King of Zombie Heath

Day 43 - Eddie's escape

Dear Diary.

Been a while. Didn't think I'd be writing in you again. It's strange, now that I don't have to, I suddenly feel the need to. Henry's obsession with documenting his every thought, deed and fart seems to have contaminated me now.

Let's go back to Sunday morning. Was it Sunday? It could have been Monday or Friday for all I know. I don't think anyone really cares anymore. I certainly don't. Every day's the weekend since the world went to hell. So let's assume it was Sunday. Here goes.

I'm sitting in the back of the Landrover. It's warm. Perhaps one or two below zero, and the sun's out, a cool copper disk in a steel-blue sky. Beautiful February (or is it March?) morning. My heart's thudding in my chest. Not because of our imminent contact with more Angel Dusters - although I was looking forward to a chance to bash in a few more skulls - but because I'm going outside, and that was something I hadn't expected to happen for a long, long time. And then, only wearing restraints.

I can feel Mbadinuju watching me from the depths of her fluffy pink snorkel jacket. I can just about see the whites of her eyes. In her colourful mittens she reminds me of a child. I wonder if there's a string joining them, running up her sleeves and across her back? She's sussed something's up. Maybe I'm too quiet. Or maybe she's expecting me to bolt as soon as the gates open. She doesn't know me as well as she thinks. That's understandable; she doesn't get to see me that often. I'm an under-the-radar flyer and, even with everything that's happened, I still keep a low profile. Play my cards close to my chest, so to speak. In as much as that's possible. It's not like I'm invisible. While I was on the pills, I basked in Henry's shadow, let him have the limelight. He loves that. He enjoys making a fool of himself, winding people up. Me? I prefer them to think I'm not there at all. The pills still come, but no one really makes an effort to see if anyone takes them or not. Henry's stopped taking his. Tubbs and Nimby too. Dick still likes a Thorazine fix from time to time and Daniel (G'nD, the unipolar depressive) carries his Zoloft around with him everywhere he goes. The others? I neither know nor care. There are more important things to worry about. People here are crazy, but not stupid, and after yesterday's show it's crystal clear that Sgt. Ribold isn't one for putting up with any nonsense. The old ways are gone and, after seeing how he treats Angel Dusters, I wouldn't want to cross him. At least not while he's anywhere near his rifle, or that ghurka knife he chopped the old biddy up with.

So, Mbadinuju is watching me across Dick, waiting for me to make my move. But why would I want to escape? Especially now. Where would I go? Freedom seems overrated now that we're all prisoners of circumstance and most of the people we're likely to meet are crazier than any of us ever were. What's the point? No, I won't be doing a runner today.

Dick's in the middle, pensive, chewing the bleeding cuticles on his thumbs. His other fingers are scabbed over. Freckles is driving, her red hair in a tight ponytail, her brown eyes looking serious, apprehensive, cute even, as she squints up at the sky, assessing the weather. Not a cloud in the sky.

We wait, the Landrover's ancient motor chugging, its exhaust fouling the pristine morning air with clouds of metallic blue carbon monoxide as Ribold hitches up the trailer containing one barrel of extra diesel. The ice crust on the snow crunches underneath the Landrover's wheels as Freckles grinds the gears and drives us to the open main gates, idling while Ribold, Robinson and Gannon, with axe, sword and cricket bat, dispatch a handful of curious Angel Dusters that have been huddled together for warmth in the shelter of the gatehouse, and that have come out to see what all the fuss is about, and whether they can scrounge a free meal.

Freckles drives us through and we're out! I almost cheer. Looking back I see Gannon and Robinson aren't coming with us, and have closed the gates leaving a gap for them to slip through after hearing Ribold's last orders. Ribold pulls them close, one arm over each of their shoulders, and nods towards the hospital, threatening to rip them new assholes if they let those "stupid fucking fuckers do anything fucking stupid" while he's gone. Especially that "wanker" Arthur Martindale. The boys nod. One more thing, he says, tugging Robinson's jug-ear until the boy swears, no fucking raves either! Keep the noise down. With that, he buddy slaps the backs of their heads hard enough to set their brains rattling in their skulls, and jumps into the shotgun seat. With a wiggle of his gloved finger in a fine imitation of Captain Picard ordering the SS Enterprise out where no man has gone before, he gives Freckles her instructions: Thataway. Into town.