Snippet #2548265

Lean On The Horn

Chol Castle

7:00 AM

”No, no, no please!”

The rest faded like a morning dew.

Jamal found himself on the floor of the private library of Chol Castle, his bald head on a soft pillow that needed a wash. His head was not as bald as it was when he first touched down in England. Barbers were far and few nowadays. Was the afro really coming back? Shit, he muttered in his thoughts.

That was not the only thing that needed a wash. He laid there, wrapped in sheets that looked like the kind an airline passenger would get on a transoceanic flight.

The only transoceanic flight Jamal had ever been on was the one that took him to London about two months ago. He was amazed that he had managed this far.

He felt an instinct biting him, an urge to check the doors and gates. Paranoia crept into him, and he readily accepted it these past two months. There were no words, and he was a man of many words, to describe all that he had seen.

As he laid there among the other bodies snoring from long day’s work, his eyes landed on the hatchet that rested against the wall. It was among a myriad of other hardware turned into makeshift personal protection. Then of course there was a rifle, the only real weapons they had at the castle.

He blinked a bit as he stared at the ornate golden linings and trims of the ceiling that had long fallen into disrepair. He wasn’t staring at them, it was more of a conflict within himself to get up and do what needed to be done. A yawn found its way and he decided that there was no worth in loitering any longer on the ground among the other sleepers. There was always work to be done.

Jamal propped himself up, gyrated his waist, bent his neck in circular motions, and finished off with some stretches that all produced pops. It was probably the cold. Heating was limited to the fireplaces. He grabbed one of the tattered wool sweat shirts that was wrapped around a chair.

His original three week visit turned into an unintentional permanent residence for the foreseeable future. He was not used to the dreariness of the clouds in the Isles. Nor was he used to the idyllic country side of northwestern England, he was a city boy born and raised in north Philly. He was used to the projects and the urban world.

It was different, but two months’ time and a lot of tragedies in between had worn down his resistance and forced him to cope. Jamal passed down the halls, lined with an occasional dusty old knight or painting of a Caucasian man or woman whom he knew nothing of. He was guessing that the man or woman in the paintings were nobles long deceased.

The other day he thought he had seen the Queen of Britain, but Doc pointed out to him that it was Princess Diana.

“Wadn’t she the one that died?”

“Well, many members of British royalty have died before. But yes, she was the one that died.”

Doc was an affectionate label that Jamal had given to Trevor Zacharias, the resident physician and go to person for any medical issues.

“Do you think they might be coming back?”

“They? You mean…? God, I hope not.”

---

Jamal entered the kitchen to find the ‘Missus,’ also term of endearment, this one was for Mrs. Treveno, who was also known as the ‘Queen of the Castle.’ Not that he ever used them in her presence, she would gore him like the bulls of Pamplona. Jamal wondered whether Antonio married her out of choice.

Such thoughts were trivial, used to occupy and entertain himself in a world turned into the definition of grim.

“Mornin’.”

He saw that she was reserved when he had entered, and he knew he had to be tactful. He guessed that he might have walked in after a battle had just occurred. It was just a guess. He figured he could help himself to a glass of water, water from the nearby river. He had gotten used to the taste of ‘fresh’ water.

“You’re going out today,” Lillian said.

“Out?” Jamal took a sip.

“For supplies.”

Jamal nodded as he held the cold ceramic mug in his hand. He went out every so often, so it was nothing new. The day just felt different ever since he woke up. Even before she said that he was going to be heading out, Jamal just had this feeling. He knew that he would be venturing beyond the walls.

He stood up once he was finished and placed the mug back on the mug tree.

Before he could leave, “You’re not gonna have any of the porridge?”

“Uh, maybe when I get back.”

A full stomach was hard to run on.

“It’s gonna be cold by then.”

Jamal shrugged he wondered if cold porridge would taste any different from warm porridge, “Everythin’ cold nowadays.”

He could tell she agreed when she nodded, “Be safe.”

He nodded and left her.

---

With the backpack strapped over his shoulders Jamal wandered out to where the jobs were posted. He saw a white kid that looked as skinny as a twig. His hair was black and he was reading some paper. He dressed like he was headed to metal concert. He had a tattoo on his left arm that was partially covered by the sleeve of his jacket.

“Hello there!” Jamal was playing to his strength as the initiator of conversations.

Ever since he arrived at the castle, there was no shortage in supply of reserved types. They had all been through much and seen much. Jamal himself was guilty of turtling for a bit.

“Hello,” the kid extended his hand toward Jamal and they shook hands, “Nikoli.”

That was his name, Jamal replied his own “Jamal. Nice to meet you Nikoli. Can I call you Nik? Or do you just prefer Nikoli?”

“Nikoli, Nik is fine too,” he pulled out a map from his pocket, “So the junkyard is north of Brampton, and Brampton is to the west of us.”

“So…that way,” Jamal pointed west, “Let’s go.”

He’d known his cardinal directions for a while ever since he started getting up to watch the sun rise. The sun always rose from the east. It was funny how little things like that went a long way in helping one survive. Jamal wondered if he would learn where the North Star was. He fancied the idea of becoming a walking compass. Not that a real compass would be any less helpful.

Nikoli shrugged in agreement, “Bikes are by the gates.”

---

Jamal found himself grinding down a dirt path that was familiar to him. He had been down the road several times before to reach the town to the west called Brampton for supply runs. The woods were one of the dangerous parts of the island now. Zed had been known to leap out of them.

From what Antonio had told him, Nikoli was a runner, a fast one at that. It showed in his biking, the kid was pushing it.

All the while Jamal followed behind on his bike. He was hoping their tires did not hit anything sharp.

“Car horns?” Jamal called out from behind.

“Yes. Horns from cars,” Nikoli upped the tempo at which they were going.

“I know what car horns are. What do we need them for?”

“The horns will help scare the zombies. Distraction devices. Try to keep up.”

Try to keep up? This little punk. Jamal felt like he was riding the Tour de France. He wondered how those guys did it, he felt his breath was running out. He could feel the multitude of veins bulging from his legs.

If a zed jumped out of the woods at him at that moment, he thought he would not survive the encounter. He thought he could not run, or kick, or even stand anymore for that matter.

---

Cahill’s Junkyard

8:30 AM

Once they reached the eastern border of the town, the two of them agreed that Brampton was a no-go. The former population center had not been mapped and scouted out completely. There were still walkers wandering around, as to how many, they could guess. Danger was unnecessary in retrieving car horns, or cans of beans for that matter, Jamal thought.

They swung northward around Brampton’s eastern border riding for about twenty to thirty minutes time, at least it seemed liked thirty minutes to Jamal’s legs. They finally reached what appeared to be a junkyard full of old cars, rust, tires, and internal parts littered in piles. Heaps upon heaps of car parts.

They stared at the organized mess for several seconds before Jamal spoke.

“Shit. I need to do more cardio,” he set down his bike, “Do you know what they look like?”

“Yeah…” Nikoli’s response was dragged out, it seemed he was unsure of himself.

“Alright, um you can find the horns,” Jamal cleared his throat, rifle in hand.

“And what about you?” Nikoli dropped his bag on the ground.

“I’m standing guard,” Jamal motioned with his rifle.

He had no idea what car horns looked, he was no car expert. He liked cars for how they looked, not how they worked.

Nikoli shrugged and went about searching through the parts. Whenever he found a horn, he would drop it into the one of their two backpacks. The horns were somewhat heavy pieces and would probably weigh them down on their return trip, so they were aiming for maybe five or six horns before packing up to go.

They could not test the horns to see if they still worked because both knew that was a bad idea especially out in open and unfamiliar territory.

Minutes later, Nikoli’s bag was already full. He was rummaging through another pile, digging through the parts required some effort. Some pieces were heavier than others. To Nikoli it was like playing jenga, but there were no mugs of hot chocolate or friends in company. No, just a jumbled mass of parts that became obsolete in the old world and whether or not their usefulness would be revived in this new world was a question to be answered.

Jamal wandered about the mess, seeing if he could find anything handy. Nothing. Nothing but car parts.

Lord help me find a knife or somethin’, maybe like a comb, but please not one of them.

---

Nikoli continued searching, and just as he turned, crack, boom!

Blood splattered, he shied away and fell against the junk. The pile of meat fell down beside him, Nikoli kicked his feet against the thing as it tried to reach him with its mangled arms. Its flesh was the color of pneumonia, and had the yellow of a hepatitis patient’s eye.

The blood was long dried and coagulated. The solid mass of red was only disrupted by blunt force such as that of a bullet at a high velocity from a rifle.

Jamal had the gun aimed at the fallen flesh. His mouth was agape, but he was unsure if he could even say the words, ”Oh shit…did you see that mothafucka drop?”

He may have been born and bred in Philly, but he was no street thug. He only learned to use a gun recently when he was on the run.

Now is not the time man, Jamal could see Nikoli was visibly shaken. They had to go.

Jamal’s eyes skipped around the junkyard at possible points from which more could pour in. It was a metal forest from which they could be ambushed. The loud bang was surely going to alert more of them. He looked at the bag that Nikoli managed to fill, and he ran over with his. They transferred some of the load over so they both would be able to bike back.

Was there more of them? Jamal grabbed his bag, and the two immediately ran for the entrance from which they came. The bag was heavy. The comedian could hear more groans.

“Aw shit man…” he swore under his breath.

Jamal chose to say nothing more and save his breath for the bike ride back to the castle.

---

9:15 AM

On the bike back, their conversation was interspersed with glances, boasts, and breathing. The bags of metal were strapped over their shoulders. Jamal rode with one hand steering and the other hand on the rifle.

“You know, we don’t have many of you people back in Russia,” Nikoli’s eyes shifted to Jamal, who rode beside him.

Jamal glanced at him, and saw that he was watching the over-arching branches. As if zombies could climb trees and attack from the skies. If they did, Jamal guessed that humanity would have gone extinct a month ago.

“You people?” Jamal looked at him with a screw eye.

“Blacks. Black people,” Nikoli exhaled.

The kid was blunt, Jamal laughed, “I’m sure they don’t have many people of any color anymore back in Russia.”

Nikoli glanced at him unsure what he meant.

Jamal did not hear a laugh, “The zombies.”

“Ah,” Nikoli chuckled, the joke dawned on him.

At least he could still laugh, usually when a joke is explained, it loses its potency.

“They tell me you’re a comedian?”

“Was a comedian.”

“I see a lot of black comedians.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“Dave Chappelle?”

Jamal shook his head, “He ain’t that funny.”

He pushed ahead and turned back at Nikoli half-yelling an added response, “Plus he dead.”

That last part may not have been true, but Jamal could give a rat’s ass as to which celebrity was still alive now.

“Tell some of your jokes then,” Nikoli caught up.

“Tell some jokes? Some of my jokes? Kid. A good joke requires proper planning and thought put into it. I can’t toss one up, it’s not like music or magic. My jokes are an acquired taste. You need an intellect to understand them.”

“So you don’t have jokes,” Nikoli laughed and rode ahead.

Jamal looked at him, smart ass cur, he paused, “Man keep your eyes forward, those things can jump from trees now.”

Damn these horns are heavy.