After The End (Book 1): The Furious Four Page 2

  A collapsed shelf forces Gabriel towards the meat aisle. The stench only gets worse as he hauls the basket past the butcher’s counter, turning his face away from blackened, fly-ridden steaks, and, distracted, he almost trips over a human corpse. Swearing, he stumbles backwards and wills the basket not to fall from his grasp. Mercifully, he keeps hold of it. Trying his best not to breathe he steps over the body and hurries on, aware there’s not much time left before someone arrives.

  Five minutes later Gabriel has filled his basket with plasters, bandages, painkillers, batteries and cat food and he’s ready to go. Only he’s found himself in the toy aisle and he’s fascinated. Not by the toys themselves, of course – he’s far too mature to be playing with toys. He’s fascinated because these toys are relics from the Old World. Because if he’d been born sixteen years ago instead of eight, he’d have had some sort of a childhood. He doesn’t mourn his childhood, of course, but it’s an interesting thought.

  He puts the basket down and fingers a toy gun, chuckling. It looks absolutely nothing like the real gun in his other hand. The bullets attached to the packaging seem to be made of foam and the gun itself is bright yellow. It looks ridiculous. Absentmindedly plucking a long slip of plastic from its seam, Gabriel imagines himself running around with one of these things, shooting at nothing. He knows in the Old World it would be the norm, but here, in his world, he knows he would rather stick his nose in a book than fight with guns.

  Tittering, Gabriel presses lightly on the trigger, and before he can even comprehend his mistake the gun lights up red and makes several rather loud, rather stupid pew-pew noises and he drops the toy in alarm.

  ‘Shit,’ he mutters, not for the first time testing out the word and wondering if swearing suits him. He repeats the word, quieter, and listens.

  For a moment he hears nothing. He only smells the rotten meat and he only sees empty aisles, and only the sound of that monstrous toy gun echoes in his ears. His gaze flickers to the revolver in his hand, checking it’s cocked, and then he hears it.

  Shuffling sounds from one end of the aisle, subtle but unmistakeable. Picking up the basket, Gabriel slowly backs away from the sound, but he barely makes it two steps before a grunt sounds behind him. Dropping the basket with a clatter, he whirls around and aims his gun. A woman, possibly in her thirties, limps towards him, her shadow blinking on and off in the flickering light. He glances behind him and despairs, for two more – a man and another woman - have entered the aisle from the opposite end. They haven’t been this way for long, he realises as they draw near; they still have patches of hair clinging onto their heads and blood drips from fresh wounds on their fingers.

  Slowly, Gabriel backs into a shelf and unsheathes his katana, glancing in turn at each of them. They approach him uncertainly, sniffing the air like feral dogs. Gabriel points his gun at the lone woman and the sword at the other two. He can take three of them, he is sure. They may be fully grown but they are dead and he is quick.

  As if reading his mind, the woman suddenly shrieks and lunges, inciting the others to attack too. Praying that no more are lurking, Gabriel fires the gun once before rolling away. The woman crumples, a bullet hole positioned neatly between her eyes, and the couple behind him almost crash into the shelf he’d just been leaning against. He points his weapons at them threateningly as they right themselves, but it’s as if they don’t see them; all they see is meat.

  ‘Ladies first,’ grunts Gabriel, and again he fires another perfect shot.

  Before he can turn his attention to the man, however, he’s thrown forward, tackled from behind. His gun skitters away, spinning under a shelf, but he just about keeps his grip on the sword. He struggles under the weight of a body, vaguely aware of moans and screams all around him, and his attacker thrashes above him, fighting to grab any piece of Gabriel it can. Gabriel lets out a frustrated scream and swings the sword blindly behind him. By some miracle it lodges itself into something and cold, sticky blood gushes over him.

  Having taken the creature by surprise, Gabriel manages to roll, forcing it off him, and leaps to his feet. By now he’s surrounded, twenty or thirty of them staring hungrily and soullessly at him. He can’t see his gun. He swears again, yelling it this time.

  ‘Who,’ he says weakly, already sensing his defeat, ‘wants to get stabbed next?’

  In response the aisle fills with grunts and growls, and like a tsunami they throw themselves at him. Gabriel rolls, bringing up his sword to slice open a stomach before expertly swinging it around for a seamless throat slit. Barely keeping them at bay, he knows he needs his gun, but he isn’t sure where he dropped it. He slashes and dodges, going almost a full ten seconds before scabby, bleeding hands grab at his rucksack, hauling him back. Swinging his blade hopelessly, Gabriel screams.

  His sword disappears, either wrenched away or lodged in a skull, he doesn’t know. All he knows is he’s about to die, slowly and painfully. Tears spring to his eyes as he kicks and struggles, and then he is forced to the floor, a thousand open mouths gaping at him...

  BANG.

  The dead whirl around as one, startled by the noise as several bangs follow it. Taking advantage of their surprise, Gabriel scrambles to his feet and leaps onto the nearest back, tugging hard on the creature’s throat and waiting for the unmistakeable crack of bones. Meanwhile, bodies fall around him and gunshots continue to sound.

  The neck snaps obligingly and Gabriel tumbles to the floor with the body, landing, mercifully, right next to his gun. Relieved beyond belief, Gabriel laughs triumphantly and seizes it. He catches a glimpse of his rescuer as he leaps to his feet; the man is tall and well built and he’s fighting like a monster – Preston.

  ‘Good morning!’ Gabriel yells over the carnage, grinning as he fells one after another.

  Kicking a body away from him, Preston glances over and aims his gun Gabriel’s way. Gabriel doesn’t flinch as the gun fires and someone crumples behind him. The supermarket falls quiet. Bodies litter the floor like autumn leaves.

  Only when they lower their weapons does Gabriel take stock: he’s soaked with blood and his knee throbs from where he was thrown to the floor. Preston, as usual, hardly has any blood on him and is undoubtedly unscathed. Gabriel watches him as he pockets his gleaming gold pistols and retrieves the katana. Gabriel is breathing heavily; Preston isn’t.

  ‘Well that was a riot,’ says Gabriel brightly, looking around for his discarded basket.

  ‘Good morning?’ drawls Preston, tossing the sword carelessly.

  ‘Is it not?’ says Gabriel, catching the sword with his free hand.

  ‘Yeah it’s fabulous,’ Preston rolls his eyes. ‘Did you get cigarettes for me?’

  ‘I’m eight and a half.’

  ‘Pretty sure this is No Man’s Land now, Gabe. No one is here to ID you. You can even smoke if you want.’

  ‘This is the sort of thing Beth hates you for.’

  ‘Beth doesn’t like it when you call her Beth.’

  ‘Beth isn’t here. And I don’t like it when you call me Gabe.’

  Gabriel locates the basket and efficiently transfers most of its contents into his backpack – the rest will have to go in a tote bag because Preston sure as hell won’t carry it. Preston rests a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder once he’s finished. His grip is firm, bordering on painful. Gabriel knows better than to think that’s accidental.

  ‘Let’s grab my cigarettes and get out of here,’ Preston suggests, steering Gabriel towards the tobacco counter. ‘Got your sweet corn?’

  Gabriel ignores the question and instead asks, ‘Where’s the cat?’

  ‘Dunno,’ says Preston with a shrug. ‘He’s around.’

  ‘He’s probably sniffing around that mouldy body.’

  Chuckling, Preston jumps the tobacco counter with ease and slides open the cabinet. He throws a few packets of tobacco, several packs of cigarettes and one box of cigars into his own bag. Gabriel watches him, his own bag heavy on his back.

  Gabrie
l makes his way towards the exit – Preston will catch up. The sky is bright and clear outside, the air crisp, and Gabriel’s loose black curls sway in the breeze. He walks amongst the cars once more, wishing his mum would let them take one. He doesn’t remember ever riding in a car and he’s sick to death of riding his bike and lugging all his belongings on his back. He suspects it has something to do with Preston being the only one able to drive.

  To his right, a quiet rumbling sounds and for a second Gabriel thinks there’s someone in one of the cars. But then he turns and it’s just a skinny ginger cat, lounging on a red car bonnet and purring. Half of the cat’s right ear is missing and he’s bald in places. His piercing green eyes meet Gabriel’s and he meows.

  ‘Where have you been?’ says Gabriel softly, knowing better than to reach out and touch the temperamental thing. ‘Aren’t there any mice around here? Not to worry, we’ve got some Felix for you.’

  ‘Good job,’ says an irritating voice behind him, ‘cos I didn’t even think about getting cat food.’

  ‘That’s because you only think about yourself and your stupid cigarettes.’

  Gabriel sets off again, not waiting for Preston to pick up his cat and follow after him. The smell of smoke fills his nostrils so he breathes through his mouth instead.

  Grudgingly, Gabriel supposes Preston isn’t bad looking. In fact, he’s the opposite, with a lean, muscular body and dark blue eyes. His thick black hair, greying in places despite his young age, is a stark contrast to his pale skin, which is scarred badly in multiple places. His teeth are straight and white in spite of the chain-smoking. A thick scar parts his left eyebrow. According to Beth, scars are sexy. Gabriel thinks they make Preston look like a tiger.

  The hotel isn’t very far from the supermarket. It takes them six minutes to walk there, and when they arrive nothing seems to have changed. Preston talks absentmindedly to his ugly little cat as they make their way across the lobby and Gabriel presses the button for the lift.

  It was a nice hotel, not too many days ago. Now, the glass chandelier is shattered on the floor of the lobby. Furniture is upended and a small palm tree lies defeated in a corner, its soil spilling onto the polished marble floor. The tills on the counter are open and empty. Even the fire alarms don’t bother to sound when Preston breathes out smoke. The place is depressed and empty.

  ‘What are the bets that Beth is awake and waiting to rip you a new one?’ Preston muses, a lazy smirk on his face. It takes Gabriel a beat to realise he’s not talking to the cat.

  ‘Shut up,’ snaps Gabriel as the lift doors open with a ping.

  ‘I love a good argument in the morning,’ says Preston, following Gabriel into the lift.

  Gabriel presses the penthouse button and they ride the lift in silence. The cat’s tail swings like a pendulum. They reach the top, and the lift barely has time to ping again when Gabriel is grabbed by his hoodie and hauled off his feet, his face level with that of a murderous black woman with square blue glasses and a shiny bald head. He does his best not to flinch as she holds him in the air.

  ‘Hello Mum,’ he says brightly.

  ‘He called you Beth!’ Preston sings as he saunters past them and towards their suite, tossing his smoked cigarette into a nearby plant.

  ‘Drop dead, Preston!’ Gabriel calls after him.

  Beth releases Gabriel and he drops roughly to the ground, the tins in his bags clanking in protest. He lands on a plush cream carpet in the hotel corridor. He offers her a sheepish smile that she does not return.

  ‘So I went shopping-’ he begins.

  ‘If you ever presume to go off on your own again,’ roars Beth, her eyes wide with fury, ‘I will amputate your feet, young man, do you hear me?’

  ‘I got us loads of tins-’

  ‘You are eight years old, Gabriel Singer; you have no idea how lucky you are that I let you carry guns and swords.’

  ‘It’s technically gun and sword-’

  ‘I WILL TAKE THEM AWAY FROM YOU, GABE, DO YOU HEAR ME?’

  ‘Okay!’ says Gabriel, his hands up in surrender. He glimpses Preston laughing silently from the suite behind Beth and glowers. ‘I’m sorry, okay? I thought I’d save us some time and stock up on some shit-’

  ‘GABRIEL.’

  ‘Stuff,’ he corrects himself. ‘I stocked up on some stuff, I was going to come straight back... Look, this place has only just been abandoned; I thought it would be okay...’

  ‘You thought?’

  ‘I mean it was okay...’

  ‘He was almost killed!’ Preston supplies helpfully, a wicked grin on his face. ‘There were loads of Ailing and he’d be dead if I didn’t follow him.’

  In the moment it takes Beth to glance from Gabriel to Preston then back to Gabriel, her rage seems to have intensified. Gabriel winces away from her glare as if it physically burns him, and he makes a mental note to slap Preston silly when this has blown over.

  ‘Mum...’ he says feebly.

  ‘Give them to me,’ says Beth, venom biting every syllable.

  ‘Mum-’

  ‘I’m going to count to three.’

  ‘I’m not giving you my-’

  ‘ONE...’

  ‘Mum, no!’

  ‘TWO...’

  ‘Go on Gabe,’ sings Preston gleefully, ‘give Mummy your ickle weapons.’

  ‘THAT’S IT!’

  In a flash Gabriel’s backpack is on the floor, his sword in his hand, and he’s charging at Preston before Beth can complete the countdown. Ecstatic, Preston drops the cat, dodges a swipe of the blade and dances out of the way. Unperturbed, the cat flounces away with its patchy tail held high. Beth watches, her eyes narrowed and her thick dark lips set in a line as thin as they can go, as Gabriel slashes and jabs with his sword, each movement just a little too slow.

  Preston is like a dancer, moving fluidly out of the way of the sword and laughing while he dodges. They back up almost the full length of the corridor before Preston sweeps an effortless foot under Gabriel and brings him down. Lazily, Preston rests a knee on Gabriel’s chest and plucks the sword from his grasp. Gabriel scowls and turns his head away from the smell of smoky breath.

  ‘That was crap, mate,’ Preston sighs. ‘And here I was, thinking I’d taught you well.’

  Struggling under the weight, Gabriel lets out a frustrated yell and swipes at Preston’s face with his nails. As expected, Preston avoids the blow with ease, and while he’s distracted Gabriel pulls one of the precious Twins from its holster, jamming it under Preston’s chin.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Preston, the smile never wavering, ‘perhaps I did teach you well.’

  ‘Get off me,’ snarls Gabriel through gritted teeth.

  Preston leans into the gun, daring Gabriel with his eyes as his weight intensifies on the kid’s chest. But Beth has seen enough. With one fell swoop she has confiscated the gun and shoved Preston off her son, murder in her eyes.

  ‘You,’ she snaps, pointing the gun at Gabriel. ‘Get into that hotel room right now and get in the shower. Leave the weapons and the bag. And you-’ she whirls to face Preston ‘-can help Kerry pack. I don’t want a word out of either of you or you’ll wish you’d never been born.’

  ‘Bit late for that,’ says Preston, and a bullet shoots screaming past his ear, embedding itself in the wall. He laughs. ‘All right, moody, we’re shutting up.’

  Laughing manically, Preston relieves Beth of his gun and leads the way into the hotel room. Kerry is already packing, her slight body wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her long red hair dripping onto the carpet. Preston lets out a low whistle and Gabriel punches him in the arm.

  ‘Gabriel, get in the shower,’ says Kerry without looking up from her backpack.

  ‘You’re not the boss of me,’ Gabriel retorts, but he stomps into the bathroom anyway.

  He can’t remember the last time he had an actual shower in a real bathroom. Cold baths are the norm in the Sanctuary.

  The bathroom is all white and silver and clean. The s
hower is a wide cylinder made of shiny glass and metal, and an impressive showerhead dangles from the ceiling. A fat, fluffy towel sits patiently on the closed toilet lid, and Gabriel resists touching it with his grubby hands. He slips out of his clothes and catches himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look eight years old and he isn’t sure he feels it. His face has hardness to it, his eyes are too wise. There are countless times he remembers hearing Beth lamenting to Kerry that he’s never had a childhood. He pictures the ridiculous plastic gun on the shelf in the supermarket.

  Steam starts to work its way around the room as Gabriel steps into the shower and turns it on. He feels his muscles relax under the pressure of the warm, hot water, enjoying the almost-pain of it scalding his skin. He watches the water as it falls onto him clear as crystal and slides off his feet, now a reddish-brown. Some of the blood is his; he hadn’t known it before but he must’ve cut his head on something earlier, because when the stream hits the gash it stings dully.

  Kerry has already used half of the hotel’s shampoo and body wash supply and Gabriel uses the rest, hoping that Preston won’t be smart enough to replace it when he gets in the shower. Once the water running off him is clear, Gabriel switches off the shower and checks himself over. He has a large black bruise on his knee but other than that he is fine. He wraps himself in the towel and leaves the bathroom.

  Fat and full, four backpacks lean packed and ready against the wall by the door, and Gabriel is pleased to see his sword leaning against his. Kerry and Beth sit in silence, on a bed each. Beth cleans her glasses lenses and Kerry, now dressed in jeans and a hoodie, braids her hair. Ratbag snoozes happily on the end of Kerry’s bed. Preston is not there.

  ‘So,’ says Gabriel, helping himself to the clean outfit his mother has laid out for him on the ornate cream sofa (black jeans, a black t shirt and a grey hoodie). ‘What’s the plan?’

  Beth looks up, and her gaze flickers to the ugly bruise on his knee before he pulls the jeans up over it. Gabriel can’t tell what emotion touches her face; it seems to be a mix of sadness, anger and perhaps a hint of smugness. He imagines that she’s thinking something along the lines of serves you right but I do hope you’re okay.