World War C

Where coffee meets chaos.

As the sun rises over the quaint Carlow neighbourhood of Hacketstown, a queue forms outside Ger Moorhead's coffee van. It is deeply, eerily quiet. All John-Joe can hear is: just the breeze. And the faint droning of flies.

‘Janey Mack, I've never seen it this busy,’ Pauline whispers, gently cradling her bichon like a baby.

‘Same,’ John-Joe replies, getting frustrated now.

There are sixteen people in the queue - one person for every minute he's wasted twiddling his thumbs, waiting for some movement, any movement. He can only see the tops of the heads of the first three people. In fourth is Cormac Malee. Fifth is Peg Rooney. Six and seven are strangers. Eighth is David McCarney. Nine is Kellie O’Neill. Ten to fifteen are strangers. Sixteen is Pauline. And Paddy last is John-Joe himself.

‘Pauline, how long have you been waiting?’

‘Twenty minutes. Absolutely disgraceful.’ She looks down at her furry companion. ‘And you were so looking forward to your hot chocolate, Theodore, weren’t you? Weren’t you? Yes, you were!’

The dog looks visibly disturbed, his little paws trembling. John-Joe can't help but wonder what could be troubling the poor creature.

‘Theodore will be waiting a fair while, I’d say. Unless Ger has some special dog hot chocolate back there.’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Ger sells dog hot chocolate.’

‘Oh. Right. That’s... that’s good then.'

John-Joe’s patience is wearing thin. He shouts over to David McCarney, who’s a few spots ahead in the queue.

'Hey, McCarney! What's the hold up, man?’

McCarney doesn’t respond, so John-Joe shouts once more. Again, no response. In fact, there’s no reaction from anyone in the queue. Just a sea of people’s backs and droopy shoulders, lacking the usual vibrancy of anticipation one would expect in a coffee queue. They couldn’t even be bothered to turn around. John-Joe is awed by the sense of desolation that surrounds him. Finally feeling compelled to act, he decides to approach McCarney.

'Well, man. How’s things?' he politely asks, trying not to disturb the flow of the line. 'Do you know what's causing the delay?'

When McCarney turns around, John-Joe notices something is amiss. His skin has an oddly pale hue and there's blood all over his Under Armour vest. The blood is so old it's turned dark brown. He stares at John-Joe with deep, sunken eyes. Flesh drawn tight on skull and bone. Lips torn away, leaving just a snarl of teeth.

'Were you on the beer last night?’ John-Joe asks.

McCarney points a shaking finger at him. 'Are you trying to steal my vanilla latte with a hint of cinnamon?’

'No, of course not,' John-Joe replies, taken aback by the accusation.

'I was here before you, ye snake!’ barks McCarney, his voice hoarse and strained. ‘Nobody takes my vanilla latte with a hint of cinnamon. Nobody!’

‘Relax man, will ye?’

‘Don’t tell me to relax. How the fuck am I supposed to relax without my vanilla latte with a hint of-’

‘I heard you the first time. Get down off me!’

His bloodshot eyes glare at John-Joe suspiciously, but after a brief exchange of heated words, he leaves his place in the queue.

‘You haven't heard the last of this! I’ll have my day in court!’

McCarney limps away towards the town, leaving behind a trail of blood-soaked footprints.

Pauline tuts and shakes her head. ‘The youth of today,' she says. 'No manners on them at all.'

With curiosity getting the better of him, John-Joe makes his way to the top of the queue. The coffee van isn’t even open. On the shutter, he sees a scrawled sign flapping idly on string.

CLOSED

With a dejected sigh, he contemplates his next move when suddenly, a voice from behind breaks the silence.

'Let me guess... you’re here for tea.’

John-Joe quickly swings around and there, standing before him, is a man donning a weathered cowboy hat that obscures most of his face.

‘Yeah, how did you know?’

The man tips his hat and speaks in a gravelly voice. ‘It was either that or hot chocolate. And you don’t strike me as a sweet tooth, son.'

‘What's your usual?’

‘Herbal tea. And the occasional protein ball.’

‘I hear they’re nice. Why is Ger not open?’

‘He’s been off sick for three days. Real bad earache. They reckon he might have to get it amputated.’

‘Get what amputated?’

‘His ear.’

‘I don’t think that’s a thing.’

The man merely shrugs, a faint smile dancing across his lips. ‘Believe what you want to believe.’

‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’

‘Well, you better start understandin’ before you get yourself killed, son. Dark and difficult times lie ahead. Look around. What do you see?’

John-Joe shields his eyes against the sun and looks down the town. A huge sprawl of abandoned cars radiates outwards from the footpaths. It looks like the world's biggest and most disorganised used-car lot. Or, in other words, the M50. Vehicles spill out onto the road and even into the surrounding fields. And then there’s the people in the queue. They’re standing motionless, their eyes fixed on the coffee van with an empty gaze. They don’t fidget or talk amongst themselves like normal people waiting in line. It’s as if they are in a trance.

‘You see, son,’ says the man, ‘coffee ain't just a beverage; it's a way of life for some folk. It's that warm embrace that nudges you awake in the mornin', ready to take on the day. Without it, some folk feel like they're driftin' through a fog, lost without their trusted brew. Take Kellie here for example. Without her raspberry white mocha, she’s simply unable to stay awake. She's been asleep in this queue for the last five hours. Talks an awful lot in her sleep. Farted a few times as well, the dirty bitch.'

‘How can she sleep standing up?’

‘It’s a shame not all of them are sleepin’.’

‘Who’s them?’

‘The coffee drinkers.'

‘You mean, there's more of them?’

‘There’s a whole army of them, son. And they’ve lost their minds. They’re protestin’, vandalisin’ shops, Podge Smith punched a pensioner in the face. The Garda station was set on fire.’

‘Christ. Was anybody inside?’

‘No one has set foot in that station for years. Not even a Guard.’

‘True that.’

While John-Joe and the man are deep in conversation, the ground trembles beneath their feet, and the sound echoes like thunder in the distance.

‘Was that... a bomb?’ John-Joe asks.

With a heavy sigh, the man slowly raises his rough, calloused hand to his cowboy hat, gripping the brim tightly. ‘Yes, and it wasn't Kellie either. The town has gone mad. Well... madder.’

'Why don't they just buy coffee out of a supermarket?'

The man chuckled softly. 'There was a time when folk could tolerate a cup of instant coffee. But those days of Maxwell House are well and truly behind us. Maxwell is homeless.'

'That's a terrible analogy.'

'For years, we straddled the line between coffee snob and coffee slave. Now, we must pay the price.'

As John-Joe observes the unsettling scene of the coffee van queue filled with zombies, a profound sense of relief washes over him. While he sympathises with their plight, he’s grateful he doesn’t share the same intense need for coffee.

‘God, I’m glad I don’t have an addictive personality. Ice and cocaine aside.’

‘What?

‘What? Never mind. What’s your name by the way?’

The man pauses for a moment, his eyes glinting with a hint of warmth as he responds, ‘Names aren't as important as actions in times like these, son.’

‘Just tell me your name, ye moron.’

‘You can call me... Phoenix.’

‘So, your name is Phoenix.’

‘Well, no.’

‘Is it a nickname?’

‘Ehm, no, but-’

‘Just give me your real name, like.’

‘Eamon.’

‘Right, I’ll call you Eamon, so.’

As the sun begins to set, casting an ominous glow over the coffee van, Eamon turns to John-Joe with a resolute look in his eyes. ‘Son,’ he says firmly, ‘we're in the midst of an apocalypse, and there's no runnin' from it. But if we're gonna stand a chance, we need to get Ger back on his feet. He’s the only one who can restore the town to its former dull, mediocre self.’

‘But he has an earache.’

‘So, we need to find somewhere that has a remedy.’

John-Joe's heart races as he nods, realising the weight of their mission. The fate of the world rests on their shoulders. Together, they must embark on a perilous journey, navigating through the chaos, to find a chemist, wherein lies the key to saving humanity – ear drops.

‘I might collect my prescription while we’re there,’ says Eamon. ‘I’m on blood thinners.’

TO BE CONTINUED...

Well, maybe. It depends. See how busy I am. Good luck.