Class Four: Those Who Survive (4 page)

Home Comforts – Part Two

I’d only heard the word
zombie
before on the television shows or films that we used to watch. Never really liked horror films; don’t like all that blood and gore. I seem to be so scared of real life that Donald said it would be silly of me to watch something which would do the same thing.

A few days had passed since Donald had been attacked. His leg was still sore, so he told me. We had discussed driving home, but I’d only taken a few lessons, back before we met, so I wasn’t comfortable with driving all that way, and neither was Donald.

Donald had started to work his way through the drinks cabinet by then. His mood had gotten dark, like he was prone to from time to time. He said that it helped numb the pain from his leg, but when he was drinking the cooking sherry in the second week, I knew that he had just fallen back into old habits.

The cottage had enough food for a few weeks; the owners always made sure that it was well stocked. With the regular power cuts they experienced out there in the middle of nowhere, we had those cartons of UHT milk for tea. It wasn’t too bad. Plus, the news channels were now telling people to stay put if they could, and if not, to make for the nearest safe zones that were being set up.

Donald said that it would be pointless to make a move to our closest safe zone as it was too far away. That was in the early days when he was on the whiskey.

That was the worst. That stuff always made his mood darker. There were days where I didn’t dare be in the same room for too long, not unless he was shouting for food or for more bandages for his foot.

I remember when the news stopped. Day sixteen, just like the amount of years we’ve been married for I thought. We had just had breakfast, dry crackers I think it was. The news channel now was just a couple of people, more or less repeating the same information over and over again. We had put the television on mute by then. It was becoming boring listening to it and Donald said it made his head hurt even more.

So we were watching, and it just went off, like a switch had been tripped. Nothing but blackness. Donald tried going through the other channels and aside from some show about a man fighting food, or something, there was nothing else on. He muttered some more, and got back to his drinking.

I had to tell him a day or so later that we needed to go out soon, as we didn’t have much food left. I never ate much anyway, especially after that time with the hospital, when, you know, oh of course, you don’t. Well let’s just say that something stopped working.

Women’s things.

Sorry.

Donald was only eating in the mornings now, and sometimes at night, but even then it was just some pasta with tomato ketchup on. He said that the pain made him not want to eat. He said his ankle was better, but it still caused him trouble. Helping him get to the toilet was becoming nigh on impossible, so he told me to find a bucket, and he just did his business in the living room.

Hmm? Yes, I did have to. Usually only once a day, but sometimes, it was two or three times. Almost like looking after a child I suppose, though we never had children.

Well, because of…you know.

Those women’s things I mentioned.

Day twenty two. That was when the food ran out. Always prided myself on being able to cook on a budget; had to since we got together. Donald used to give me a weekly allowance which included all the food for both of us, so I had to make it last.

I never worked, not after we got married, Donald said it wasn’t befitting of a woman, that I was his princess and deserved to stay at home and keep the place all nice for him.

For us.

Sorry.

I crept in that morning. The sherry had gone. I knew the cabinet would be bare, so thought that he might be having one of his…migraines. I saw he had done his ablutions already. He was asleep. As I got near, he stirred, and an empty bottle of mouthwash fell out from his cardigan.

Poor Donald. Never was able to stop once he got the taste of it. Well, there was that one time, where he had to go away for a few weeks, but we don’t like to talk about that.

Hmm? Where did he get the mouthwash from? Hmm. I don’t know; never thought about it really. It would’ve been in the bathroom cabinet upstairs.

You don’t think?

No.

He wouldn’t, he could barely move.

He couldn’t have got it. I must’ve brought it downstairs for some reason.

As I snuck away carrying the bucket with the…you know, in, he stirred, asking me what I was doing. I told him that I was just going to tidy up. He grunted and started to nod off. I knew there would be no better time, so I said that we needed to go somewhere and find food, that if we stayed there much longer, we were going to go hungry.

He nodded, said we had to get out of the cottage, find some more supplies. Said his ankle was much better. I had tried to change the dressing over the past week, but he didn’t let me. It did smell funny.

Like marzipan.

There was a little village shop about five miles away. I cleaned him up the best I could, but he still couldn’t walk properly. I loaded our cases in the car, and Donald got in the driver’s seat. Ten minutes later, and after trying to put the gearstick into number one, he got out and said that I’d have to do it.

I wasn’t very happy about it, but smiled and said I would give it a go. Took a bit of doing, but I managed to get us moving. Donald said to keep us slow. There was no one around at all, so I didn’t get beeped once, which was a relief. Wouldn’t want to be holding people up.

We drove into the village, and it was like something off the television. There were a few cars around, just left in the middle of the road. Some had their doors open and there were these, erm, trails leading off. I thought it was blood, but Donald said to not look and keep on driving.

One of the cars we went by had a couple of people in. They looked like the gentleman that had attacked Donald; he stared at them as we drove past, and he looked angry, but also a little afraid. They were pawing at the glass like a puppy locked in a car on a hot day.

That was silly of me too, wasn’t it?

We finally got to the little shop. Well, it had a post office inside, too. Something for everyone. It looked quite dark inside, so I parked up, though I did stall the car whilst doing so. Donald didn’t even seem to notice. He was breathing heavier. I had to prod him to tell him that we had arrived, and he jolted like he’d been stung. He always preferred touching me rather than the other way round.

I opened the car door for him and I helped carry him towards the shop. I tried the handle and was relieved when I found it wasn’t locked. I pushed the door open and we walked into the gloom.

Home Comforts – Part Three

The shop was in a frightful state; there were bits and pieces strewn all over the place. I rested Donald on a stool which was behind the counter, just by the entrance. Donald said, well,
panted
, that I should close the door. He didn’t look very well at all; I wondered if I should’ve just left him at the cottage and gone on my own. He wouldn’t have liked that though.

No.

I closed the door and said that I’d have a look around, but I don’t think he even heard me. Thought there wouldn’t be much left. Luckily for us, though, as Middle Hazeltree is so out of the way, most people hadn’t had a chance to strip it bare. I was filling up a basket rather nicely. Looked like there had been a struggle of some kind, like a rocket had gone off.

The back of the shop opened up to a flight of stairs and a door. Looking through the window with that criss-cross wire glass, I saw it led to a storage space out back. I could see big boxes of Cheese and Onion crisps on some shelves. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was curious what was upstairs. I stuck to the edge of the stairs; learnt that from…well, anyway, managed to get to the top without making a peep.

Up there was a little two bed flat. I had a check in each room, but there was no-one there. It looked like whoever lived there had left in a hurry, as there were clothes on the floor of one of the bedrooms, and the picture frames were empty.

I looked out of the window, and thought how wonderfully quiet it all was. There were no cars, no alarms, not even a bird in the sky. I closed my eyes, just for a moment. And then…then…and then I heard a loud thud and a whimper; it sounded almost pathetic.

I dropped the basket on the floor. It sounded so loud. I stood at the top of the stairs and called down to Donald, but I didn’t hear anything except a mewling, just like the puppy made when he was lying on the policeman’s coat.

You know, after they broke the car window.

Hmm. Poor thing.

Anyway, I made my way downstairs, stuck to the edge of the stairs again, needed to be really careful. The mewling was getting louder. There were these smaller thuds as things bounced onto a hard floor. Crashes of glass. I got to the bottom and peered into the shop, to see if Donald was okay. I couldn’t see his silhouette by the counter.

I was getting scared now. I heard the sound again and it was coming from behind me, in the store room. I was sure the door had been closed, but there it was, wide open.

Silly me, must’ve opened it earlier and not even remembered.

I took off my shoes and tiptoed really quietly into the room. A light was flickering on and off, like it was a candle. And that’s when I saw him.

He must’ve been trying to reach the box of Bell’s Whiskey from the top shelf. The silly so and so didn’t pull it right and as he tried to get the box down he pulled too hard and a crate of Newcastle Brown Ale had landed on his head.

Oohh, it was terrible; there was blood everywhere. He was sort of kneeling against the shelving unit. The crate had bounced off his head and landed on the back of his legs, pinning him to the ground. I could see his bandage was bulging from his ankle, and this thick black goo was coming out.

I did chuckle, as to one side lay the box of whiskey. Looks like that had been the final straw as it was all smashed on the ground, and he was looking at me, like he was drunk.

You know, like the night we met.

He had this big cut on the top of his head and one of his hands was trying to feel where it was. Ha, you should’ve seen it. He was patting his head and it kept slapping against the wound and this blood would fly up into the air. The only thing missing was him rubbing his tummy.

Awww. He looked so silly.

By now, he must’ve worked out I was there, but his breathing was becoming more shallow. He stopped patting his head and just looked at me. His mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I moved closer and could see that it was an effort for him to breathe now. I tried to move the crate off his legs, but it just made him worse.

He beckoned me with a finger covered in blood. It nearly made me retch. You know I don’t like blood and gore. So I get closer, and he looks at me, well, tries to. He managed to get three words out: “You. Silly. Cow.”

And then he sort of shook, his eyes went up and his head fell down against the shelf with this sort of wet slap. I remember that noise. I’ll never forget that noise. Heard it before. Hope I don’t get to hear it again. Well I did recently, though, didn’t I, Steve? Hmm, guess that’s why I’m here.

I just knelt there for a bit. I felt lost without my Donald. I remembered how I felt when Princess Diana, God bless her soul, went, and I closed my eyes really tight and I prayed to God.

The strangest thing happened.

All those years, when…when I was silly, and Donald had to show me that I was silly, all those years I prayed that I would stop being so silly and Donald would be like he used to, and
He
never listened. Not once.

But this time, he did. I heard a little moan.

Barely believing my luck, I opened my eyes and there he was. My Donald. Alive again. His eyes were like the gentleman’s we had seen, but I didn’t mind, he was my Donald.

He would be like he was.

Better.

The man he used to be.

I knew what he was, though; I’m not
that
silly. But I knew that I could look after him properly now. I would be his princess and keep the place nice for him. Just like I promised I would that day, in front of all of our friends and family.

You know, in the church.

And the hospital.

That one time.

So, I locked the door to the store room, found the keys to the front door and locked them up good, too. Pulled the blinds down and made the place all nice for him.

For us.

Sorry.

It was all so perfect until
they
turned up. Until
they
came along and took my Donald from me. We were just fine. Why did they do that to me?

To us.

Sorry.

Chapter Four

Steve placed a conciliatory hand on Sylvia’s shoulder as she finished speaking. She closed her eyes and leant in, nuzzling it against her neck. “Thank you, Sylvia, that was beautiful. I really think we got a window into your life today, I want—”

“Yeah right, that her husband was a complete and total wanker to her,” Anton snorted, his harsh features bristled. Steve looked across and peered down the rim of his glasses at him. Anton held his hands up in deference.

“Well, fuck-a-doodle-doo, that was magical Steve. Don’t mind me if I don’t come back again,” Dee cooed. Steve slowly retracted his hand from Sylvia’s shoulder; she remained motionless, lost in the physicality, stroking her inner arm.

Steve walked back to his chair, but remained standing, hands across his chest, the notebook held tight to his bosom.

A strange smile birthed across his face. “Okay people, let’s get one thing straight. This meeting is not voluntary. You
will
be here, each and every goddamn fucking week until I get told that it’s not required. And you know what? I get the distinct impression that I’ll be doing this until those walking bags of shit and guts break down the fucking fence and eat every one of you sorry sons of bitches.”

Dee realised her mouth was open the same shape as a Cheerio. “Erm, you fucki—” she began to say. The notebook flew through the air and slapped firmly against the side of her face, silencing her. She was left trembling at the sudden spike in violence. Where the pen and binder had caught her eyebrow, a small trickle of blood ran down her face. She made no attempt to staunch the flow.

Steve removed his glasses slowly, rubbing a lens with the bottom of his t-shirt again. “You think you’re so fucking important, huh? Well, you’re not, that’s why you’re here. Why you’re
all
here. You are a liability to this entire camp. You’ve all done things which necessitates you being here. With me. And I want you to know that I wish you weren’t. You think I don’t have better things to do than nursemaid a bunch of gimps?”

Steve peered through the lens. “Finally, looks like I’m not in stage one of Macular degeneration.” He slid the glasses back on and walked over to Dee. As he bent down to retrieve his notebook, he shot her a look that told her what would happen if she were to speak right now. He nodded and smiled.

“Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. Just…I didn’t want to go back to doing what I did before the dead started walking again. I was done with it. I’ve got my own baggage to deal with. But, of course,
he
asked me to, and if The Gaffer asks, well, you all know you don’t get a say in the matter,” Steve said solemnly. He walked and stood behind his chair before casting a glance at his wristwatch.

He looked back up quickly, beaming. “Wow, good session today guys, really well done. I’m glad we all know each other now; even in a camp this size, you never truly know anyone, eh? We’re done just in time for us to all head over to the floor for the public Remedial session.

“Shall we?” With that, Steve bowed his head and held his arm out to the door. The group started to stand from their chairs. As they filed out of the room, Steve called out, “See you all next week.”