Outside Looking Out: Basically Frightened, #2

By Vasily Pugh

      Leaner, meaner, wittier and wiser, the sequel to hit post-apocalyptic book 'Basically Frightened' is here. Taking place directly after the events of the original, 'Outside Looking Out' lands our hero in another set of unhinged circumstances. Who are 'Order'? Who are 'Protected Infected'? Where are his friends? Who are these new enemies? 

 

     Prepare to enter a dystopia quite unlike anything you've read before - 'Outside Looking Out' is a comic adventure that combines post-apocalyptic action with blistering satire and heartfelt emotion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Midland Monkey
• Release date: Dec 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393128090

Book preview

"He's a good man,

In a bad time."

I

I'm sat in a darkened room with the door locked. There's a measure of light from under the crack of the frame, and I use this modest illumination to survey the surroundings and make sense of my current predicament.

Twenty-four hours ago – though it could be more as I've been in and out of consciousness – my temporary home at 'Phoenix One' was torn apart. I saw a friend killed, and I had a big gun (I wish I could be more descriptive, but alas, I am not the combat-fatigue wearing survivalist writer you might be hankering for) pointed straight at my head. All in all, this has been as traumatic a period of time that I have endured since the global problems began. I remember when the world's population was dwindling. I remember when the people you passed in the street became fewer and fewer and each day seemed to move at a glacial pace as you wondered what tomorrow would bring. This past day has been on par with that.

I can hear the occasional dry laugh from the other side of the door. If I press my ear up against the flaking white paintwork of the panel of the said door, I can hear a lively game of Texas Hold'em taking place somewhere nearby (I can make out some mock Texan accents muttering away whenever a winning hand is thrown on the table). I've tried kicking the door in, but after one lively attempt the door was opened, I was given a sound kick to the groin - I can still feel the remainder of my testicles floating in my abdomen somewhere - and a cable tidy was tightly secured around my wrists and ankles.

This was not how I imagined the week would turn out.

But enough of my whinging. Whinging. Yes, my new 'associates' have decided that I am a whinger and I, therefore, need to stop before another bony appendage finds its way into my Special Place. The mere fact that they have destroyed what I had worked for seems to have escaped their attention.

You might be asking yourself how I come to be in this grim storage cupboard full of mops, brooms and cleaning fluids. Well, I'm not exactly overwhelmed with social obligations at the moment, so this might be the time to piece together the events for you all.

––––––––

What's your name? asked Lars. Lars is a Scandinavian gentleman with perfect English, a chiselled jaw that probably makes the girls swoon and he has a love of game hunting. His hair is that light lemon-pith blonde that could be used to advertise L'Oreal in the Old World.

My first instinct is to say 'Buckaroo Banzai', a name that has stuck with me quite pleasantly, but I don't feel that they deserve this lofty nom de plume. My head is trying to think of an appropriate 'Don't mess with me' name and as I try to think of something suitably edgy I get a kick in the thigh from the black guy who so enjoyed pointing a gun at me. His eyelid has a mild tremor when things are not going at the pace he demands.

Bruv, Lars is asking you a question, he says with a noticeable lack of filial compassion.

Yes, it's... I reply. I'm in the back of a van, and I can hear flames crackling away somewhere nearby and smell the remnants of a newly extinguished fire outside. A measure of the smoke comes in through the gap in the door and the light within the van is slightly distorted as a result.

He doesn't know his name? Is he... Lars says as he does the international signal for 'crazy' which is, as we all know, a circular motion of the finger next to the head and a slight cross-eyed expression. It's not the most politically correct suggestion which surprises me coming from someone who probably hails from one of those countries that used to be so keen for us all to use saunas.

My head is going through lots of possible options. Troy Kentucky - too 1950s B-Movie cowboy. Boris Devlin - a respectable name to use if I was a 'Die Hard' villain perhaps. Hercules Barrovelo - I will almost certainly get thrown off a bridge if I claim that this is my name. Yet, for some stupid reason, the first name out of my mouth is a character from a 'Carry On...' film. Obscure enough not to arouse suspicion. Unfortunately, it's not a name to engender respect from my peers. Lower their expectations, that's the new plan.

Bertram Muffet...

Good grief, do I pick my moments to come up with nonsensical references! No going back now though.

As expected, the people around me, who consist of the said pair and a stoic man in the far corner who looks like he knows what its like to feel a human neck break, laugh with even the latter managing a smirk.

––––––––

Your parents must have loved you! he mutters.

You're mixed race, and you've got the name of a manager at Barclays Bank. What's that all about? the black guy says with confusion.

My dad was, er, English, and my mother was from...Liberia. I'm not sure why I couldn't have just been honest about this; it's not as if the truth would have affected my position. The problem with creating a new persona, of course, is that you get lost in the idiotic minutiae that need to go with it for authenticity.

Ah, I get yer. White colonial master sires poor black slave. That's why you talk like a Malteser. he adds as if Spike Lee is directing his life story.

Something like that. Though I resent being called a Malteser unless you're referring to my soft honeycomb centre. I quip.

Lars looks puzzled, the black gentleman frowns, and the third person smirks to himself. Tough audience.

Mate, I'll call you what I like. Is that all right with you Bertie Bassett? my inquisitor adds after another kick to my thigh. This guy makes Jason Voorhees, my erstwhile rival, look like David Niven.

I can hear the engine start and the motion of the moving van rock us all gently. I think of Doug and the last time I saw him. I think about the first time I met him and the friendly Scouse manner in which he welcomed me into the community. I feel a sickness in my heart when I think of him getting shot, and this feeling starts to bubble up into a rage. Unable to contain this vitriol, I wait until attention is turned away from me and I launch myself towards Lars, the nearest offender, and land a couple of good blows to his stomach. He coughs in shock and tries to push me away while the black guy grabs my legs from behind. A few choice kicks in his shins throws him back against the other side of the van which rocks as a result.

What's happening back there? comes a shaky female voice from the front.

They seem a little surprised that good ol' Bertram Muffett knows how to handle himself. Imagine being felled by someone called Bertram Muffett? 

This guy's a psycho, Lars shouts through an enforced cough. Even his perfectly arranged hair has been thrown into a state of flux.

Just as I seem to be making headway, just as I look towards the van doors at the back and a chance of escape, I feel a sharp pain in the back of my head. It leaves me conscious, but immobile and the black guy further increases the pain by sitting on my chest with his considerable weight.

Let's put a bullet in him right now, he says as he reaches for his gun.

You sure, Hetch? Lars says, revealing my new friend's name to me.

Yeah, just say it was an accident. Who'll miss him? Hetch adds.

I've reached the point where adrenalin has taken over, and I don't much care what happens now. The brief stability I enjoyed has been destroyed and I feel cheated. The time before where self-preservation was on my mind has suddenly passed, and now I just want some kind of 'closure', as our American cousins say.

Not on my watch. comes a voice from the one person who didn't feel inclined to join in.

What's your problem, Lon? You sat there while it was kicking off and now you want to order us about. Hetch says as he turns to this Lon character.

I didn't think it needed three of us to keep one guy quiet. Maybe I was wrong, Lon replies as he picks dead skin from his roughly-hewn hands. As for shooting him, well there's already been too much of that. We might need him so just take a deep breath and shut up.

He gave Lars a smack. And I'm not too sure what good a helicopter pilot will be to us. Just turn your back Lon and go back to your little imaginary world while the men deal with this. Hetch spits back.

I am squirming under a combination of his weight and a knee that has been firmly placed between my shoulder blades. My head is still ringing from the significant clout I got a moment ago, but I am listening to this exchange with great interest. Division in the ranks it would seem. The post-apocalyptic norm you might say.

Hetch, you're not stupid so don't act like you are. After Max shot one of this guy's mates, did you think that he was just going to roll over? Let's agree that Max was an idiot and just get back shall we?

Max. This is the name of Doug's killer. 

It was a persuasive argument and I could feel the intent of Hetch wavering as he thought about what was said.

Well, I'm getting first pick at what's in his bag when we do off him. Hetch mumbles.

How comforting.

Following my symposium on why killing me would be a bad idea, they had allowed me a brief moment to pack some things while a gangly youth with an oil-stained baseball cap on his head followed me around. I had seen the carnage that Phoenix One was left in, the fires that had been set by this new team under their scorched earth policy. They had poked around in corners with brutal efficiency, taking whatever took their interest which, as it turns out, wasn't much. I got the chance to snatch my laptop and a few keepsakes before being thrown into this van.

Knock yourself out, Lon replies.

The light in the back of the van is dim and dingy, but I get my best look at Lon yet as I move my head to the side. He is a tall figure, probably over six foot three, full of a kind of honest muscle and purpose that one doesn't find in the gym. He has undertaken extensive physical work and has been invested with a psychotic scowl that distorts his face, yet it would seem that he is the most agreeable of the trio - I reserve judgement on the woman at the front. Lon's receding hair is shaved which further ages him though he looks to be in his mid to late thirties and has an icy demeanour that doesn't seem to fit his image.

II

When we make it back to the dwelling, I have a black hood put over my head as if I'm entering the Pentagon. My laptop has been taken away and all the files checked by a guy called Booster who has a loud Southern Irish voice and a throaty cough. As I am sat down on what feels like a cold metal chair, I can smell fresh pine as if I have been taken to a forest. When you get taken to a forest, it barely bodes well unless its Center Parcs and you're twelve years old. No, forests are usually the kind of places where bodies are found, and so, as I feel the soft, spring of the grass underneath my boots, I wonder what delights await. Will I get a last meal?

Take the hood off. This isn't Guantánamo Bay. says a female voice with a heavy sigh, the kind you give when dealing with children who have dropped Pepsi on your favourite Persian rug.

The space around me is a picnic area, slightly lit by beaming spotlights and with a tree house in clear view. It seems I really have ended up in Center Parcs or at least somewhere very similar. I think a quick go on the rapids might be out of the question though.

Bertram Muffett. What an exhilarating name! You don't look like a 'Bertram'. says the woman standing in front of me, the very same Oriental woman with flecks of grey in her hair who had led her side's negotiations earlier.

She has a confident gait which makes you think she's bigger than she actually is. This is combined with an authoritative way of talking to those around her that implies that she has their utmost respect. If even this 'Hetch' guy is listening to her, you can be sure she is an impressive figure in this collective.

We have a dilemma. she puts her muddy shoe on my ankle. We have another mouth to feed and our supplies are already dwindling. So we need to make a case for keeping you alive Mr. Muffett. These are the harsh realities of the world we live in. she says with a mock shake of the head at the end. She is a slender figure with a bounce in her step that seems more suited to university lecturer than a dystopian villainess.

We would usually have a vote on this, but two things are in your favour. Number one, you claim to be a helicopter pilot. That could be useful. Two, thanks to the little skirmish we've just had, we seem to have a few vacancies to fill. How many did we leave behind? she concludes by turning to Max, a middle-aged man with a flak jacket and combat trousers that are stretched over a few extra pounds here and there. He doesn't look like a killer, but then how often has that line been uttered throughout history?

Razor, Moose and Juno, all dead or just about, Max says matter-of-factly. I look at him and peer into the eyes of the person who killed Doug; he shows little or no remorse.

To be honest Mr Muffett, I couldn't stand the first two. With names like 'Razor' and 'Moose' you kind of know what level of cretin you're dealing with, she whispers to me. Juno though, she will be sorely missed. I hear Denise sustained some severe injuries.

Yeah, she's broken a leg we think. says a teen with some authority. I'm reasonably sure that this is the kid I gave a smack to earlier.

She's been a liability recently anyway Lena, says Hetch. She's been covering something up. I reckon she's got 'The Shakes'. Early stages at least.

And you don't think that I should have been informed of her condition earlier? Lena asks abruptly.

With all of the stuff we had going on, we just forgot to follow it up. Anyway, I told your trusted sergeant there, Max. He said it would be sorted Lars insists.

Ma'am, that's a lie. Had I known I would've quarantined her immediately as a precaution. Max says efficiently. He clearly fancies himself as an elite bodyguard to Lena and it would appear that she humours him.

Well, we'd know if it was anything other than early stages. comes another voice.

She can't just have got it. It doesn't work like that, Lon adds thoughtfully.

How often do I have to drum it into you all that we don't pick and choose what is reported? If you want to stay here, you do as I say, is that understood? Anyway, Denise is no longer of use so don't let her back in camp. Lena insists. No-one bats an eyelid.

You're just going to leave one of your team out there, probably to die, just like that, no treatment, no contacting Order? I shout. I can taste a saltiness as I speak which means that the blood from my mouth has started flowing again.

Order? No, they're the last people we need to talk to. And we have a rule here: You are only a part of the team while you are useful. It'll be a shame to lose an Infected though. Nothing screams 'revolution' like a newly infected person does. Lena says firmly.

I look around and see a few of the people that I had previously ignored looking sheepishly at the ground. Hetch goes off with a swagger while Lon shakes his head in disagreement. An attractive young couple in the background squeezes each other's hands that bit tighter.

It's barbaric. Though having seen what you did to my friends... I shout out as blood spits out of my mouth.

Why are we keeping this clown? Max says, lifting a hitherto unseen shotgun up in the air.

Men and their toys. Kill, kill, kill. says a new player in the drama unfolding around me. This arresting young woman is the one who held the matchstick in her teeth earlier. She has olive skin, a black bob and an elegant way of standing that better fits a catwalk. She is stunningly beautiful and yet frosty, almost as if she cannot quite comprehend why she is talking to these lesser mortals. I can imagine her with some Emperor's arm around her, watching a couple of gladiators clubbing each other to death in an amphitheatre. You're never quite sure if someone like this, pre-apocalypse, was a very pleasant professional woman who worked as a lawyer or something only to be turned into a cold-hearted temptress by circumstance. Or she might have been a bunny-boiling, nutjob all along and has the slight advantage of looking like the kind of person you'd see advertising Gucci.

He'll be useful, I'm sure of it. And if not...well you boys can have your fun. she says, overplaying her 'Evil Princess' act a bit too much. This isn't 'Game of Thrones', dear! She smiles at me and I'm briefly reminded of Alice – I hope you don't read this Alice! All I mean is that the sweet pursing of feminine lips together to form a smile is brought back to my mind, and I think that seeing Alice again is something I earnestly wish to happen. I got so caught up in post-apocalyptia that I ignored something real, something invigorating right in front of me before.

Take our friend to the main cabin and put him in the storage room. We'll see what he can do tomorrow. Lena says to two figures from the background who march out of the darkness, grab an arm of mine each and march me along. Lots of marching. I try a few cursory kicks out, but by this time I am so tired from events that I can barely move.

I get a brief glimpse of the main cabin as I am dragged through it. It's one of those upmarket log structures that they usually put at the front of a leisure facility to welcome weary travellers in before they go to their respective dwelling. There are a few photographs on the wall that have been knocked into askew angles and a big cream rug at the front that is christened by a drop of blood that dribbles from my mouth. The two figures who are 'escorting' me to my temporary abode do not speak, and I have neither the energy nor the inclination to look at them and remember their features. As my vision blurs, I am unceremoniously pushed into a large storage room and fall back against a series of mop buckets and toilet tissues.

III

As stated earlier, when I did awaken I didn't just lie back and accept my fate. Despite aching bones and a lack of visibility, I run towards the door in an attempt to break it down. After a few attempts the door opens, and the damage to my family jewels is done as I mentioned earlier.

We have to put these around his wrists and ankles. says a burly woman in a bulky fleece.

Is he worth all of trouble? says her equally meaty assistant who has swarthy skin and smells of strong coffee and unfiltered cigarettes. I detect an accent, but this probably isn't the time to have a chat about ancestry, family trees and favourite colours.

She says so. the woman answers with a shrug.

The woman reminds me of wannabe proto-feminist and professional moaner Ali who used to make even the sunniest days at Phoenix One seem as if they had sixty rain-drenched hours in them. The comparison is purely physical though I wonder if a shaft of daylight will reveal her to look completely different. For all of her faults, Ali had my back, and I once again think about the others and where they might have gone to. If I can get my own bearings, I can begin to either plot a course back to my humble abode or try and second guess where my old Phoenix One alumni have ended up. Perhaps to the collective that Pete was in communication with, perhaps somewhere else. I will bide my time, play the long game.

I am taken out to the toilet twice though see little of my journey to the bathroom. Is that the saddest sentence ever written? Perhaps. Even sadder is that my guards wait outside the door and I feel obliged to make a triumphant sound every time something passes from me and into the pan. Kind of an affirmation that I'm doing what I said I was rather than looking for a means of escape.

––––––––

There's nothing quite like a good kick to the man-dumplings, being tied up with cable tidies and dragged through the woods to restore the fibres. I sleep as deeply as I have done recently and when I wake-up, I can deduce that I have fashioned a rather nifty little futon from fallen toilet roll, the kind that has aloe vera and is meant to make wiping your backside