Pt. 19 - Neurons Like Brandy - Chapter 7: Oli

Neurons Like Brandy is a long running project of mine that I have been trying to finish for about 8 years. It focuses on a house in Brighton after the zombie apocalypse has passed, with flashbacks told by one of the remaining survivors every other chapter.

The chapter numbering is a little confusing so if this is your first time here and you are interested in reading more then I would recommend starting at the index where each of the chapters are ordered in the manner that they are meant to be read. 

Otherwise, welcome to chapter 7 of the flashbacks this focuses on Oli.

7: Oli

We layer our lives with bullshit, it is an easy way to deal with everything around us. I mean, there is so much crap around us to the point that if we confronted everything as ourselves I strongly believe that we'd crack under the stress of trying to be true to ourselves while dealing with it all. I believe that when we say and do things under a false pretense it protects us. If we lie about it then the real us can hide underneath unscathed.

I was born in Hertfordshire to upwardly mobile parents, my father was born in Senegal, the son of a lawyer and my mother just happened to love Senegalese food. I went to a private school and cleared all of my GCSEs with 'A's and went on to distinguish myself during my AS and A levels. You would barely have believed it if you looked at me or listened to what I said. I had a head full of hip-hop and black culture, when I was at school quite a few of them suspected it was all a facade and often called me on what I believed to be my 'roots'. So I'd fuck with them.

Sometimes I was Jamaican, son of a Dancehall legend who was shot and I was adopted by my current family. Other times I was Zimbabwean, my parents running from the conflict started there by Mugabe, I'd found solace in street culture while my father had tried to reclaim his family heritage and money that had been seized when they left the country. Then I'd say I was a Christian Sudanese with ties with underground Palestinian Hip-hop artists. It was fun because it was so easy to tell these kids, who learned their news from MTV, any old story and they had no way to contest it even if deep down they had to know it was bullshit.

It was fun because the real me, the scared little kid who knew he'd get his arse kicked if anyone found out the truth, could hide away from them all. 'Oli' was my nickname and he was my big brother, my alter ego. I could turn down going to parties on Friday and go home and study and listen to Aphex Twin, Leafcutter John, and Venetian Snares because Oli was going to some kind of hardcore rave or Yardie gig that outstripped anything the dumb teens of my classes could offer. Oli let me get away with liking computer games without being a geek. I was always safe.

When I went to Uni I sort of slipped into being Oli even easier than at school. Being in Brighton meant that I was miles away from Herts and there was no one who knew my history only the one that Oli gave them. When I lost my virginity, Oli had the confidence that could only suggest that I had done it before. Sure she went round telling everyone that Oli was shit in bed but I eventually got better at performing and my outward persona protected me until Oli was able to lay claim to being a good lay. 

The important thing was to know the difference between the bullshit outside and the inner truth and it was something that I lost a little during my second year of Chemistry. I was too busy trying to make sure Oli looked like he didn't give a fuck that I found it difficult to give a fuck myself. My classes were going to shit, I was stealing a lot of ether from the chem labs and dabbling in some of my own recreational experiments. Oli was sleeping with two or three girls from the campus and was balancing it carefully, so much so that I wasn't getting enough sleep as I was worried that he/I was going to fuck up.

That was when I met George. It was at some party where beer was flowing and all I/Oli wanted to do was get laid. The main room was playing some booming electronica but the other rooms had wishy-washy indie crap and indistinguishable ambient. I'd more than a few beers and Oli was cocky with it. I came across this skinny guy, wearing jeans that made him look even more emaciated, talking to this rockabilly-Goth chick. This was a girl that I found really attractive even though she wasn't part of Oli's scene. I remember thinking who the fuck this guy thought he was; he looked like he should have been born in the 40's and been a beat poet. He didn't wear a beret over his black hair but if he had he would have been able to pull it off. I decided to move in and start talking in my acquired style. The girl was not interested but I kept it up. George kept interjecting with some talk of Descartes, Nietzsche, Aristotle and other stuff that I figured was his bullshit. Except his bullshit was working like a charm on the girl. 

They excused themselves and George turned and shook my hand. I, dumbfounded, took it and shook it noting that it was strangely cold even though the house was boiling. They wandered off into another part of the building and I heard him mention something about a guy called Bukowski, which must have been fascinating to this girl as she laughed.

Oli swaggered off to find another conquest or maybe just call up one of the girls he was fucking, he couldn't decide. Inside all I wanted was a drink.

I had another beer and that parting gesture really started to piss me off, it was a little 'fuck you' from the prissy little bullshitter. I felt like I could see through him, he was just another guy like me hiding behind some kind of facade. I had another drink, and another. I remember thinking 'How dare he? How dare he have a better pose than mine?'. 

Oli decided to track this George down and call him out. I found him outside the party necking with the girl and immediately shouted 'Yo Bro.' to get his attention.

He turned my way and smiled just as Oli punched him straight in the face. The blow sent him sprawling into the building's front garden. The girl freaked out and ran back into the house.

I just stood over George as he attempted to gather his wits while lying on the wet lawn. I started sobering up and was mildy horrified by what had just happened, but Oli was in full swagger.

“Well that wasn't nice.” George said, looking up at me; there was blood pouring from his split lip.

“Well dude, if you are going to treat me like an asshole then I'm gonna fuck you up.” I snarled.

“Oh please, spare me.” George said dismissively as he propped himself on one elbow, and used the other arm to fish around in one of his pockets.

“Come again bitch?”

“I've seen you around campus, you are a Chemistry Student.” George retrieved a handkerchief and mopped at his lip. Then grinned. “Spare me the act.”

I saw red, being caught out like that after years of convincing performaces made me want to hit him. I stopped because it felt like it was actually me, not Oli, that was going to hit this guy. George seemed completely nonchalant about the threat, got up, dusted himself off and walked back into the party. I was left standing there, feeling stupid. Oli got out his mobile phone called up one of the girls he was seeing and I went round to her dorm.

I bumped into George at another party a week later and apologised for my actions and he just shook his head, handed me a beer and told me not to worry about it. We started talking about university and what we were studying. George talked of Philosophy and classical civilisation and prompted me to start talking about my limited studies. It wasn't until people started leaving before it became apparent that I'd been talking to him for the entire evening. Not only that, but for an entire evening I'd just been me. Talking to this lanky beat poet about everything from Ginsberg to Half-Life 2.

The party ended so we decided to wander around the university campus with a 4 pack of beers stolen from the host's fridge.

George was more wasted than I was, I could tell, or at least I thought I could tell, by his exuberance.

“No matter all the bullshit. You've always got to spend some time being yourself, you just have to find some one who can accept you for who you are.” He said as we loitered in a car park.

“Someone like you?” I smiled drunkenly.

“Someone like me and you.” George gesticulated with his half empty can of beer accidentally flinging some of the liquid onto the windshield of a nearby car. "Oops."

He paused then started running away, I thought it was a bit of an overreaction to the accident. I looked at the car to survey the damage and realised that there was a naked couple in the back seat staring at me. I shrugged at them and then followed George.

It took me a while to finally catch up with him, he had no cardio but he was a tall guy and I am pretty damn short.  We were on a little incline, he was laughing but struggling due to being out of breath. I tried to remember what he had been talking about, when my brain finally managed to catch up.

“Are you saying you have something to hide?” I took the beer off of him and took a swig.

“Of course but I did most of my hiding along time ago. My Dad doesn't like talking to me but that's his problem. Daddy can't be proud of his classics obsessed son following too many of the Greek ideas.” George grinned slowly then took another swig of beer.

“Wait,” I frowned handing him back the bottle of beer. “What about the girl the other night?”

“You can like both you know.” He took a swig. “Is that too much for your gangsta' ego?”

“Nah, I mean, no.” I shrugged. “Each to their own.”

That was half true, it didn't bother me but it bothered Oli. At that point I just thought 'Fuck Oli'.

"It's okay, my last, really big secret is doing something horrible racist when I was a teenager." George smiled wistfully.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, my boyfriend and I - first guy I ever kissed by the way. This doesn't make you awkward does it?" He asked.

"No, shut up and tell the story." I replied.

"We were playing basketball with some kids, we were 15 and they must have been 12; the youngest was probably 9. The game started off being a bit of fun but then the teasing started. It was 2 on 3 and we were winning so they started fucking with us." George paused and took another drink, he kind of shuddered. "They played around with names and we returned the favour and then one of them hit on 'Faggot', then all three of them were calling us that. It got under my skin how easy it was for them to let it roll off their tongue. Faggot, faggot, faggot, I didn't realise how they were able to just see it affect me, I see now. I was missing shots and fucking up."

George started walking off and I followed him.

"So I snapped." George admitted. "I turned around and called the black kid a nigger. That did not go down so well. My friend was also horrified and walked off. I learnt that fighting hate speech with hate speech means that everyone loses."

I was a little speechless after the confession.

"Do you at least understand that stupid angry 15 year-old me makes mistakes that 21 year-old me regrets forever?"

"Yeah."
 
After that night we became friends. I always felt like he had his own persona the 'George' that everyone got to see and then there was the one underneath. Slowly, though it dawned on me that this was just him. Unless he was so smooth that there were simply no cracks to be seen.

He never called me out on the 'Oli' side of me again and never showed me up when we were in the company of other people and I reverted back to being the Hip-Hop (fuck Garage and Grime) thug. When it was just the two of us I used to drop that part and he never treated me any differently. For a while I had started to lose that part of me, the real me, like the bullshit had been winning and I was just going to become Oli. George helped stop that, even only for a little while.

                                 *                               *                              *

Oli was in full control as we drove towards Brighton. Oli was all testosterone and attitude after having battered several individuals to death, he smoked a cigarette as he gunned the little car down the road into the face of an oncoming crowd. He didn't care whether they were scared refugees or just more 'zombies', he just beeped his horn for them to get out of the way. When they didn't, he mowed them down. I, on the other hand, was close to shitting myself, that was, if the smell of the blond guy's puke in the back seat didn't make me lose my lunch first.

George was as close to serene as you could get when the whole world was falling apart and he was talking to the girl in the back, trying to explain what was going on even though he didn't really know himself. The girl was either too stoned or she had entered some kind of catatonic state, it was hard to tell. I found myself stealing glances as we drove, it helped distract me to look at a cute girl.

The guy in the back seat was another matter, he was freaking out, both his hands were a mess. George had wrapped them up the best he could and was trying to calm him down in between talking to the girl. I could barely pay attention to what they were saying and only caught snippets. George was telling them those things outside weren't alive, and that he knew a place, high up, harder to get to that should be safe.

I was only half listening as we got into the outskirts of Brighton. I had to brake hard just before a roundabout in the Seven Dials area due to there being a blockade of sorts: two cars had collided at zebra crossing. As I brought the car to a stop George finally drew his attention to me. The guy in the back went quiet as soon as George's sight was diverted from him.

“Dude, what the hell?” He said in mild irritation as if I'd just offered him a slab of beef to eat and he had been a devout vegetarian.

“Dude,” I gestured at the cars.

“We can get round them, use the pavement.” George offered.

I looked at him.

“What, afraid we'll get arrested?” He smirked, I noted the smirk was almost a grimace. Oli just saw it as a direct challenge.

He inched the car backwards and they coaxed it onto the curb. There just enough space between the building and the obstructing car's wrecked bumper to get through. I don't know why I was driving so slowly. It was as if I was trying to watch the paint work or something. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I didn't have time to react as the guy/zombie ran round the car nearest us and ran into/onto the bonnet of the car. It was a crappy old ford fiesta (1987 model) so it was easy enough for the zombie to bounce its skull off my windshield leaving gore and a crack about 5 inches in length in the glass. I gaped at him. It remained poised, its eyeballs showing nothing but whites, mouth and throat smeared in dry blood. I was still staring.

“Oli, for fuck's sake!” George yelled, this seemed to snap me and the zombie out of our paralysis.

I slammed the car into reverse and started to pull away from the overturned cars. The zombie slid down to the floor in front of the car but was up seconds later. He wasn't alone by that time as over a dozen more came rushing into view. The car was accelerating slowly and two zombies were either side of the front windows as I tried to urge the automobile to go faster. I could hear the girl in the back seat swearing 'fuck' over and over again as the two undead appeared to stare in at us with those unseeing eyes while they pelted alongside. Finally, painfully the car gained enough speed to out run them. I leaned over my seat to watch where we were going, afraid that we were going to hit some kind of lamp post or tree and really fuck ourselves.

We ended up on the seafront. We occasionally chased by some runners, these gave up after a few hundred meters. When this happened, they started wailing this horribly mournful sound and, even as fleeting as hearing it was, it cut me to the soul. The grating sadness seemed to echo down from where they stood and follow us as we made our way.

I kept thinking that, somehow, this was like when everyone fell asleep. I'd been in Brighton when it had happened. George and I had been in a pub in the North Lane, George in his usual lucky self had gone to asleep while sitting down, I had been in the middle of ordering a round of drinks and in the process of falling had cracked my head off the counter. Ignoring my misfortune when we woke up, we had taken a morbid delight in going through the City and observing the carnage.

Admittedly, the first thing I did at that point was callmy family to make sure they were alright but after that, the macabre is what we looked for. Burnt out trucks, upended cars, totaled motorcycles, we even came across a Bus that had been tipped on its side in front of the Palace pier. George even took me down to one of the arcades and we played Streetfighter II on an old coin-op machine.

This time it was even more fucked up. The cars were strewn with blood stains and bodies (some still moving)on their bonnets and under their wheels, their bloody trails dragged for several meters behind them. Driver and passenger seat windows were smashed inwards and the splinters of glass had more blood dried brown, like Barbecue stains, on them. None of the cars were burnt, few of them looked like they had accidentally crashed. Instead it looked like they had been dragged to a halt and then pillaged. As we drove down the sea front into Brighton I saw small pockets of life, houses with lights on, maybe people too. A couple of vehicles came past us, I didn't look at the drivers but they did honk their horns as if to warn me that I was going the wrong way.

Yet, apart from the writhing messes that struggled, trapped between tarmac and rubber, there was no evidence of the attackers. I kept expecting to see hundreds of them walking/running towards us but it never happened.

I tuned into what was going on in the rest of the car as we cruised closer to our destination. The girl, that George kept calling Duck, was berating her boyfriend(?) for whining about a few scratches. Apparently he had smashed one of the zombies' heads through a window and as a result fucked up his hands. It was weird hearing them talk because you'd think that a couple would be relieved to see each other alive. They just sounded like they sort of resented each other.

Oli kicked in at that point and just said 'fuck it', I phased out their conversations and George's interjections and concentrated on getting us to the square.

It wasn't until we got to the edge of the square where George had directed me that I almost fucking freaked.

“Please tell me that you ain't planning to be gettin' into that building there.” Oli muttered, as I drew the car to a stop outside a metal club on the seafront.

George looked at me and then looked at the edifice I was referring to. He looked at me and I at him, he made this weird face where he scrunched up his mouth and flattened his nose; a bit like he had just smelt something really nasty.

There were about 200 dead people mingling outside that one block of flats.

“George,” Oli said quietly. “There ain't no fuckin' chance in hell we'd be getting within 100 feet of there.”

George looked around as if desperately looking for an answer then, almost triumphantly:

"That was a double negative."

He looked up, my eyes followed his to the sun roof. I slowly looked down, in the time it had taken me to do that George had already repositioned himself with his back on the seat of his chair with legs aimed straight up. He started kicking the sun roof out and within three kicks the crappy plastic had given way. He then got up and pushed it away. Slightly flushed he adjusted himself and grinned at me.

“No fuckin' way bro.” Oli said.

“Oli it will be easy.” George still grinned confidently.

“What are you planning?” This from the guy in the back seat.

“We drive into the mob from the weakest point, where there are least of them, and then onto the scaffolding.” George replied.

“Fuck you.” Oli replied. “It'll never work man.”

This sentiment echoed through the other two occupants of the car.

George looked at me. It was a penetrating gaze, his grin hadn't left this face.

“There's got to be a better way.” I argued then found myself flipping to Oli in a defensive manner. “I mean, we ain't ever getting up those steps.”

“Ah,” George winked. “We aren't going to do it from the front.

Our shitty little car burst into the side of the crowd, I managed to hit one of them in the midriff and split them clean in half. We were down the alleyway between the back of our target building and the one next to it before the crowd had barely had time to react. I had time to look in my rear view mirror to see they were already getting up and heading towards us. I brought the car around to the back of the flats and parked it as close to the railings of the rear garden as possible.

The guy and the girl, Duck, went through the sun roof first and scrambled onto the railings and then the scaffolding going up the back of the building. I looked at George and he winked again. I launched myself through the opening as the first of the fast zombies bounded onto the rear of the car. I scrambled to get on top, I didn't look back and despite the shaking of the car managed to put one foot in between the spiked heads of the railing and then jump to the wooden boards where the guy and Duck stood. I turned to watch George struggle out of the sun roof, it had been a stupid idea to leave him until last, despite him being skinny he was still bigger than me and it took him longer to wriggle through. Worse, I realised, he knew where we were supposed to be going.

Already there were about 7 or 8 of the fast ones around 3 sides of the car (I'd managed to park it close enough to the railings that none could get in on that side) scratching, and crawling up on it. The whole thing was shaking as George pulled himself free of the interior. He was forced onto to his hands and feet, like a cat, for balance. One of the zombies was taller than the rest and was easily able to grab for him. My heart jumped into my throat as it took a hold of his ankle and tried to pull him down to them. George's entrapped leg shot out and caught his captor square in the face. He looked at me and grinned again, lucky bastard that he was. The ones on the bonnet were slowly managing to tear themselves towards George. He saw this and cautiously tried to get to his feet. One of the zombies was gripping onto the windscreen wipers as he balanced precariously on the roof of the car. I stood feeling helpless, wanting jump back to help him but knowing that would probably only get us both killed.

George extended his leg to the railing, and went to make the jump to the scaffolding.

Except the undead on the bonnet managed to catch George's leg that he was taking off of the car.

George's smile flickered from his face and for the first time I think I might have seen what might have been George looking genuinely fucking scared.

His shoulder hit the side of the wood of our platform. I reached forward to try and grab him but he had already slid down, missing the garden and instead hurtling towards the steps leading towards the basement some 13 feet below.

I watched in horror as George plummeted, almost in slow motion, down towards the concrete. Then he connected with the floor, making a sicken thud as he did.

I looked up at my two companions, both of them just stared at me with these big, bulging eyes. The next thing I knew I was jumping down, bouncing off a plastic dustbin and next to George. He was lying very still and for a few panicked seconds I thought he was dead. Then he raised his head to me and whispered 'Shut that door'.

I looked around and saw that there was a door leading into the building wide open and there were zombies milling around just the other side of the threshold. I ran and slammed it shut and then turned back to George. He'd adjusted himself to a sitting position with his left arm against his chest. George managed to look up at me and mutter 'Damnit, my fucking wanking hand' over the moans of the dead. I wanted to laugh but one the creatures that had climbed over the car managed to topple down towards us, its descent was signaled by shouts from our partners above.

The thing landed badly, on its neck. It thrashed around kicking at George who was right next to it. It was still struggling to right itself when I grabbed it by the throat and stabbed it in the eye with a knife I bought from a Nazi memorabilia shop.

A little breathless I looked at George. He gave me the thumbs up with his right hand.

“You gonna be alright to get up there?” Oli asked.

“No probs.” George was grinning again.

The place was on the second floor and at the time of us breaking in it was completely deserted as if it hadn't been used in months.

“It is my Uncle's place.” George explained. “He uses it sporadically but I suspect that it is only when he needs to be safely away from my Aunt and in the arms of one of his, ahem, 'companions'. I doubt he'll be needing this place right now so make yourselves at home. Mi casa es su casa.”

Duck and her boyfriend took the guest room immediately and locked themselves in there, to do I don't know what. George and I exchanged wane smiles.

“Bitches.”

“Quite. Although I am not sure I like your terminology.”

First we checked to make sure the front door was secure, then we spent some time securing the windows as best we can. I was too distracted to notice George start to falter. It wasn't until he stumbled a little while we were in the bathroom then sagged down on the toilet seat that I looked at him. He was extremely pale and sweating slightly.

“Fuck George, you look terrible.” I said.

“It's my wrist it is giving me some grief.”

“Go to bed and I'll deal with this.”

George nodded and sloped off to the master bedroom.

I secured the rest of the windows as best I could, knowing that it would just take one punch to break the non-reinforced glass. After getting that done, I rechecked the front door and could hear some of them walking around at there. I resorted to drinking some of Vodka and I eventually passed out on a sofa in the living room.

I woke up to the smell of baked beans and bacon. I wasn't really sure of where I was and it wasn't until the events of the previous day filtered in that I figured whose bed I was in. I was fully dressed and drifted into the kitchen where George was busily cooking alongside Duck and chatting.

“Sup?” Oli muttered before I sat down at the table.

In the light of day I could see the place was a sweet pad. Imitation Degas on the walls and a nice fireplace. Even with the groans of the dead going on outside I felt I could happily stay here, while it was still safe.

George looked back at me, his left hand still clasped to his chest.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

“Always.” I smiled.

The other guy walked in and sat down next to me. I looked at him and he offered a smile to me.

“Ah, I see the walking wounded has decided to join us.” George flashed a grin at him. “How are you feeling Paul?”

“My hands are throbbing.” He said morosely.

George went back to cooking with Duck. Paul and I just sat there in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes until the bacon was finished sizzling. George slunk into the seat next to me, opposite blond boy Paul and Duck handed out plates with the food.

“It isn't much,” George said. “But I think we are going to have to make it last.”

I started scoffing my portion down, I was famished and was eager to lick the saucepan clean.

“What are we going to do here George?” Paul asked. “I mean, why are we even here?”

I looked at George, he had stopped eating mid-fork-full of beans and looked at Paul.

“That's a good point.” He smiled and emptied the beans into his mouth. Then: “My Uncle was always keen on having tinned produce in full supply in his apartment, even if he never ate the stuff. Tinned food never really goes off. Neither does all the pickled stuff up there.”

George pointed to the four large cupboards above the work surface.

“This can't stay like this forever.” George said, I could see him poking at his bacon. I could see that he was lying. He was so bad at pretending. “This flat is easy to secure, the door is solid and we are too high up for them to come through the windows. All we have to do is wait. The military will get this under control before we know it.”

Neither Duck nor Paul noticed his poor acting and I ignored it. I didn't want to think about the connotations.

We finished up our meal, then Paul tried all of the phones. They were dead already. George pointed out that my uncle was a 'poor bill payer' and that the phones might be disconnected.

I was sort of interested in Duck, the girl was definitely a bit weird but there was something that attracted me to her. Something to do with her having her electroclash thing going on, that she was the complete opposite of what Oli would ever go for.

While the other two were talking I followed Duck into the guest bedroom where she was looking through a wardrobe.

I sat on the bed, which squeaked slightly, this made her head snap back in my direction. Her look softened when it was apparent that I wasn't going to try and eat her.

“Woah there.” I smiled. Yeah, she was cute in her glasses with her bleached fringe. “ How're you doin'?”

“I'm okay. I suppose.” She shrugged.

“Whatcha doin'?” 'Oli' asked.

“I was just looking through the stuff in here.” She shrugged again, this time a little uncomfortably. It was like she didn't want the focus just on her.

“Cool, cool.”

“Do you reckon that we are going to be saved?” She asked earnestly.

It was my turn to shrug.

“I don't really feel safe here.”

I wanted to say something consoling or at least get Oli to say something that was boisterous, macho or some such shit. Unfortunately a shadow jumped down outside the window.

From the corner of my eye I saw Duck shrink away from the figure outside, wordlessly she drifted towards the door. I started to get up, to grab my knife, then the figure gently knocked on the glass and waved.

I don't think I've ever felt so relieved in my life. Still a little cautious, I saw these as dangerous times, even if the person outside was really a person and not a flesh-eater, it didn't mean they were on the right side. The guy was about 6 foot tall, long, wild brown hair and could have easily been an extra from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. You know, the one who cuts himself in the opening sequence.

I look back and see what I did as stupid, but at the time that glass seemed like some kind of solid barrier between me and our new friend.

“What 'cho want?” 'Oli' shouted.

“For the world to not be over.” The figure shout. “How are you?”