Brain-Eating Britain by Gary McMahon

Author:Gary McMahon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Rebellion Publishing Ltd

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE NEXT AFTERNOON.

Parkes had been trying to raise Windhoven on both the contact and distress frequencies, but got only static in response. The sky was thick with dark cloud. The storm had passed for now, but a couple of times lightning flashed far off in the distance, and a faint crack of thunder would roll in.

Stiles was huddled in a corner of the farmhouse's living room with a microwave lasagne, a dismembered bread roll, and a can of Special Brew, avoiding eye contact and rocking to and fro. He hadn't spoken, except to request food or alcohol. If I'd expected a fount of wisdom, I'd be disappointed. But if the powers that be had been convinced about him, they'd have a sent a full platoon, maybe a company. More likely some senior brasshat or MOD bod had thought of him at the last minute.

Still, I did my best. "Dr Stiles?"

He took a gulp of beer.

"Doctor, I need to know what's happening. We were sent to fetch you. Please. What is it you know?"

He took another gulp of beer.

I kept trying. After a while he started to hum tunelessly. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked to and fro. Sweat slicked his forehead. When I tried to speak, he hummed louder. I gave up. After a few minutes, he stopped, unwrapped his arms, and drained the can. Then he breathed out, looked into my eyes and said: "Can I have another one, please?"

The food situation wasn't so bad. As well as having stocks of it in the village, we were in farming country, with plenty of sheep, chicken and cows, plus wild rabbits. Most of the animals had survived, so we weren't looking at starvation just yet. On top of that, we had provisions of our own.

For now, though, the locals were using up frozen food before it went off. Result - large amounts of stews and casseroles were being knocked together. So at least it'd be a while before the freeze-dried Army rations came into play. I still had nightmares about the shepherd's pie. In the first Gulf War, the Yanks had called their rations MREs. Officially, it stood for 'Meals Ready to Eat'. The troops preferred 'Meals Rejected by Ethiopians'.

I decided to climb the Hill and scope out the terrain. Tidyman had had a pair of field glasses, which I'd appropriated (Shiny Kit Syndrome again.) Besides, it might be fun.

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