Chapter 9, Down by the sea
We trudged through the forest. Every now and then I could see Tasker shaking his head, the unmistakable sound of disgusted tutting followed in his wake. Conversations were short, abrupt things, built on no more than absolute necessity.
We spent another uncomfortable night in the wild. Though no more dreams came my way for which I was thankful.
“Got any particular idea where you're going?” sneered Tasker to Trowler and Sutton.
“West” came the unhelpful reply. Night fell. There were whispers all through the darkness. Arguments in hushed voices about how people had changed and where did their loyalty lie. There was conspiracy and consternation all through the night. None of it comes my way first, for I was a minnow, a coward who would likely run. Until the dawn that was when Tasker came slithering over a log and crept close to my ear.
“Just don't get involved” he hissed. “Things are getting out of control, the time has come to end this, we must get back to what we know”. I just nodded and stammered out a hushed affirmative.
The light came, he sloped off. We all rose. The injured man was lifted up and we started to make our way along. After a time I heard the seagulls and realised how close to to coast we were bearing.
We stop for a break around midday. As we made to stand Tasker made his move, I did as I was told, I did not get involved.
“Stop” said the lieutenant forcefully. Trowler looked at him. The sergeant had changed over this last couple of days. So had Sutton. A look of haunted zeal was in their eyes, as if they were no longer their own men but belonged entirely to an ideal which they'd embraced. Trowler had always been the calm voice, the placid sergeant, a man of prodigious strength matched by his compassion. Now he was a fanatic, a wandering soldier who moved forward with great purpose to a destination that only he seemed to know. I don't know why we'd followed him and Sutton so blindly these last couple of days. Perhaps it had been nice to see someone who had some idea of what they were doing.
The wave of events which had destroyed our world and carried us along since were dizzying in their embrace. It was easy to be swallowed by apathy, to follow for the sake of following, to dog the steps of the person in front of you simply because they were there. Taskers patience with such an approach had come to an end.
“We need to keep moving” said Trowler patiently.
“No, we don't. What needs to happen is for you to remember who is in charge.” Taskers voice got louder as he went on. “What needs to happen is for you two to explain to me what is going on with our friend there and where on this cursed earth you think you're going. I am the lieutenant...”.
“Emmanuel” started Trowler raising his hand and pointing at Tasker. That was as far as he got. Taskers hand lashed out like a knife and chopped into the sergeants neck. Trowler staggered back clutching at his throat. Then he ran in aiming a clumsy roundhouse at Tasker. The fist failed to connect, the arm was grabbed and twisted with a crack that made me wince.
Trowler fell to his knees with the pain, the last thing he saw was Taskers knee as it came smashing up into his face. I felt sorry for the sandy haired sergeant as he fell down into the leaves holding onto the remnants of his nose. The silence was total in its grip. Only Tasker had the guts to break it, he was in charge of the moment.
It was to me he looked as he spoke. “Well, it's nice to clear the air” said he. I suddenly saw all his weakness laid bare. Violence was his only tool, he'd been so reluctant to use it until this point, all his life he must have seen the dead ends down which it had led him. There was such a relief on his face, it had all worked out, and all he needed to do was hurt people.
Behind him I saw Dan Sutton lift his arm. Tasker was still smiling. The bullet was travelling at around eight hundred miles an hour as it burst from the middle of his forehead dragging with it a trail of mushy brains and tiny skull fragments. The lieutenant died smiling as I was splattered with gore. Still he grinned as he fell to the ground, down into the leaves where he would rot with everything else.
“Dan, my God no” shouted Mark Kirby who scrabbled at his waist frantically trying to draw his own Glock 17 from its holster. Mark Kirby had three daughters. Three more lost children. He had a cat which he'd been rather unoriginal in naming Whiskers. His wife was a secretary at a solicitors. His Grandfather had been in the merchant navy. He had a fear of wolves and he enjoyed quad biking. The facts regarding Mark Kirby could fill a book, but none of them mattered, and none of them could help stop the bullet which went in through his throat and came out the back of his neck.
He fell to his knees and uselessly tried to halt the spraying blood. Dan Sutton marched over to him, jammed the already hot barrel of the Glock into his old friends eye socket and pulled the trigger, feeding yet more grey matter to the forest.
Patricia had looked on dumbfounded. I don't think her training had covered what to do when your fellow soldiers start murdering each other following a zombie apocalypse. She sucked in a few deep breaths and started to back away. I think she'd made a decision. She looked at Dan Sutton. At those cold blue eyes. She knew what was coming next. As she started to lift the barrel a form reared up next to her.
Trowlers hunting knife bit deep into her arm eliciting a horrible scream as the gun fell to the floor. There is no such thing as a comforting scream, but there is something about the scream of a woman, the giver of life, the sound of terror carried in every octave. A backhanded punch sends Patricia falling to the ground. Trowler has his back to me as he climbs on top of her. I see the serrated hunting knife plunging down time and time again throwing globules and strips of blood high into the air. Screams become gurgles, gurgles turn to one last breath before the silence. Even then he does not stop.
After an age he rises, the crimson man. There is a huge smile on his face, a twisted contorted grin. I prepare myself as best I can.
“Make it quick” is all that the pathetic form who is me can muster as I drop to the ground. I see the sergeants red boots come into view as I gaze at the ground.
“Leave him”. I would do anything to have gone back in time to a place where I could end my life, just so as not to have to hear him speak. The words are like poison in my ear, I vomit just at their uttering. When the retching is done I look up. The injured man is off his stretcher. His skin is aglow with life, thin silvery veins give light to the life there. He looks like Tasker, it takes me a minute to realise that a part of him is Tasker. I look over at the lieutenants mutilated body and sure enough it is evident that this creature has carved off as much of his face as was possible and is now wearing it.
I'm idly aware of Sutton and Trowler stripping the bodies of the others, taking from them anything that might be useful. The green eyes have me, I am caught in their hate filled tractor beam.
Finally Trowler hauls me to my feet. “Go with the Harlequin” he says gruffly.
“What?” I get a back hand to the face for that.
“Go with him, understand?” he bellows. I nod. I whimper. I am so sorry. I am vaguely aware of my gun being removed from the holster at my side as Trowler and Sutton lope off into the woods. The bodies are left to lay where they have fallen.
The Harlequin he looks at me and beckons gently. I follow like a hypnotised rat. We walk through sunny glades and through mossy hollows until I can hear the sound of waves lapping at the shore. We emerge from the trees and I look up and down the deserted beach which looks out onto the Irish Sea.
A boat waits there, a simple rowing boat. The Harlequin has but to point to it. I know my purpose, I help him into the boat. My skin crawls at the sensation of touching him. I feel sick to my core and am forced to vomit once more, this time my bile goes into the sea and floats there on the top like some pathetic mutant jellyfish.
I push the boat out into the waves and clamber aboard feeling soaking wet and confused. The Harlequin points out to sea. I turn my back on him, take up the oars and begin to row. My mind is hazy, a fuzz filled mess. I am b
linded by the chaos of what just happened, I think I may have broken something, a part of me has snapped, deep down inside my mind.
I keep rowing. It is a nice day. The salt sea air and the sense of purpose start to ease my nausea. The seagulls they circle beneath a cloudless sky, miles of beautiful green and yellow coastline fill the horizon. The further I get from my nation the more beautiful it looks, the greater the distance between myself and the horror, the less the horror seems.
We are a couple of hundred metres out from the shore when I see him. He comes walking down out of the trees. He wears a backpack and saunters as if on a summer holiday. I would know him anywhere, even if I was to stare at him from the other side of the heavens I would know that figure.
“Gideon!” I shout with all I have. It is enough. My desperate and elated cry carries across the water like a skimming stone. “Gideon!!” I cry again. One can spend too long questioning how the impossible has come to be, sometimes it is best to embrace it and never let it go, and at some point within that embrace you may come to know how miracles occur.
I must turn this boat around. He has seen me. He waves and I start to turn the bobbing vessel. What is that pain? It was so fleeting, like a wasps sting at the base of my spine. Why is the boat not turning? Why have my arms failed me? I can see my son still waving. I will come for you my boy.
I am laying down, gently I fall backwards into the boat. This is not right. I need to go back, I must go back. The Harlequin has my head resting on his legs. I see he holds a scalpel with blood upon its tip. He is smiling at me. I cannot feel a thing. The gulf, the sadness, it is too wide, too deep for me to factor in any other feeling. So I become the sadness, woe is me and I am woe, we know nothing else beyond each other, and I cannot miss a happiness I can no longer conceive.
The scalpel descends towards me. It feels like he is drawing on my face, lines and curves that work their way all around. Finally he stops and I can feel tugging as he peels at something. I see a flat and flopping item pulled from my head. My eyes are filled with blood but even so I see as the Harlequin lifts the mask which melds messily with the one of Tasker he already wears. His own features are hidden but not forgotten.
It is like looking in a mirror. I stare back at myself. Bloody tears mark both the real me and the reflection. I look up at the blue sky one last time. I imagine the clouds and form them into the shapes of everything that has come and gone. I have so many questions. “Fey Le Nar?” I say. He nods and grins with delight. “We rise” he says excitedly. Then the scalpel comes down. It is with slow delight he takes my eyes. Once I am in the dark I am vaguely aware of more blows as they rain down on me. Then the darkness is total and I cease to be aware of even that which was me. Goodbye.
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