiffy looked at the boy lying by Johnno’s feet. He made no attempt to protect himself when Johnno launched a vicious kick at him. Didn’t cry out when it landed with a thud and cracked a rib. The kid didn’t look like any of the football firm juniors Smiffy had come into contact with before. In his Super Mario T-shirt and green trousers he looked more like an average, everyday kid. A bit wet and bedraggled, scuffed and bruised from his tussle with Johnno, but other than that just a regular kid.

Smiffy heard a hiss behind him and turned to face it. The old woman crawled toward him, dragging her broken leg behind her. Smiffy exchanged glances with Johnno, who had also turned to look.

“What the fuck is going on?” Johnno asked. “First kids, and now their fucking grannies?”

Smiffy shrugged and shook his head. “Fuck knows, but I reckon we should pull out and get fucked off before the coppers get here. Where’s Stonker?”

“He’s over there,” Johnno said, pointing. He cupped a hand over his mouth and shouted, “Oi Stonker, we’re pulling out!”

Stonker turned away from a man he had been kicking and raised his left hand in acknowledgement. He smiled, and swaggered slowly toward Smiffy and Johnno with his fists raised high above his head in victory, his blood-spattered football scarf hanging down from one wrist. He didn’t see two men close behind stagger toward him with their hands outstretched.

“Stonker, watch out!” Smiffy yelled.

Stonker spun to face the two men. One of them clawed at his shirt, the other grabbed his arm and bit into it. Stonker cried out, punched one of the men in the face, then kicked out at the other.

“Skumfuckers!” Johnno yelled, running to Stonker’s aid.

Smiffy was about to join him when a hand grabbed his right ankle and held him in place. He wheeled around and kicked out with his left leg, struck the old woman on the side of the head. She hissed. He kicked her again, but couldn’t get her to release her grip around his ankle.

He bent down and gripped her index finger, prised it off his ankle. He bent it back until it snapped and the finger went limp. He grabbed the next finger and snapped that too. The woman continued hissing. Stonker wondered at this. With two broken fingers she should be screaming in agony, but she didn’t seem to fucking care. He reached for the next finger, snapped it, then wrenched his foot out of her hand and stamped on her wrist.

Someone jumped onto Smiffy’s back with a high-pitched snarl. Small hands wrapped around his face and clawed at his eyes. Smiffy toppled forward and fell heavily on top of the old woman. She hissed and snarled, thrashed her arms and legs. Smiffy crawled off her and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, the small figure still clinging to his face. He flung himself onto his back to knock the wind out of his new attacker. The hands fell away and Smiffy rolled over, then scooted his knees up and sprang to his feet. The boy in the Super Mario T-shirt sat up and hissed at him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Smiffy shouted.

He kicked the boy in the head, sent him down for the count. The old woman hissed and crawled forward, her eyes wide and staring. Her mouth opened and closed like a demented fish as she shuffled herself closer. Smiffy shook his head and smiled down at her.

“Well you can fuck off too, you mad old bag,” he said. “Or you’ll get the same treatment as fucking Mario here.”

He turned away, suddenly remembering Stonker was in trouble. Most of the civvies had seen sense and scarpered, leaving behind a few bloodied and unconscious bodies. Smiffy weaved his way around them, heading for where he saw Stonker waving his Stanley Knife around.

Four men surrounded Stonker, all gushing blood from where he had slashed their faces. One lunged from the side. Stonker jerked his knife arm to face the attacker. He slashed across the man’s neck and kicked out at his chest with the sole of his boot. The man fell back with a rasping gurgle, arterial blood spurting in a wide arc. Stonker turned when another man sprang forward. The Stanley Knife flashed past outstretched hands, sliced through a wrist and sent more arterial blood spurting. Stonker, silent throughout, grinned like a maniac and grabbed the man’s hand. He twisted and pulled, jabbed at tendons and sawed through small bones until the hand tore off with a wet snapping sound. He rammed the severed hand into the man’s gaping mouth and drove his fist into the man’s chin.

Smiffy watched it all in horror. Stonker had gone too far this time. Way too far. If those men died, which was very likely, Stonker would get life for their murder. And Smiffy would be an accessory to that murder, as well as whatever bollocks the old woman and kid came out with. Smiffy wasn’t daft, he knew no judge would take his word over theirs, that the coppers could say anything they wanted and make it stick. He’d be an old man before he got out. If he ever did.

They had to scarper, right now. Get the fuck out of there while there was still time.

But there was no way Smiffy was going to approach Stonker alone when he was in one of his battle rages. Especially now he had his blade out. He’d need Johnno to help him get Stonker under control, and even then it wouldn’t be easy. Smiffy looked around, but Johnno was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t the type to bottle it, have it away on his toes when his fellow Skumfuckers were in trouble, so he had to be around somewhere. Smiffy thought about asking Stonker where Johnno had got to, but Stonker was still in mid-rage and unlikely to respond. He was straddling one of the men, his knees in a pool of blood gushing from arms pinned beneath them that had been sliced to ribbons. Stonker’s tongue protruded from his mouth in concentration as he carved his name into the man’s chest.

Smiffy looked beyond Stonker at some of the bodies littering the floor. Close up, he could tell they weren’t just unconscious. They were mangled, a mass of blood and gore. One woman had her stomach torn open, her intestines spilling out. Her arms and legs were a mass of gaping bite wounds, her face forever frozen in a silent scream.

Nearby, a man lay spread-eagled and almost naked on his back surrounded by a wide pool of blood. The man’s face was bloody and unrecognisable. His nose was missing. His left cheek was torn open, parts of his bottom jaw visible through it. Both his eyes were gone, just red, blood-filled holes where they should be. Tatters of red and yellow clothing clung to the edges of a large, gaping wound in his chest. Like the woman, his arms and legs were covered in bites. His left thigh was red-raw, several large chunks missing from it.

Smiffy heard snarls in the distance, coming from the direction of the nearby entrance. He turned to look, and saw dozens of people – men, women and children – lumbering through the doors and heading straight for him. Footsteps came from behind him. Smiffy raised his fists and spun to face them. Stonker swaggered toward him dripping blood from the bite wound on his arm. His breath came in short, panting gasps.

“Where the fuck’s Johnno got to?” Smiffy asked.

Stonker pointed a shaking finger at the corpse lying by Smiffy’s feet.

“Them fucking zombies got him,” he said, shaking his head. He raised his injured arm and looked down at it. “They got me too. And you know what that means, right? I’m fucking done for. But no way am I going to turn into one of those cunts.” He smiled. “So I’m going to take as many of the bastards with me as I can.” He raised the blood-soaked Stanley Knife and held it before him like a dagger.

“Skumfuckers!” he yelled, and ran headlong to meet the approaching crowd.

5

Kylie ran, trying not to listen to the people screaming all around her. She kept her gaze firmly on the ground before her, not wanting to know what they were screaming at. Quick glimpses from her peripheral vision were more than enough to tell her the crazy woman with the baby wasn’t alone; there were dozens more like her, maybe hundreds. Why they were acting like that, or what was wrong with them, didn’t matter. All that mattered was to get the fuck out of there.

Kylie looked over her shoulder and saw Mike and Britney were starting to fall behind. They had slowed to a walk, Britney’s deathly pale face grimacing at each step Mike forced her to make. Her arm was draped over Mike’s shoulder, and she slumped against him as he tried to support her.

“Keep going,” Tom said to Kylie, “we’ll catch you up at the train station.” He rushed back to help Mike with Britney. Britney grimaced as she raised her injured arm so Tom and Mike could support her between them.

Kylie didn’t want to leave them behind, didn’t want to be on her own in all this chaos. Hysterical people shouted and screamed, ran blindly in all directions. Crazies hissed and snarled, lunged and killed. Kylie tried not to look too closely at the people lying on the ground. Tried not to think about what the crazies were doing to their bodies.

“Kylie, for fuck’s sake, get going!”

Kylie startled. She hadn’t realised Tom, Mike and Britney had got so close. Britney’s feet were dragging now, slowing them down even more. Britney’s eyes were open, but her head was slumped to one side as if she were unconscious. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage.

“Are you okay, Britney?” Kylie asked, walking backwards while she peered into her eyes. Britney’s pupils were dilated and unmoving. They didn’t react when Kylie waved her hand before them. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked Tom.

Tom shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

“We should get an ambulance, I think she’s seriously ill.”

“Yeah, I know. Get my phone out of my pocket, you’ll have to do it while we’re walking.”

Kylie kept pace with Tom and reached into his tracksuit pocket. She pulled out his phone and prodded the screen. Nothing happened. “What do I do to make it work?” she asked. It was nothing like her mother’s phone, with that you just pressed numbers below the screen. Tom’s phone was all screen, with just four small buttons at the bottom.

“Give it here,” Tom said.

Kylie handed him the phone. When Tom gave her it back she dialled three nines, then put the phone to her ear.

“They’re not answering,” she said.

“Give it a bit longer, they might be busy.”

Kylie walked on, listening to the brrr brrr of the phone with mounting apprehension. What if nobody answered? What if whatever was happening in Meadowside was happening everywhere? She shuddered at the thought. No, it couldn’t be that. Tom was right, they were just a bit busy. Probably with the riots in Shefferham. They would get around to answering it soon enough, then an ambulance would be on its way to help Britney.