The Undead Day Twenty (27 page)

‘Eh? What you on about? We couldn’t go outside could we?’

‘What about the baby horse you got? Where did that come from?’

‘That was later. I ain’t arguing with you, son…’

‘Don’t call me son. Where did the baby horse come from?’

‘I want to talk with an officer. Someone in charge. This is out of order this is. We been cooped for twenty days waiting and you turn up being aggressive and…’

‘Did you go outside to get the baby horse?’

‘FOAL. It’s a foal not a baby horse. I want whoever is in charge. This is outrageous. This is my business. I own it…’

‘Okay, fair enough,’ Howie says, ‘but did you go outside to get the baby horse?’

‘This is preposterous…’

‘Ah because like, if you went outside to get the baby horse then you could have gone outside to let the other horses out of their FUCKING STABLES…’

‘Right. You,’ Frank says, ignoring Howie and pointing at Clarence. ‘Get me someone in charge.’

Clarence stares back. Paula stares back. Everyone stares back at him, showing no reaction, unsmiling, unmoving and Frank fails to read the danger signs.

Instead, Frank glowers and seethes with righteous fury. He has spent twenty days not being able to consume his ten thousand calories a day that he needs
just to survive
. He’s been cooped up seeing his profits being eaten by greedy survivors. He’s spent that time rationing them, controlling what they eat, drink and do and only when
he
got hungry did he send two go out to grab the foal from the field to bring in for slaughter. Horses are profit to Frank. Horse people have money, they buy horse things, equipment, feed and clothing. They go to horse shows and pay money in his café and bar. His temper flashes. He sees the army in front of him. Men and women in uniform with army vehicles. This is Britain. This is a country with order and discipline. He is a business owner. He pays his taxes, sometimes, and he will demand for a senior official to be brought here. He looks round and spots Charlie. A young woman who even with a cut down her face still looks polite and educated. He steps towards her with his hand out waggling a finger at her face.

‘Get me an officer right now. I will not stand for this. I want someone in charge. We have barely survived here…I will not be treated like this…’

Charlie stares at him. At the way he rages and the spittle flying from his lips. He stinks too. She can smell him. He stinks of stale body odour and filth. She spots that even while he plays his outraged sense of entitlement out his eyes still stare down to her chest. As she notices that movement so she becomes aware of his fat filthy finger waggling at her. Jabbing the air in front as he shouts and makes demands while horses lie dead from thirst and starvation not a stones throw away.

She breaks his finger.

‘Holy fuck,’ Cookey mumbles, stunned at the sight of her hand lashing out to grab and twist as the air fills with the dull crack of bone. The blood drains from Frank’s face as he falls to instant silence.

‘I make no apology to you,’ Charlie says curtly, ‘you let horses die.’ She walks off towards the Saxon as Frank stares at his finger now pointing the wrong way. He gibbers with his mouth opening and closing.

‘Mo, get that Saxon backed up,’ Howie says.

‘You…’ Frank says, gasping the word out.

The Saxon starts up as Mo pulls out wide to reverse back towards the building Charlie pointed out.

‘But…my…’ Frank gibbers.

The Saxon stops. Clarence drags a chain out and with Nick’s help gets a hook wedged into the door. A shout from Nick. The Saxon pulls away slowly. The chain goes taut, a wrench and a dull clang sees the door pulled from the frame.

‘Whoa,’ Nick shouts, ‘that’s it.’

‘My finger…’

‘You had that coming,’ Clarence tells him, putting the chain back in the Saxon.

‘But…’

‘Blowers, Maddox,’ Howie says, ‘go down and see what the state is inside that building. Tell them to head for the fort.’

‘Sir,’ Blowers says, motioning for Maddox to go with him.

‘Roy, you go with them in case they need a medic,’ Howie adds.

‘I’m not a doctor,’ Roy grumbles, climbing down from his van.

‘I need a medic,’ Frank says weakly.

‘You don’t get a medic,’ Howie says.

‘But…’

‘Charlie, get what you need.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘But…that’s mine,’ Frank says, staring in horror at his finger then staring in more horror at his expensive tack store now wide open.

‘Requisitioned for the war effort,’ Paula says, following Charlie inside the building.

‘It’ll need re-setting,’ Roy says, walking past Frank with his red medic’s bag over one shoulder.

‘Huh?’ Frank gibbers.

‘The finger,’ Roy says, turning to walk backwards, ‘you’ll need to re-set it. Want me to do it now?’

‘Huh?’

Roy stops going backwards then starts going forwards towards Frank. ‘Your finger,’ he says, nodding at Frank’s hand still held up in the same position it was when Charlie grabbed it.

‘Huh?’ Frank says, staring at his hand.

‘Can’t leave it like that,’ Roy tells him.

‘But…’

‘Just put it back in…grab it and push down…’

‘But…’

‘Are you deaf?’

‘Deaf?’

‘Just stupid clearly, right, stand still,’ Roy says, dropping his medic’s bag and reaching out to Frank who jerks his hand away in fright. ‘Up to you, leave it like that and infection will set in, gangrene will spread up your arm…you’ll turn green and die in a week.’

‘Die?’

‘Slowly,’ Roy tells him in a serious manner.

‘Slowly?’

‘It won’t hurt,’ Roy says kindly, motioning for Frank to give him his hand. ‘Come on, best get it done now. I’ll just grab it and pull down okay? You’ll hear a crack but that’s fine…ready?’

‘No,’ Frank mumbles, watching Roy grab his broken finger.

‘One…two…’ A twist. A yank. Another dull crack.

‘OH MY GOD.’

‘All done,’ Roy says, watching Frank stagger back. ‘Get it splinted…and don’t leave horses locked in stables again.’ He grabs his medic bag and strolls on behind Blowers and Maddox.

‘Wow,’ Howie says, walking into the shop to stare round at the packed shelves, clothes rails, saddles on the wall, boots, whips, chains, ropes, leather things and shiny black things. He spots Charlie by the saddles talking quietly to Paula. ‘You okay?’

‘I am so sorry,’ Charlie says quickly, turning to look at him with genuine remorse showing. ‘I will of course apologise to…’

‘Will you fuck,’ Howie says.

‘Fuck who?’ Marcy asks, walking into the shop and stopping dead with a wince. ‘I can’t believe I just said that. I didn’t mean it like…wow, that is so cool,’ she picks up a riding crop to swish through the air. ‘I’m keeping this…’ she says to Howie.

‘Dirty cow,’ Paula laughs.

‘Charlie should have one for when Cookey gets out of line,’ Marcy says, swishing it side to side.

‘I’m never out of line,’ Cookey says, walking in after Clarence. ‘What the…’ he stops to look round, showing the same reaction as Howie and Marcy at the things on display. ‘S’like a bondage club…Nick? You got to see this…’

‘Oh Christ,’ Paula groans, ‘it’s too hot for this.’

*

‘That was wrong.’

‘Shut up.’

‘We’re armed.’ Maddox tuts and shakes his head, ‘a soldier would be court martialled for that.’

Blowers purses his lips and walks on towards the door into the hangar building. It was wrong but then it was right. The bloke had it coming but soldiers don’t break fingers. Soldiers show discipline in the face of provocation by unarmed non-combatants.

‘Focus on this,’ Blowers says instead.

‘Do the right thing yeah?’ Maddox asks.

‘We need to focus. Switch on…’ he gets to the door first and goes through to an inner hallway stinking of burnt meat, stale body odour, cigarette smoke and alcohol. Signs on the wall welcome visitors and urge them to
take a look at our great menu
. Posters of upcoming events, dressage and jumping shows, winners of past events and all manner of stained peeling old sheets of paper pinned up to be left for years.

‘Are we breaking fingers, Corporal?’ Maddox asks politely, following Blowers down to the set of double doors.

Blowers pushes through to a long room filled with chairs and tables. An old style counter on one side with an empty hot-food cabinet and equally empty baskets that once held snack food. Food wrappers and drink cans litter the tables. Ashtrays filled and more butts on the floor. Stains on the table tops, the air stinks. The curtains drawn too giving the room a gloomy ambience.

‘Will I be court martialled if I don’t break fingers?’

‘Fuck off, Maddox.’

The wall on the left is set to windows overlooking the large open sand school that has the appearance of a very old football pitch bordered by faded boards advertising local goods, produce and garage services. They see the people in the middle, gathered together as they wait for Frank to come back. Chairs and sofas in the middle of the sand ranged round an open fire pit and the air stinks of burnt meat.

Blowers goes through the door at the end to see one side has been set apart for people to watch the sand school. Wooden bench seats bolted to the ground now covered with more litter, food wrappers, clothes, empty cans and bottles of beer. It looks filthy, unclean and uncared for.

The people turn to look over, instantly falling silent at the sight of the two armed men walking towards them through an opening in the side panel. Blowers counts heads, getting to eighteen with a mixture of men, women and children. They all look as filthy as Frank too which he struggles to understand. There must be running water here.

‘Hi,’ Blowers calls out, coming to a stop a few metres away. ‘We’re with Mr Howie…’ he pauses to wait for reaction. None shows.

‘Not as famous as he thinks,’ Maddox mutters. ‘Hi, my name is Maddox. This is Simon. We’re not the army or the government but we’re not here to hurt you,’ the charm comes instant and easy. The big smile Maddox reserves for special use only. His tone carefully delivered that immediately starts putting people at rest. Blowers hides the irritation and goes to speak but Maddox carries on quickly.

‘We’re from Fort Spitbank? Have you heard of it?’ Maddox asks, smiling at a few of the adults nodding. ‘On the coast. Not that far from here, it’s a safe place. You should head there…we just stopped for equipment and so one of our people could break Frank’s…’

‘Maddox,’ Blowers cuts in, glaring at him. ‘Is anyone hurt? We’ve got a medic if…’

‘Broken fingers?’ Maddox asks.

‘Blowers?’ Roy calls out, spotting them through the windows from the café area. He heads for the door and comes through into the sand school. ‘Anyone hurt?’

‘They seem okay,’ Maddox says, ‘can’t see any broken fingers anyway.’

‘I’ve re-set it,’ Roy says, either ignoring or ignorant to the meaning of the comment. ‘Right, what have we got here? Anyone hurt? Any illnesses? You all look terrible…have you been outside? You need vitamins and sunshine. Good God the stench! Why aren’t you washing?’

‘Where’s Frank?’ someone asks.

‘Outside with his broken finger,’ Maddox calls back.

‘Eh?’

‘What broken finger?’

‘Is he alright?’

Blowers takes in the worry coming from only a few while the majority seem to hang back and stay silent. The more he watches the more he notices the quiet ones look worse too. Hungrier, more drawn and sunken eyed with greasy matted hair. He clocks the hierarchy showing from the formation of the seats, and the way sofas and comfortable chairs are grouped together while rugs on the ground show where others have been sitting. He moves forward with his rifle held across the crook of his elbows as the vocal ones throw questions at Maddox and Roy.

‘Hey,’ Blowers says to a young woman standing stock still with her hands over the shoulders of two small children clinging to her legs. ‘You okay?’

She nods but looks past Blowers to the small group of men and women trying to get answers from the other two. Fear on her face and in her eyes.

‘Miss?’ Blowers asks softly. She blinks and looks at him then down to the rifle in his arms. It’s hot. Too hot. Sweat beads down Blowers’ face and trickles down his jaw but the woman wears a long sleeve top covering her arms. He takes her in with a quick scan that she doesn’t notice. A bruise on her neck covered by the strands of her hair hanging down.

‘Are you okay?’ Blowers asks, moving a step closer.

‘She’s fine,’ a man says quickly, too quickly. Blowers looks round, seeing other young women looking cowed and terrified. He spots grip marks on the sallow skin of a young woman’s upper arms. A child, a boy no more than ten with a fading black eye.

‘Who hurt you?’ Blowers asks the boy. Silence falls. Suddenly heavy and weighted with tension ramping through the ceiling.