Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One (17 page)

Everything we thought of would mean exposing ourselves to attack from multiple sides. We had various ideas and the one that we all kept coming back to, but would ultimately reject was; to use the number thirty six bus to block the car park entrance. Unfortunately, the number thirty six bus was sandwiched between other vehicles and had suffered fire damage following the police cruiser blevvy incident. The driver’s side wheel was flat and the cab’s windscreen was painted black with soot and encrusted with lumps of burnt plastic and melted metal that had been gobbed out by the explosion. Several side windows had exploded from the heat. We didn't know whether it would even start, or what horrors might be lurking inside. If it did start, it would attract a lot of attention; moving it out of the traffic snarl and having to pull a one hundred and eighty in order to park the bus with the doors facing into the car park. The two cars currently in position would get shunted out of the way and this alone would make one hell of a racket; if that worked at all.

Our alternative meant constructing some kind of gate that we could remove or open quickly, but would be strong enough to hold back a dangerously, violently unpredictable army of highly contagious monsters.

Yeah, right…

Looking back, what we should have done is got in one of the cars and buggered off there and then...

What we should have done...

It's what we should have done...

Shouldawouldacoulda.

More whisky flowed as we discussed the value of each car in the style of Top Gear. I could picture Septic versions of the presenters as they wandered through my mind, speaking to the camera in my head.

The BMW had more speed from a standing start, but the Jag would kick its arse in a drag race, said The Hamster. The Jag was heavier and would take more damage, but the BMW would be quicker in tight corners, said Captain Slow. The BMW had less boot space and more blind spots than the Jag and both would be out of juice pretty damn quickly if we had to floor it for a long time, or be forced to make evasive manoeuvres at high speed; plus the BMW had a better sound system but the Jag had more shagging space on the back seat!

And the Subaru was beast, said Clarkson.

Huh!?!

We were all completely wasted by this stage. A small cluster of infected stared at us from the car park as if we were nuts; and most very likely, we all were a little nuts by then. We resorted to the tried and tested method of reaching a decision between subject (A) and subject (B), when all the Pros and Cons had been decided, and with no clear winner between either subjects; there was only one thing you could do…

Eeny meany mine-ee mo,

catch a Septic by its toe,

if it squeals, let it go.
 

Eeny meany mine-ee mo...

Ip dip sky blue... who's it? Not you...

The BMW won.
And on that bomb shell...

We would create a barrier to block the car park and use the Jag like a battering-ram to bash it out of the way, hopefully taking out a few infected at the same time; Jonny B opted to be the pilot for the mission, leaving my self and Rinko in the BMW, bringing up the rear; loaded with supplies, fuel, food and weapons, we’d stop to pick up Jonny B, torch the Jag confidently expecting it to explode as we get the fuck out of Dodge. We all felt drawn towards the coast. We figured if we could find a boat, we could get off the mainland. Even if it meant making our new home anchored somewhere near a safe haven; if there was such a thing.

All codshite...

All bollocks...

All bullshit…

High on the horizon, we saw a small, light aircraft, possibly a Cessna or something similar. It buzzed along the late pink and blue sky, streaked with liquorice fingers of cloud, heading in a north westerly direction; the same direction we intended to take in order to reach our nearest coastal harbour. The sight of this caused us all to stand. Our unsteady legs held our drunken bodies up long enough for us to salute the plane, and then one by one, we headed back into the flat.

***

I came to on the sofa a few hours later. I'm not sure what the time was, but it was early. I woke quickly anyway; too quickly for someone who had a brain full of whisky and an aching body.

I had been dreaming. I was young, walking through a field of maize towards a scarecrow. He was huge, at least twenty feet high. The scarecrow beckoned me over. As I looked up

into his oily, cloth face, his unblinking eyes made from mismatched buttons looked straight at me and he slowly raised a straw stuffed arm, pointing back in the direction I had just walked. I looked over my shoulder to see the whole field on fire. I could hear faint banging and the voice of a female in distress. I turned back to face the scarecrow, only to realise that
I
was now the scarecrow, watching the field burn that I was supposed to protect.

That's when I woke up. My shoulder felt tight and my mouth was very parched. I heard muffled voices coming from the bathroom and looked around the semi dark lounge. I was alone. There was a thud against the bathroom wall and a male voice saying something harsh in words of one syllable; followed by a slight, female whimper of compliance.

I rolled off the sofa and stood, cracked my knuckles and stretched. I called for Jonny B and Rinko but got no reply. I stopped myself short of calling for Moya, when there was another, louder bang against the bathroom wall and I went to investigate. I could see flickering candle light coming from within the bathroom and slowly pushed the door open to reveal a half naked Rinko being pinned to the wall by a Septic male. He turned his head to mine and let out a terrifying screech before lunging at my face.

I woke up again. This time for real. I caught my breath and grabbed my chest. “
Jesus
,” I muttered to myself and rolled off the sofa. I called for Jonny B and Rinko but got no reply. I stopped myself short of calling for Moya, when there was a loud bang against the bathroom wall and I went to investigate. I could see flickering candle light coming from within the bathroom and slowly pushed the door open to reveal a half naked Rinko being pinned to the wall by Jonny B. They both looked at me, and for a confused couple of seconds, part of my whisky soaked mind told me that I was still dreaming and that I should apologise and close the door. Then I saw the tear tracks on Rinko's cheeks, and the scratch marks on her exposed thigh, and the wild, drunken fanatical glint in Jonny B's eyes. This was no dream. This brief pause was all the time that Rinko needed. She brought her knee up into Jonny B's crotch and, as he doubled over and pulled away from her clutching his balls, she crawled her way along the bathroom wall towards me, where she fell into my arms and sobbed. Jonny B held his groin and spat the words "fucking bitch," and I quickly went from being inebriated
and
hung over at the same time; to being enraged and sickened by the events that must have occurred prior to my opening the door.

What followed is blurred as things happened quickly. I moved Rinko onto the landing and stepped into the bathroom. Jonny B was saying something about how she was begging for it; how she was a slut and a prick tease. I grabbed him by the ear and yanked him out onto the landing. He took a swing at me and I easily stepped out of his range. He fell forward and landed on the banister rail. Rinko slipped down the wall and hugged her knees. Jonny B was saying that Rinko would be sorry and
lurched
towards her. I grabbed him and forcible pushed him back. He threw another punch and connected with the wall. Rinko quickly crawled towards the bedroom behind me as Jonny B came at me again. This time I threw a punch and landed one square on his nose. I heard the bone crack and he staggered backwards. In a raised voice he accused me of wanting her “cute little fanny” all to myself and I told him to keep his damn voice down. We scuffled towards the top of the stairs and ended up rolling down them in a kind of slow motion free fall, until we arrived in the kitchen. I was first to stand and kicked Jonny B repeatedly until he begged me to stop. He said something about not belonging, that three was a crowd, that he'd be better off on his own; to which I quickly decided he was right and dragged him toward the kitchen door. I opened it and threw him out into the early morning light saying "go then." He stumbled down the steps, then turned and said he was sorry. I said it was too late for apologies; we needed to trust each other and he had over stepped the mark. He wanted some supplies, it was only fair, and he had worked just as hard to get them. I tossed half a dozen cans and a couple of bottles of water into a carrier bag and followed him down the steps; then I opened the side gate. Now he wanted a weapon. We stood and looked at each other for several seconds after I passed him Wallace; I closed and locked the gate behind him. With blood oozing from his nose and a final penitent expression, he turned to go. I was absolutely furious with him and would have quite happily left him for the infected, but as he slouched away rubbing his still sore testicles, I put my hands into my pockets and felt the keys to the Jag. I pulled them out. "Jonny?" I called after him, and he turned with an eager gratitude that he might be let back in to the compound. I tossed the keys over the fence and they landed at his feet. Without a word from either of us, he picked them up, jogged up to the Jag and pulled away, swerving the car through the stationary vehicles and driving on the pavement in a southerly direction until he was out of my sight. I locked the kitchen door and went back upstairs to find a still half naked Rinko curled up on my bed, crying. She had a Spyro the Dragon tattoo on the small of her back and two neat Japanese symbols on her right buttock.
She rolled over to look at me and I caught a glimpse of her trimmed, pubic hair.
I felt intrusive; I quickly pulled a blanket over her exposed lower half and sat with her until she fell asleep.

I didn't speak.

I didn't know what to say.

***

I stood at the lounge window, smoked a joint and watched the sun come up. It was going to be another glorious day, not a cloud for miles. I could see a large rabble of infected moving across the school playing fields and a thick pillar of smoke rising up from behind one of the school buildings. Within the black smoke I saw the occasional tongue of bright orange flame, and the image of the scarecrows field came gate crashing into my thoughts.

I admit; I felt a pang of guilt concerning Jonny B, but the scarecrow shook his head and wagged his finger. I turned away from the window. Jonny B had made his choice and sealed his fate when he tried to rape Rinko. He was tough; he would find a way to survive.

Not my problem anymore.

Not my problem...

***

On the morning that followed, Rinko told me that she was washing her self down with cold water and wet wipes when Jonny B came into the bathroom with his dick in his hand; metaphorically speaking. He molested her and groped her. He pushed her against the wall and threatened her; this is about where I came in. Her narrative of the events was detached and unemotional. She accepted that Jonny B was drunk but that did not excuse his actions. She wasn't attracted to him and had not led him on in any way, and the fact that she was naked from the waist down did not give him carte blanche to act as he did. She would not let it upset her anymore. She should have,
and very probably would have,
easily kicked his arse, but was too frightened of the consequences. She had lost her mother to the infection. She had lost her father to the infected. And the whereabouts or condition of her brother was an unknown factor. She would not let a
pigfuckingwanker
like Jonny B get the better of her ever again. She was all cried out and that was that...

We didn't speak of it further.

2.9

Ace of Spades

BALANCING THE CURVE

'There is quite definitely something or

other deranged in my brain...'

Vincent Van Gogh.

We didn't feel the need or have the energy to execute another raid, so we spent the next day from mid morning to well into the evening, sipping our way through a crate of whisky and smoked the last of the weed; which was about half an ounce. By the middle of the afternoon, we were both floating in the happy miasma of a clam bake, oblivious to the horrors outside and telling each other our life stories. We made a kind of stew with some of the tinned goods and the pasta shells, and chomped through this as I asked her where she had learned to fight. She told me that one of her uncles on her mother’s side of the family used to run a successful chain of Kendo and Aikido Dojos before the outbreak, and she and her brother attended both classes from an early age until she was about fifteen. Her academic studies were piling up and her father was adamant that she pass all her school exams, so the Aikido and the Kendo had to be put on hold for the foreseeable future. She missed the buzz of throwing a fifteen stone man around the crash mats when she did Aikido and enjoyed the controlled aggression Kendo taught her.

"My uncle used to say that with Kendo, you are practising the art of war," she said. "And with Aikido, you are practising the art of extreme persuasion." She giggled at this point, and the tip of her nose twitched.

Her family history was very interesting and even her sword had an amazing story. The 19th century table in which it was concealed had belonged to her grandfather and this single piece of furniture was the only thing that survived when the 2011 tsunami demolished the ancestral home in Miyako. How it had been rescued and by whom was a mystery, but it had arrived by courier three months after those terrible images were plastered across the media and to this day, no one knew who had sent it or how it had found its way to the UK.
And now it lay under a ton of asbestos. Very strange how things pan out
, she mused; as she stubbed out one of my six skinners in the overflowing ashtray and stroked ash from the inside of her exposed thigh with exquisitely slender fingers.

Her easy delivery was very relaxing and I found myself wanting her. Angelic and demonic elementals that resembled Jonny B popped up on my shoulders and argued with each other for what seemed like hours, throwing about the whys and wherefores of seducing a young girl with incredibly slim, smooth legs and pert teenage breasts. My stoned thoughts were winning and I excused myself, heading down into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. I stood at the kitchen window and stared at the compound as I drank the tepid liquid, humming The Imperial March.

Was I as bad as Jonny B?

Wanting and taking have two completely different outcomes, I told myself. If she makes the first move, I won't fight it. I won't go down the same route as Jonny B. I won't force myself on her.

Whoever finds this need to know that I didn't.

***

A couple of days later, we went on a bit of a killing spree. I was still angry with Jonny B and Rinko was too, even though she made a good stab at hiding it. Add to that my sexual frustration and her volcanic teenage energy; I needed to split some heads and we both needed the release.

So at first light, we headed west, in the opposite direction to the reserve. The carriageway stretched for a good four miles and was lined on each side with semi detached properties and the occasional narrow strip of

greenery speckled with semi mature trees. Cars were abandoned along the entire route, blocking the road, some burnt out; and the house fronts looked like they had been hit by a hurricane. Front doors lay buckled on their hinges and curtains sagged through broken glass. Until now, I hadn't paid much attention to how many houses were barricaded with whatever the tenant or owner could find; anything from pallets to fencing panels, parts of furniture and internal doors, washing machines, refrigerators and in one case, even a boat! Bodies that had been torn open and left for the crows’ days or even a couple of weeks ago scattered the pavements and gardens as if they had been dropped from above. Limbs were snapped and twisted, faces ripped and ravaged. The air stank of rotting flesh, smoke, and hummed to the sound of a billion flies.

We saw an infected with no arms
lurching
through a thin woodland strip that acted as a shelter belt. He rolled his head to look our way and his badly lacerated scalp flapped against his right cheek like a poorly fitted wig. We ignored him and continued further down the long, flat causeway. We had no destination in mind and were not planning on scavenging for food that day, so we travelled light; I with my spade and the machete; Rinko with her sword and the metal dibber. We had a bottle of water each, but that was it. Our only intention was to thin out the opposition, but as we approached the first major junction about a mile from the flat, we thought we had bitten off more than we could chew.

Blocking our way stood scores, if not hundreds of infected. The result of yet another botched mass evacuation. Coaches lay on their sides; some of these were burnt out too. We were still a couple of hundred metres away, but the terrain was so flat and wide, we could see that the infected reached from as far as the eye could see, left to right. From this distance, it was impossible to tell how deep the swarm was. There were more infected slightly ahead of them, dotting the hardtop and stumbling along the pavements; most looked like they had been infected since the first day of the outbreak. They moved slower than the more recently infected, and had whatever the Septic version of rigormortis was, or some other kind of atrophy. Those that were newly infected could move with at least the same walking speed as when they were not infected. I have never seen an infected run, thank god; but they can still walk pretty damn fast. Their injuries didn't slow them down, either; unless they had damaged legs or no legs at all. A crawling infected may take longer to get to you, but it can still do you major harm.

We changed our tactics and headed north, cutting through a back garden; where we were greeted by a small Septic child of about eight years of age. She stood above the half eaten remains of a large Rottweiler and had a broken pencil sticking out of her left forearm. Her left eye dangled from its socket and the skin around her chin was missing, revealing her lower jaw; obviously bitten off by the dog. I guess; that would have been around the time she had torn his ears off and gouged out one of his eyes with her little, pointy fingers. The front of her clothing was painted red with dark, congealed canine blood. Her injuries were quite fresh and it looked like the dog had put up one hell of a fight. She came at us with arms outstretched, growling and spitting. I batted up my spade and swing the flat side into her face, sending her backwards in a swift, curving arc. Her loose eyeball flew into the air and she landed on a small, brick retaining wall. We heard her spine crack. Rinko took off her head as she hissed and struggled to get back on her feet. I kicked the head away even as the still gnashing teeth tried to bite my boot and we left the garden, coming out onto another suburban street, tightly packed with semi detached council houses. The street had seen a running brawl and the dead lined the tarmac like confetti. We picked our way through the bodies, ran across the road and through a lane that cut between numbers twenty four and twenty six, and came out three roads over from Jonny B's house.

Ahead of us lay a patch of grass about the size of a school soccer pitch; locally, it was known as The Square. On two sides, there was a small rank of shops which included an off license, a hair dressers and a PC repair shop; all had been ransacked. Others were vacant or up for sale; these lay vandalised. A number of battered infected hobbled across the grass, but they had not noticed us. We quickly ducked behind a car that had been so badly torched; its exposed metal work was already beginning to rust.

We catch our breath.

***

We catch our breath.

We ran out from our hiding place and charged the infected on the green.

Infected mondegreen....

There were eight of them; five male, three female. They moved across the grass as if they were looking for something. They slouch and shuffle, dragging their feet and swinging their arms. Most are black with grime. Clothes that were once bright were now blottered with blood, vomit, grass stains, dog faeces and ground up human meat. Their injuries were extensive and horrific; and when they sensed us coming, they activated to our presence, transforming from these aimless creatures into snarling, agitated monsters. They all target me and I manage to keep them at bay whilst Rinko circles to my twelve o'clock and de-legs one of the women. She falls comically to her side and in an amazing move I shall never forget, Rinko brings the sword up in a crescent movement and lops the infected woman’s head off as she falls to the ground. Now the infected group divides its interest, with four coming at me and three chasing Rinko. 

I see Rinko use the metal dibber, punching one of her assailants through the eye before I swing right to left, flat side, forcing the neck of a Septic man to crumple sideways. Then I swing back left to right, cutting edge; and take the top of his head off, sending scalp and infected brain matter into the air. Rinko drops to her knee and below my eye line. I swing back over my head and bring the side of my spade down on the brow of another infected man, fracturing and penetrating the bone. Then step left and back, pulling the spade handle back like an oar, cracking the infected skull open as easy as splitting a log.

I see his face unzip.

My third attacker came at me from the side and I reached for the machete that was hanging from my waist on Moya's chain lead, then forced it up through his neck until it broke through his skull plating and popped out the top of his crown. By the time we were done, all eight infected had lost their head or had their brains scrambled by one means or another.

We catch our breath.

Rinko is breathing deeply and shaking blood from her sword. She looks so damn sexy; I want to eat her myself. I swing the spade up to rest on my shoulder and examine our handy work. The eight bodies lie around us in an almost perfect circle. We feel like superheroes. Invincible. Untouchable.

Though we cannot see each others expressions under our goggles and mouth guards, I know that we are both smiling.

That's when we heard the first helicopter.

We stand motionless, both recognising the sound of rotor blades cutting air. We can't see it though. The sound bounces off the buildings, uninterrupted by other city noises. There
are no
other noises; just the sound of our own breathing, the unseen helicopter, and the bizz-bizz of all the blue bottles feeding off walking, rotting waste. We both scan the sky, hoping to see its outline against the deep blue; but find nothing. The sound fades away into the distance and we stare at each other. I remember shouting "It's about fucking time..."

We catch our breath.

I wipe blood from my protective goggles and flick it off my gloves. Suddenly, another helicopter soars above us. Appearing from behind the rank of shops, the combination of noise and the shock of its arrival forces us to duck, as the solid frame of a Chinook cruises overhead. Its rear hatch is open and the bodies of infected are falling to the ground from the dark interior. Some land hard on the rooftops and roll down the tiles, landing in a broken mess. The aircraft yaws from side to side as the pilot struggles to maintain a straight course. I spot British military insignia on the body work just as it drops and dips behind the row of houses to the south. The engine whines and slowly starts to diminish as the air craft flies further

away. Then we hear the distant rattle of heavy gun fire as the Chinook is shot down by one of its own, followed by a huge, mesmerising mushroom of black smoke.

We catch our breath.

Silence.

We stand as statues, waiting; frightened to even move our eye lids in case we miss something. The
frup-frup-frup
of a crow breaks my concentration. To the south, over Rinko's shoulder, through my blood smeared goggles I see an infected exit a front garden. Then, further down the road another.

And another.

And
another
.

I remove my goggles and blink salty sweat from my eyes and wipe condensation from the protective plastic. Above the interminable drone of the infected moaning, I can hear another helicopter getting closer and the sound of its front mounted cannon,
ploughing the road
. Rinko points over my shoulder and I turn just in time to catch a Septic female from the corner of my eye. Rinko quickly moves to its side and bringing her sword down in a curving, slicing motion, she cuts through her soft shoulder meat and drags the sword clean down through her rib cage until it reaches her diaphragm, carving the woman in half. The woman jerks and I feel warm, wet splashes hit my face. I remove one of my gloves and wipe it away as quickly as it hits me, my logic centre going mental. 

What just happened?

Rinko stares at me in apologetic shock as I pick blood from my eye with my little finger nail. More infected are approaching from the north and by the time I turn back to face south, there must have been at least two hundred and fifty infected spilling out on to The Square from the direction of the causeway; it was as if they almost knew what was coming.

An Apache gunship rises up from behind the houses and spews bullets into the mass of Septix; and I realise, with startling clarity, that we could get mistaken for one of these creatures and end up getting shot. So I grab Rinko by the arm and we start to run. I don't think I have ever run so fast. We jumped onto parked cars and ran along their rooftops to avoid the sheer numbers that were appearing from every direction, attracted to the sound of the rotors blades beating the air, probably in much the same way that sharks are attracted to swimmers. They were coming out of houses and gardens. In some places there were so many, they were shoulder to shoulder. I slip on the roof of a green saloon, fall head long and end up crashing shoulder first into the rear window of a Volvo. I cut my face and my left shoulder takes the full weight of my fall. Rinko pulls me off the car, shouting at me in Japanese. We fight our way through a dozen or more before we hit the main road. We see Jonny B's abandoned car and ran down the hill towards the flat with a troupe of infected on our tails. I think that was the moment I was most scared. So close to home; one of us could trip and never make it back. We’d hit the road face first like my mother and Blue Corso Man and that would be that. My shoulder is killing me again; and Rinko looks like she is about to have a heart attack.