Blood Crazy (11 page)

We followed him upstairs into what would have been the manager's office. Its mirror windows looked out across the hangar-size store, beds and furniture stretching to the distant doors. Children and teenagers buzzed up and down the aisles each with their own task – none slacked.

‘Excuse me a moment.' Dave picked up a microphone. His voice rolled across the place like God's own. ‘Rebecca Keene. Rebecca Keene and Martin Del-Coffey to the office, please. Oh, and can I have everyone's attention? Will all those handling barbed wire remember they must wear gloves. Thank you.' He swivelled back to smile at us. ‘Right, I'll introduce you to the Steering Committee.'

Steering Committee. By that I guessed he meant ‘bosses.'

Sarah caught my eye. Just a bit, she raised her eyebrows. If we weren't running for our lives she'd have found this amusing.

Me? Me, I'd have laughed my frigging socks off.

Then Dave Middleton went into detail. He listed the vehicles, food and bottled water reserves, medicines, the group's objectives. He even had something called a mission statement he'd written in blue and red and pinned to the wall. As he talked a bony girl in a blue headscarf joined us, very sober faced. Another holy roller, I decided. This was Rebecca Keene. Then came a sixteen-year-old with wispy blond hair and a high forehead. His untied laces trailed along the floor. This was the steering committee.

‘I must confess.' Dave smiled. ‘We're self-appointed. Once we're settled we'll hold elections so everyone can decide who will be in charge. Rebecca and I have experience of leading youth groups through our work at St Timothy's. Martin Del-Coffey here is our resident genius. You might have seen features on him in the local newspaper. He has the highest recorded IQ for his age in the area covered by Doncaster's Education Authority.'

Bully for him. I'd have said that a week ago. Not now though. My cockiness had been yanked out. I nodded politely.

Rebecca spoke in a schoolmistress voice. ‘It's individuals of Martin's calibre who will restore our society to what it was before.'

‘Only better.' Martin did not smile. He was there for brains not for charm.

‘Excuse me.' Dave spoke into the PA. ‘Alpha team. Alpha team. Lunchbreak. Remember to be out of the canteen by twelve. We've lots of work to get through today.'

On the shop floor I saw a third of the kids stop whatever they were doing and head for a doorway at the back of the store.

The steering committee questioned us and I realised we were being assessed. If we didn't reach a certain mark were we out the door?

At one point a boy of about eleven tapped on the door and gave some kind of report. ‘We've done the circuit, Dave.'

‘Anything?'

‘Mr Creosote in a house on Briar Lane.'

‘How many?'

‘Just the one, Dave. There's something wrong with his leg. He can't walk right.'

‘Well done, Robert. Get some lunch. After that check the river banks as far as Camel's.'

Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘Mr Creosote?'

Rebecca said, ‘It's a generic name for the affected adults. A girl used the name Mr Creosote to describe one of the adults that had become ill. The younger ones carried on using the name. It stuck. Now the mentally ill adults have become Mr and Mrs Creosote.'

‘It's a way of sugar coating a very bitter pill, Miss Hayes.' Martin leaned back picking his fingernails. ‘It frightens the children to say we're being hounded by a million madmen. Mr Creosote doesn't sound completely sinister, does it now?'

A week ago I'd have wanted to slap the arrogant egghead. I nodded meekly.

‘From what we've seen adults are the only ones affected.' Sarah, brisk, still hunted answers. ‘They attacked their own children – if they have no children they attack anyone under the age of twenty.'

‘Nineteen.' Martin found his fingernails fascinating. ‘We've not
found anyone nineteen or older who is sane. We've not encountered anyone insane under that age. Whatever attacked their minds was brutally selective.'

Sarah leaned forward bunching her fists on her knees. ‘But what caused it?'

‘That, Miss Hayes, is what I intend to find out.'

Dave said, ‘Martin is excused normal duties. He's been assigned to research. It's his job to track down the cause.'

‘From what I can determine so far,' Martin said, ‘the condition is similar to the mental illness schizophrenia.'

‘I've heard of it,' said Sarah. ‘It's curable.'

‘Yes, in most cases it can be treated with drugs. But I said
similar
to schizophrenia. Not the same. Many of the symptoms are present. Paranoia and delusions. Mr and Mrs Creosote seem to be actually afraid of their children – perhaps when they see us they don't see their sons and daughters but disgusting, frightening monsters that they feel compelled to destroy before we destroy them. Also you'll have noticed their intellect has been top sliced, rendering them subhuman. They no longer drive cars, live in houses, or use tools.'

Dave added: ‘We've seen bizarre patterns in their behaviour. Have you?'

I told them about the mass migration south I'd seen on the motorway.

‘We've seen them laying out bottles,' Dave said, ‘cans, even jewellery in patterns in car parks and fields. Patterns that although intricate are just … just—'

‘Just plain potty.' For the first time Martin sounded interested in the conversation. ‘It suggests that these patterns have purpose and are very, very important to Mr and Mrs Creosote.' He smiled. ‘Consequently it appears that Mr Creosote is attempting to communicate with someone.'

‘Who?'

Martin raised his eyes. ‘Someone up there.'

We talked more, then Dave leaned forward. ‘Sarah. Nick. The question is, would you like to join our community?'

What else could we say?

We said it together. ‘Yes. Thank you.'

‘If you would just fill in these, please.' Rebecca handed us a sheet of paper. ‘It's a short questionnaire. It's important we know something about you and what talents you possess so we can use you most effectively within the community.'

Dave Middleton had re-created a slice of civilization in a furniture store in the middle of madland. I knew then I'd hate having to conform and follow the orders of a smarmy church boy.

But I had answered his question truthfully when we first met.

Yes, I wanted to live. So far, Dave Middleton's way was the only way.

Rebecca gave me my orders. The following day I found myself using a forklift truck to stack cases of beans in the warehouse. Kids of all ages, degutted by terror, worked like robots. I watched a sixteen-year-old hooligan with home-made tattoos cry his eyes out when Rebecca told him he wasn't working hard enough. Poor bastard had been working his bollocks off.

‘Hi, Nick.' Sarah smiled brightly.

‘Long time no see. Sleep well?'

‘Fine, thanks. Sorry, can't stop. Too busy.' She showed me the clipboard. ‘I've been promoted to admin. Bye.'

I watched her go, blonde pony tail swinging sexily.

PING! Miss Keene's voice over the PA: ‘Beta team. Beta team. Break time. Recommence work 10.30.'

‘Hey, mate,' I called to the red-eyed hooligan. ‘Which team have they put you in?'

‘Alpha.'

‘I'm Gamma. Are those Latin letters or names of atoms or what?'

He was too scared to reply. He worked harder.

As I shifted baked beans by the ton I kept an eye on the to-ing and fro-ing. More survivors joined the community. Most were brought in by the boys who patrolled the area on bikes. One
fifteen-year-old girl had to be carried in, her face a bruised lump set with two staring eyes.

Later, two teenagers ran into the compound. One had shit himself.

They were taken for drinks and the regulation questionnaire. The steering committee were building an empire.

PING! ‘Gamma team. Break time. Gamma team.'

On the way to the canteen I saw Mr Genius Del-Coffey in his office. He lay back in a chair, feet on the desk, shoe laces hanging down. Piles of books, laptop computers. An Asian girl of about sixteen was reading to him from a book called
Psychology Today
. The door was wide open.

Basically he was wanking off. And he wanted everyone to see.

The canteen was full of kids drinking coke, but hardly anyone spoke. I found myself reading the staff club's fixture lists for football and table tennis. Teams of men and women who were either dead or mad by now.

PING! ‘Nick Aten to the delivery bay, please.'

In
Mash
the medics were interrupted in their high jinks by the speakers announcing ‘Incoming wounded.' I got incoming self-raising flour.

I got there as Dave Middleton was legging up and down organizing kids to stack bagged potatoes.

‘Not in the dump bins, Katrina. Over by the doors – they need to be well ventilated. Hi, Nick. Sorry to have to buzz you down. We need to get the flour off the truck quick. Now, Sarah, can you make a note of—'

Before I got a chance to reach the forklift a boy skidded his mountain bike in through the warehouse doors. He was panting hard.

‘Dave … It's Mr Creosote. He's back!'

The name Mr Creosote killed Dave's
Joy to the World
smile. He slapped the clipboard against his leg. But he didn't swear.

‘Where?'

‘Down by the river footbridge.'

‘How many?'

‘Nine. They're just hanging around.'

Dave turned to me. ‘You see, it's always the same pattern. They flock like birds. A couple arrive. Then one more. Then another three. A couple of hours later there's a hundred. Only when there's a certain number, a – a kind of critical mass, do they move in.'

He seemed to be working it through for his own benefit so I just nodded as he talked.

‘Same routine as last time, Dave?' asked the boy.

‘Let's not be hasty. They might disperse. We can't keep running every time we see Mr Creosote. John, go back and keep an eye on the bridge. Report back every fifteen minutes. Straight away if they start moving. Nick … There's a path down to the river bank back there. I need you to go and keep an eye on the road on the far side of the river.'

Dave disappeared to push the gang working on the barbed wire stockade around the store. We were building a fortress.

The situation wasn't dangerous at the moment. But my stomach tensed. When Mr and Mrs Creosote decided to move, they moved fast. I'd have been happier getting Sarah and her sisters into the car and ready to shift if we had to.

Nevertheless, I cut down the path to the river.

The River Don was wide and deep there. It was unlikely they'd swim across. Mr Creosote would walk the extra half mile down stream to the bridge then cross there.

And there they were. Walking out of town, on the other side of the river, were the insane population of Doncaster.

I found myself looking at each face. I was looking for mum and dad.

Among the strangers, I did see some adults I knew. The guy who had the florist's at the end of Lawn Avenue. The fat lady who worked in a town centre café. A bouncer from Trixies. I recognised them but whatever weird mind occupied their heads had altered the expressions on their faces. It pulled the muscles tight round their eyes so they scowled, like a stone in their shoe irritated them.

They passed by, not looking across the river in my direction. I saw a cop with his face burnt down one side – it didn't seem to bother him. He flowed by like the rest, eyes locked on something invisible above the heads in front of him.

A few carried things on poles. I looked away.

In the river a dead boy drifted by, white ribbons streaming out of his stomach to float in the water behind him.

I turned my back on all this shit and rubbed my face.

The mad people of Doncaster were coming to get us too. The Steering Committee's barbed wire would not save us. The lunatics would roll over that like flood water.

‘Piss off … Why don't you just fuck off and leave us alone!' Before I knew what I was doing I was shouting and pitching stones at the mad bastards. A useless and loony thing to do. But I had to do something. I couldn't take all this shit, shrug my shoulders and say ‘Oh dear.'

Mr and Mrs Creosote took no notice. They walked on. The stones I threw fell short, splashing into the water.

Ten minutes later a boy on a bike pedalled down like Lucifer himself wanted to chew on his left bollock.

‘Get yourself back up here … We're moving out.'

Rebecca and Dave were efficient organisers. Within half an hour we were ready to hit the road.

Sarah, holding Vicki and Anne's hands, followed me across to the Shogun.

‘Is this what it's going to be like, Nick? Squatting somewhere for a few days, then those things forcing us to move on?'

All along the convoy of trucks, buses and Land-Rovers, engines were bellowing. Blue smoke swirled around us.

‘Nick.' Dave ran up, carrying a clipboard. ‘I've got you travelling with Jo over there in the yellow mini-bus. Sarah's riding in the bus up front with her sisters.'

‘I've got the car. It's got a full tank.'

‘It's too small. It's a waste of resources. Girls, hop out of the car and get on the bus up front. We've got to—'

I held Dave's arm. It felt as thin as a stick. ‘Dave. I'm taking my car. The girls ride with me.'

He was going to – not argue with me – reason with me, but time was running out. Family Creosote was swarming over the footbridge.

‘Okay, okay. We'll talk about it later … Jo, stick close this time. Don't hang too far back.' He went back to talk to the mini-bus driver as I climbed into the Shogun and crashed the door shut.