Mateo Laguardia
Alleyway near the Imperial College, London
[22 April 2016]
A few hours later, the streets of central London were equally as barren as the dark of nightfall began to set in. Only one thing changed in that dark, deserted landscape, that dead urban hulk: a traffic signal blankly continued to restrict the flow of traffic, heedless to the horrors to which the world had been subjected. Mateo found it to be quite annoying. Its pathetic innocence, its merry work, its invulnerability to death, disease, or suffering; all of these filled him with envy.
"Hey, Matt," said Ben. "I really do want to get plastered. I saw a pub not two blocks from here. Want to hit it?"
"To the victor go the spoils," answered Mateo. "I think those two will be fine while we're gone."
"It won't take more than ten minutes."
"Won't be a problem."
"You go out first, Matt. You've got the better eyes."
"You've got the bat."
"A fair point," said Ben. "If you go out first, I'll let you take the bat."
"Alrighty, off to no man's land."
"Good luck mate. Don't die out there."
Mateo peered outside of the building. The streets, empty as before, remained quiet, as if dead. He cautiously took a few steps forward, taking cover behind a ruined automobile whose windows had already been broken in. He looked both ways, as per an age-old custom, and crossed the street. A small, invisible wave signalled to Ben that it was safe to emerge from the safety of the building into the hostile expanse of mainland London, and so the two began their slow trod to the pub.
For what seemed like hours, the two continued their slow, discrete pilgrimage to the pub with the utmost silence. Each and every step carried the risk of bringing unwelcome attention to the two travellers; every car had to be thoroughly inspected for signals that it could produce the shrill beckon of its raucous alarm, a warning cry that would certainly doom both of them—and certainly their hypersexual friends—to a fate best left undescribed. Mateo, bat in hand and eyes on the horizon, scoured the area before them.
"It's all empty. Empty as a frog's arse is bald," he told Ben.
Ben sat in thought. "I don't think that's a good signal. Usually gangs like to nab as much territory as they can. Hear anything? 'haps this patch of land is only scoured by the occasional patrols."
"If patrols circled around here regularly, we'd have heard one by now. Immature bastards like to raise all hell with their drunken squabbles, or their gang rivalry."
"I don't want a damned fight," said Ben.
"I believe that, deep within, nobody does," answered Mateo.
After some twenty minutes of stealthy crawling, the two saw the flickering neon of the pub. A soft sliver of music filled the void of silence at long last—a welcome change. Ben took the lead, calmly obtained control of the baseball bat, and stepped up to the door. His head peered into the untamed darkness before them. Mateo followed silently, almost like a shade, making a great effort to trace his friend's steps as best he humanly could.
Ben placed his large hand on Mateo's shoulder. He looked around, and took hold of a long bar of steel from an assortment of nearby debris. He prodded a piece of cloth that unnaturally protruded from the ground, with no effect, pointing it out to his friend. "Sons of bitches," whispered Ben.
"What is it, man?" asked Mateo.
"Look at this rubbish. Utter rubbish." Ben cautiously used the rod to remove the clothing, exposing an open bear trap, undoubtedly placed with evil intent at the entrance of the pub to cleave the limb of someone unlucky enough to disregard his surroundings. "What the hell is wrong with people these days?"
"Getting your foot chopped off is a death sentence."
"This is utter rubbish. Bear traps. That's what we've come to. This is a fucking hunt now."
"Relax, man. Move it aside or something."
"No way," said Ben. "I'm not letting anyone step on this bastard." Using the rod, Ben poked at the trap from a safe distance. As soon as the rod pressed lightly against the lower plate, the rusted jaws of the mechanical contraption snapped shut, and with a powerful, spring-impulsed snap, the rod broke away from Ben's powerful hands and jumped into the air. Ben tossed the trap away, using the rod as a handle. "No way anybody's getting their foot in that bastard. This is rubbish."
With the road now cleared, Ben cautiously stepped into the pub and looked around. Other than a few corpses tucked nicely in a corner, the place looked like every other building in the London metropolitan area: abandoned, forsaken, cluttered. He avoided a patch of broken glass, dodged some broken furniture, and headed towards the counter. Hidden underneath the bar was a cache of a few bottles. He picked one to see virgin, unopened, untapped Vodka. Score.
"Hey, Matt! They're still cold!" Ben packed a few bottles into his pack, padding them with spare clothing to mask their treacherous clanking. As slowly as the two had arrived, they exited the pub and found shelter in the shadows. By the time they left the pub, the sun had noticeably retreated further into the horizon, and the grey mist of darkness had tightened its hold over the streets. Every now and then, streetlights beamed on and off, revealing fleeting pictures of the devastated urban landscape. The flickering traffic light, its colours oblivious to the environs, could be distinguished from the distance.
This time, however, silence did not hold its past power over the night world. As they slowly trudged back, they could eerily distinguish the cries and screeches of quarrelling gangs in the distance, some closer to them, some far away, some even across the Thames. If one's ears were open enough, the night indeed revelled in the cacophonous symphony of struggle and debauchery, of violence and barbarism. Everyone still alive in London had a bear trap clawed onto their foot, a death sentence waiting to be carried out. Worse still, everyone in London had vocal cords with which to produce the music of suffering that painted the sky.
As soon as the pair closed the distance between the pub and the toy shop, locking the door behind them, they saw flickering lights no further than a hundred metres out.
"Mafia," whispered Mateo as his hands implied they should reinforce the door.
"Aye," said Ben as he helped Mateo rack furniture against it. They counted upon the jagged, serrated glass to deter any attempts to enter the toy shop through the windows. Ben rested the baseball bat against a stand; in another time, it would have passed for another of the toys in the shop. Mateo seized the initiative and took a couple of cool swigs from one of the bottles. The liquid, oddly refreshing, brought a numbing, comfortable haze to his mind, one that he had not experienced over the weeks since he left his country.
"To the victor go the spoils," said Ben. "Cheers, mate."
The two continued drinking through the night. Garrett and Lucy were nowhere to be seen. To be honest, however, Mateo would be willing to admit that the group actually consisted of two—Garrett and Lucy were always skulking around, hiding behind corners. The natural desire was strong in them. Perhaps they did it to repopulate the Earth, they reasoned. And so they remained silent and allowed the two to continue.
Half an hour later, Garrett finally emerged from the back of the shop. His button shirt was now buttoned all the way up, and he had combed his shaggy and rebellious hair sideways. "I see you two were foolish enough to leave the shop. Important thing is that you're here now, and you've brought the drink. Well, share it like good lads."
"No can do. You get that," Ben gestured towards the manager's office, "we get this."
"The booze," added Mateo.
"The drink."
"The alcohol."
"Deal with it," finished Ben. "We got it. You can drink after your watch is over."
"Not our fault you chose the solo watch, friend," said Mateo. Garrett shrugged. Even though the two meant it as a joke, they were too disdainful of him—or perhaps too lazy—to explain the jest behind their banter, and so Garrett retreated back into the back of the shop for another few hours.
"What's a man without his alcohol?" asked Ben.
"Nothing," answered Matt. They were both quite drunk.
