The Brink (19 page)

“That’s good news,” said Alan.

“It was. After the first year we started to get better. Those early crops were a bit weak but we managed with what we had until the following year. During that time I remembered what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“That if it were to happen again we’d all be eating mushrooms. I think you said it as a joke but it got me thinking-”

“It was a joke at the time,” he interrupted. “But I kind of meant it.”

“Well, in that second year I started planting trays of the buggers in the basements of the buildings in our camp site. It was nice and dark down there and I remember you once telling me how to spot the difference between the different types.”

“Good.”

“No Alan, it wasn’t good. I grew the wrong bloody ones!”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. I nearly died, pal. I had to go find a book on them once I’d stopped shitting my pants.”

“You’re lucky; some of them will kill you.”

“I know that now, don’t I?” he laughed. “But anyway, we’ve been growing the right ones ever since and we’ve got quite a stock of them. They get a bit boring after a while but when that cloud rolled in I was bloody glad of them.”

“I’m happy I could help,” said Alan with a grin. “I miss that part of my life.”

“Well, if you find our little camp agreeable, perhaps you’ll consider staying to help us out. We’re going to need your knowledge if we’re going to build some kind of settlement for others to be drawn to.”

Alan felt an overwhelming sense of relief at this request. He’d wandered alone for long enough. Leaving Teague’s camp had been harder than he ever thought it would be and if it hadn’t been for the company provided by Tim he’d have lost his mind long ago. The boy was still fascinated by the machine and even though he could no longer see his face, Alan knew there would be a huge smile under the rubber and glass.

“After the last month or so I’ve had to endure, I’d be happy enough just looking after the compost heap.”

It was a long walk back to the settlement. On the way, John explained the need to find as much useful equipment as they could, not just for their own benefit but to keep any scavengers from finding them.

“The Doc came up with the idea,” said John as they sat on the side boards of the vehicle, their legs dangling over the road as it passed slowly beneath them. “We send out looting parties to clean out the surrounding towns, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So every house is searched, every building, every basement, nothing is missed. Then we burn a few and make sure the windows are put out as well.”

“Why?” asked Alan.

“It stops them from wanting to setup their little hovels in nice warm houses. We make the place as inhospitable as we can. When they show up they see straight away that the place has been stripped bare and it isn’t worth hanging around. They move on, finding all the local places the same.”

“So they go back the way they came.”

“They used to. Then they started setting up camps on the outskirts of our little border, trying to grab us thinking that someone had to be stripping the places bare. We’ve had quite a few dog fights with the bastards, I can tell you.”

“I didn’t realise that many had survived.”

“Neither did we. What were they like in the north?”

“Before the storm we were plagued by them but nothing like the numbers you’re talking about.”

“Well, we’ve had a lot of survivors come in and we tend to forget that scavengers are just survivors who’ve decided to fuck off law and order and do whatever the hell they want, no matter the cost.”

“That’s humans for you,” he said, laughing.

“Exactly. So we started hitting back with these...”

He reached into the cab of the vehicle and picked up a round plastic tub with a lid on it that’d been taped shut and covered in grey dust or paint.

“We bury these little chaps in the rubble, you see. We attach a clever little mechanism and sit a juicy piece of loot on top. Then, when our scavenger friends come along - boom!”

“What’s in them?” he asked.

“The Doc managed to concoct a primitive kind of explosive for us to use. It’s a little unstable but if we treat them like they’re made of glass they’re pretty neat.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll kill a survivor who just happened to come across your little box?”

“Way ahead of you there, Alan.” He turned the tub over and showed him a black inked number on the bottom. “Each one is accounted for and we only ever leave them out for a few days at a time before going back for it. We only plant them in places we’re pretty sure the dick heads are going to try and hit. If they don’t go off, we bring them back. They’re too valuable to waste and like you say, no one wants to kill a friendly.”

“I feel sorry for the person who has to retrieve it.”

“Don’t. They get a food bonus for every one they bring back. We’ve only ever had one death and that was caused by stupidity. Nature has a way of cleaning the ranks of idiots, I’ve noticed. Thankfully, her death wasn’t wasted. It proved the bloody things worked.”

“That’s a bit cold, John.”

“Yeah, I know. Hard not to be, don’t you think? All this death and suffering. Hard not to lose it.”

Alan understood but he wasn’t sure he wanted to encourage it. In Tim he’d seen something else within him, something that went beyond just his need to survive and maybe it was this that set them apart from every other living being on the planet. He protected and cared for Tim even though it went against his physical need to survive and instead appealed to something deeper.

But if mankind slipped back into its natural ‘kill or be killed’ mentality, people like him would be acceptable losses. Like an innocent survivor picking up one of John’s traps. How many had already died because they were too weak in someone’s eyes or not worth the bother? The greater good would soon become an altar for many a blood sacrifice to be poured out upon and Alan couldn’t be sure that such a future would be one he’d want a part of. The human race might survive the carnage, but what kind of people would it be at the end?

They drove on and the conversation became more concerned with tapping into Alan’s gardening knowledge and what he’d studied at college. In this new world, such information had become far more valuable than it’d been when some old dear wanted to know how to care for her hanging baskets. The next few years were starting to take shape for him and he saw himself organising the building of his planned greenhouses, his rows of plastic poly-tunnels and the systematic growing of the plants he’d had in mind since his time with Teague. The old soldier had been more concerned with defending his settlement and gathering existing supplies that he’d not entertained the idea of growing things. Now that the storm had come and decimated the country, it was more important now than ever to start growing things again. Hardy crops: onions, potatoes, stuff that could manage with the minimum amount of care and provide a plentiful supply. His mind rolled and tumbled with the ideas, the possibilities, and he almost forgot his cares until the vehicle rumbled and hissed to a halt outside the gates to a caravan park. Night had fallen by this time and the place was a glowing thing hidden behind high makeshift walls.

“Here we are,” said John, jumping down from the truck. “Home sweet home.”

Alan looked around, taking in the fortified fencing, the guarded gates with their heavy wooden bars, bristling with barbed wire and search lights and the smell of cook pots escaping through the gaps in the crude woodwork. There were armoured men and women on a walkway above the entrance and they all stared down at them as they approached, rifles resting on fire steps, eyes full of nervous energy and tension.

“Have you ever been attacked here?” asked Alan as he climbed down.

“Nope. You get the occasional Scav come walking by, checking us out, but we have a few sharp shooters up on the wall and if we don’t get him then we chase him until we do.”

“I guess you don’t take prisoners then?”

“Can’t afford to,” said John. “Costs food to look after them and why waste it on Scavs?”

The gates began to open when the guards relaxed and realised it was one of their own patrols. The mechanism made a horrible screeching sound as the metal parts ground against each other, begging for a cup of oil, but finding that no answer came, continued wailing until the gap was wide enough for the truck. It drove in first, followed by those who’d arrived on foot.

“Follow me and I’ll sign you both in,” said John, leading the way behind the lumbering vehicle. “Won’t be hard to find you somewhere to live. I assume you’re staying?”

“I think you need me,” laughed Alan. “What do you say, Tim?”

The lad had caught them up, jumping down before the truck drove off to its bay and by now appeared to be totally out of the driver’s control. It was whining and wheezing as it turned off from the main road and disappeared behind a cloud of black smoke, never to be seen again.

“This place is amazing!” he cried, taking in the bright flood lights, the gaudy cartoon characters painted on the signs here and there and the neat lines of white caravans that looked like rows and rows of Tim’s own car collection. “Can we stay? Please?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“This is amazing! I love it!” said Tim. Alan patted him on the back and smiled.

“Okay then, John. Lead the way.”

13

The process for entering the camp was technical and bordering on the fanatical. John led them towards the main complex, a white pebble-dashed building bustling with people coming and going, and managed to force his way through the double doors and into the warm, carpeted lobby. Behind a desk, which must have once been the reception area for the holiday park, were two men and two women, running frantically about with handfuls of paper and 2-way radios stuck to their ears as they attempted to make sense of the chaos that comes with looking after the needs to so many people.

“This is where most of our admin is done,” explained John as they took their place in one of the long lines snaking away from the desk and out of the door.

“Only four people?” said Alan.

“There’s more behind that desk over there,” he said. “But this lot are meant to act as funnels for where the requests are meant to go.”

“It doesn’t look like the system is working.”

“It doesn’t look it, but it is. These guys are brilliant at making everything come together but don’t expect a warm reception. They know they’re the ones who’re really in charge around here. They turn the wheels.”

“So who claims to be in charge then?”

“That would be the Doc and his brother, Sam Stuart. You could say they founded this place, got it organised, got people working as a team. I’ll take you to them once you’re settled.”

Since entering the camp, Tim hadn’t stopped staring at the lights and the people, amazed by the hustle and bustle of so many after such a long time alone with just Alan and Moll for company. The noises, the flashing images, the different faces, they all intrigued him like so many shiny new cars and as often as he could he tugged on Alan’s sleeve, calling his attention to look at a colourful sign or a person in odd clothing or the picture of a tiger offering a wave, painted onto the wall just inside the reception area.

“I’m guessing there’s something wrong,” whispered John in his ear as they drew closer to the front of the line.

“Yes,” replied Alan. “Though I’m not sure what it is.”

“Is he just...
simple
?”

“I don’t know. The people who found him said that they thought it was just the trauma and sometimes I get glimpses of his former life but you can’t ask him about it without him closing up on you and getting upset.”

“There’s a woman here who Sam put in charge of the children. She used to be a social worker so she might be able to help.”

“That’d be great,” said Alan.

“You always were a sucker for a charity case.”

Alan bristled at the comment but there was little he could do about it - they’d reached the front of the line that now stretched out behind them like a long human train made up of some very odd looking carriages. It seemed that any sense of fashion had long since been thrown out in favour of matching the strangest, most colourful garments with their exact polar opposite cousins. There were survivors in yellow pants with pink tops, bright green boots with dark brown trousers and all kinds of insane combinations that made his eyes ache. He frowned, looking back and John laughed, giving the details of the two new survivors to the frantic looking man poised with a tapping foot, ready to spin into action.

“There,” said John, handing him a key with an enormous plastic fob attached to it. “Idris number 45. Here’s a map.”

He handed him a faded piece of paper with a crudely drawn map of the park on it, their caravan circled with a red pen.

“Go make yourselves at home.”

“Thanks John,” replied Alan, shaking his hand. “I appreciate all this.”

“Don’t mention it. When you’re ready, I’ll be in the club waiting for you. I’ll get you your first drink.”

“Where’s the club?”

“There,” he said, pointing again to the paper. “Just over the way. We’ve got plenty of spirits, just no draught.”

Alan, Tim and Moll made their way out of reception and onto the road, looking at the map to see where they were meant to go. There were still lights on - no doubt powered by the great solar collectors mounted on the roof of the complex, but it was still quite gloomy as they followed the directions towards their caravan a good half-mile away. They met a number of people on the way who at first seemed quite friendly, until they saw the giant figure of Moll lumbering along, her tongue drooping from one side of her mouth. During the day the beast seemed quite friendly but at night, Alan guessed, she’d be quite a different looking animal.

“Is this carry-van ours then?” asked Tim walking as close to them as he could.

“Well,” he replied. “Maybe not actually ours to take away, but we get to live in it, yeah.”

“Are there beds in there?”

“I guess so.”

“And a table?”

“Yes.”

“And a toilet?”

“I hope so.”

“What about chairs?”

“Maybe.”

“Will there be lights?”

Alan smiled. At any other time in his life Tim’s questions might have driven him to despair but right then they were a much needed source of comfort on that dark road towards their next lodgings.

“We’ll see, mate. It’s just up here.”

They followed the small white squares that bore the number of each caravan until they found their own, climbing the three steps up to the door and fitting the key into the lock.

“Here we are,” said Alan, turning it. Then he took a step back and let Tim run in front, smiling as he heard the gasps of amazement and awe.

“It’s fantastic!” he cried, running back and forth in the narrow corridor between rooms. “Look at this!”

Although the place was small compared to an actual house, in Tim’s eyes it was a mansion and he was determined to show Alan every room with all its details and neat little quirks.

“There are beds enough for five people here! And it’s all ours!” he cried, running to the living room. “Does the TV work?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Alan. Moll padded up and down the hallway, her tail wagging and hitting either side, eventually deciding to make her bed on the settee where she jumped up and sprawled out as best she could. Alan looked into each room and offered Tim the big double bed. He stood there, shocked, his jaw drooping as if by making another opening in his head it might let the words reach his brain better.

“For me? Don’t you want it?”

“I’m okay in the living room,” he said, looking at Moll. “I think she’s made the decision for us.”

“Oh,” he said, sighing. “I was hoping she’d sleep on my bed like she did when I was poorly.”

“Well I tell you what,” said Alan. “We’ll leave all the doors open so Moll can move where ever she wants. Then, if she feels like jumping on your bed, she can.”

“Wow - that’s a good idea,” said Tim. “Can I set up my cars now?”

“I guess so.”

So while Alan made a cup of coffee using the kettle in the small kitchen area, Tim sat at the triangular dining table, lining up his cars with his usual care and attention whilst Moll turned her head onto its side to watch him. Between them they had very few possessions to put away in any of the cupboards or drawers that seemed to sprout like weeds all over the caravan. Tim had his rucksack which was empty now, having used up all their food on the trip, and which contained only the cars and his cup and spoon. Alan had his ammunition bag but the few items it held didn’t need to be put into dusty, dry drawers. They’d lived on the road and suddenly having to put down roots in a fixed place felt strange to them both. Even Tim hadn’t taken off his coat and still sat at the table in his boots, knowing deep down that he might have to move on again at any point. It was the mark of the traveller, the wanderer who knew of no home but his pack.

Alan took a chair at the table, sipping his coffee and watching him at work with the cars.

“What do you think about the place?” he asked.

“I love it,” said Tim without taking his eyes off the cars.

“Do you like the caravan or the whole place?”

“The caravan.”

“What about the rest? The people? John?” Tim shrugged. “What does a shrug mean, Tim?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“You don’t like John?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him...” he replied, trailing off whilst he drove a yellow van towards Alan’s cup. “It’s just...”

“What?”

“There’s something about him that makes me...”

“Uncomfortable?” Tim nodded. “It’s okay, Tim. I don’t mind.”

“Do you?”

“No. But I’m interested to know why you feel like that? Did he do something to upset you?” Another shake of his head. The van was parked and now a green sports car with two-tone metallic paint sped across the wooden highway. “Is it just a feeling?” Nod.

“I...”

Tim was struggling with what he wanted to communicate, so much so that the sports car trembled in his fingertips. Alan put a hand on his and smiled.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“Do you like this one?” he said, suddenly presenting a turquoise truck that looked battered and damaged by its last owner. “I think this one might be my second favourite.”

With a tender smile, Alan nodded and let the matter lie. Again, Tim had been accurate in his assessment of John because he’d felt the same uneasiness too. He didn’t know when it had happened, perhaps it’d been the explosives or some comment or another, but after the initial relief of seeing a familiar face had worn off, Alan had begun to feel that all wasn’t right in that camp. He had no solid basis, no real evidence to speak of, just a gut feeling which, in this dangerous new world, seemed to be more important than ever. Maybe it was a harking back to those early days in the caves when man was in tune with his environment, when his subconscious picked up the almost invisible signals of danger without even realising it.

“I’ve got to go out now,” said Alan, finishing his coffee. “Are you and Moll going to be okay if you wait here?” Tim looked at him a little doubtfully. “I won’t be long.”

“Okay,” he said.

“I’ll see if there’s anything nice to bring back for you. If you get tired, go to bed and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay then,” he replied, still intent on his cars.

Alan looked at Moll and gave the command for her to stay which, by the tired look she gave from her prone position on the settee, was wholly unnecessary. Then, locking the door behind him, he made his way to the club.

If it hadn’t been for his dusty clothes, his tired limbs and the strange tint in the surly sky above him, he might have forgotten the fact that the world, as he’d known it, was gone. He could’ve been on holiday there, on his way to see a show or grab a beer before turning in after a day on the beach. He could’ve been going to meet his family for a meal, his wife, his children, an empty bank account, having spent his wages on the camp’s gift shop merchandise; overpriced, brightly coloured baseball caps with cartoon characters on them, cheaply made but expensive toys ready to break and costly food at take-away quality - fun to be had and money to be spent.

But instead, as he neared the complex, he was reminded that the former world was only that - a distant memory, faded and fondly idealised as being much better than it actually had been. Survivors - care worn and ill-looking, came and went through the wide entrance carrying their supplies in their arms and avoiding any kind of eye contact even as Alan approached them - a stranger, a new face, yet he might as well have been invisible. No one altered their course. No one greeted him. All shuffled on, warily clutching their burdens to their chest without a glance back.

In its time the entrance to the complex would’ve been alive with noise and lights and teeming with children frantically working the arcade machines, pouring coins into the video games, smashing air-hockey puks or trying to win thousands of tickets to turn into prizes at an impossible exchange rate. But the only thing that met Alan as he entered were two guards, broad shouldered and wearing Police issue uniforms including riot helmets and body armour. They were framed by lifeless machines and a breathless air-hockey table, now used as a desk to sign in at. All the lights and noises had gone, switched off no doubt to conserve power, but that lifeless image, framed by the two figures of enforcement, was a powerful picture in Alan’s mind.

“Name?” asked the guard standing at the door whilst the other scribbled on some paper at the hockey table.

“Alan Harding. John should be expecting me,” replied Alan.

“Any I.D?”

Alan laughed which didn’t seem to go down well with the serious attitude of the door keeper and even his friend at the table looked up and shook his head.

“Something funny about that?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Alan. “You’re seriously asking me for I.D?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be amazed to know that I don’t actually have any?”

“Not at all,” said the guard with a sigh. “Scavengers don’t tend to carry their own when they come to spy here.”

Alan’s anger flared inside him but he kept his cool, choosing a more diplomatic approach instead of launching his fist into the man’s stomach.