The Final Winter: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel(35)
Two down… How many more to go?
Jess gut told her they were all in for a long night and that their troubles were not yet over.
Not by a long shot.
###
Kath almost felt bad.
Almost.
It had, after all, been Peter’s decision to run off to look for the stupid girl; no one had made him do it. Ironically, Kath was the one who ended up finding Jess anyway, and that had just proved even more how idiotic the boy was for not listening to her. Still, she couldn’t help but ruminate about what had happened.
Someone messed him up real good. Probably crossed the wrong people; Polish Mafia or something. Kath suddenly had another thought: Or there really is a psychopath stalking us all?
If there was a sadistic madman running amok out there, was she going to be safe here in the pub? It didn’t feel like it. The Trumpet was full of degenerates from what she’d seen so far.
You had Lucas, prancing around like a drunken leprechaun; Nigel, an ugly man that lacked any personality she could discern of; Steph, a low-class tramp; and that insufferable girl, Jess. Of all the people Kath could be trapped with, Jess would have been last on her handwritten list. Her little buddy from the video shop was no less irritating, backing up her absurd stories just so he could get into her filthy knickers – if the slut even wears any. Next was Damien, a walking billboard for dysfunctional youth and petty crime. Finally, you had the pensioner, stinking of piss and beer, and the alcoholic loser, Harry. She could tell Harry was a drunk because he had that same weathered look on his face that her father used to have. A slow, draining sickness that killed a man one drink at a time; made him neglect everything important.
Maybe if Kath’s father hadn’t been such a deadbeat she could have finished her History degree and actually done something with her life. Instead she ended up supporting him until she hit twenty-eight. The day she found her father lying on the floor, fading from a heart attack had been a turning point for her. The thought of him pleading with her to call for help, while she stood there shaking her head and watching him die, was significant to her. It was the day she decided she would no longer let anyone take advantage of her. She would look out only for herself from then on. Selfish, lazy drunks like Harry could go right to Hell.
All around Kath, the degenerates scuttled around like displaced ants, clutching blankets and bottles of water, carrying them in a line. Something was happening in one of the backrooms of the pub, but Kath couldn’t say she really cared. She was only with these people for safety, and the last thing she wanted was to be involved with them beyond that.
Maybe the thug has finally thrown a punch at the drunk, she thought. Punch drunk!
She laughed out loud, but secretly hoped that harmless bickering was all that was happening in the back, but when she thought again about who had thrown Peter through the window, and why, she started to worry that there was far more danger lurking in the air tonight than a simple punch up.
“Well,” she said out loud. “I’d best go see what those idiots have gotten themselves into.”
Kath stood up and headed for the darkness of the corridor.
Chapter Twenty
“I’m so sorry, Graham.” Harry looked down at the old man’s twisted leg and felt the urge to punch himself in the face. How could he be so stupid, getting caught in a testosterone contest with a kid ten years his junior? He was pathetic and for the first time was finally realising it. He put his hand on Old Graham’s shallow chest and could feel the man’s ribs through tissue-paper skin. The scar below Harry’s knuckles reminded him that he had a habit of hurting people.
“Harry,” Old Graham whispered, not to be quiet but because the old man was obviously winded by his sudden ordeal. The pain from his damaged leg was probably sapping the breath from his aged lungs too. “Harry, don’t worry. I’m okay, it’s just me leg. Get it fixed up in the morning, good as new.”
Harry didn’t want to lie to him. “I don’t think tomorrow’s going to be any better. I’m not sure if we can get you help.”
Old Graham snorted. “Then just put me in a bath full of whiskey. By the time I drink meself dry, the snow will have gone and the ambulances will be back on the road.”
Harry smiled. “I’m really so-“
“If you say you’re sorry one more time, son, I’ll break my other leg just to shut you up.”
For reasons he couldn’t quite understand Harry felt like crying, breaking down right there and giving up. All the times that he had labelled Old Graham a nuisance, he’d never taken the time to see what a kind, forgiving man he was. Harry had stopped taking the time to find out anything about anyone after the car crash; now he realised that had been a mistake.
“Can I do anything?” he asked Old Graham.
“No, just get me a beer and a snog off Steph, and we’ll call it quits.
Harry laughed. “Well I’ll do my best, but I’m thinking I’ll only be able to manage one of those.”
Old Graham opened his eyes wide like a startled rabbit. “What? You mean we’re out of beer!”
Harry stood up, wanting to laugh his ass off at the old man’s fighting spirit, but somehow finding it impossible. Laughter was a luxury he’d run out of.
In the hallway above, a sphere of light began an ethereal descent down the dark-shrouded staircase. By the time it got down to the last few steps, it revealed itself. Steph was carrying a bar tray full of candles and nodded at him as soon as she saw him.