Last Orders.

(For The Captain.)

Jason began coughing up blood. Great, dark, jellied clots of the stuff that came gurgling out from his diseased lungs. He didn't have much longer, a day or two at the most. We were all worried about that. As he lay there on the sofa, sweating and stinking we knew that it was only a matter of time before we had to deal with him. Gordon had wiped Jason's brow with a damp cloth just to do something. He was taking it the hardest. Apparently he'd known Jason since school. “Is there anything we can get you, Jason?”

“I could murder a dram.” Jason groaned through his clenched blood-stained teeth.

“We've got some Whyte and MacKay's left, if you like?” Jason offered.

Jason coughed again, a thick sound, rattling deep in his chest. “Fuck that. There's a reason we've saved it tae make Molotovs.”

I never really got on with Jason, he was always too quick with a crap joke that only he laughed at, always too critical of everything everyone else did, nevertheless he was a mate of sorts and when he got bitten the rest of us were really crestfallen.

It had been eight weeks since we'd holed up in a house about four or five miles outside of the city, Mitch, Jason, Gordon, Jim and I. Eight weeks since all the shit went down. We'd all been in the Pot Still on Hope Street, sampling various old malts and talking about the mayhem that had been happening. We had all known something was wrong for a few weeks, the “riots” were on the news and martial law had been declared. There were bodies piling up in the gutters. We thought the Government had it somewhat under control though.

So there we were. I remember Jim had suggested the Bunnahabhain, '74. The year of his birth. It was the stand out whisky of the night. We all agreed to that, a smooth dram that had the aroma of old library books and a zest hint beneath. I preferred it straight, letting the flavour emerge as it evaporated in my mouth but the others said it revealed itself with just a splash of water.

It was then that we heard the screaming start. The barman jumped over the bar, shut and bolted the exterior shutters before locking the door. We could see droves of people running past the windows, some of them covered in blood, all were wide eyed, panicking and moving fast. The atmosphere in the pub was a bit tense but that was cut through by some old wag cheering that it was now officially a lock-in.

The Barman switched on the TV, something usually unheard of unless there was an important game on. It was then we realised just how bad things had become. We were watching footage of a street in Bradford where a horde of the infected were overwhelming the military while a nervous news-crew -live at the scene- jumped between narrating what they were witnessing and arguing about getting out of there.

Their ambivalent mood seemed to spread to the pub and even amongst our group. The chaos outside didn't help. We saw dozens, maybe hundreds of infected run up the road, attacking the slow moving APC that was attempting to gun them all down. The infected overwhelmed the soldiers too quickly and stray bullets shattered the pub window. It was only a few seconds before the infected started pouring in. The bar staff bolted down the stairs leaving the customers stuck. Jim shouted “move” and we didn't need to be told twice. I have to admit that I wasn't thinking properly and as we pushed through the tables I shoved some old guy into the path of the infected. He went down screaming, as their fingers started tearing through the poor sod's flesh.

Somehow, God knows how, we made it out onto the street unscathed. There were bodies everywhere, empty shell cases, clusters of infected, it was insane. There was a black cab zooming up the street, just running down the infected and people, the driver obviously had lost his mind to fear. I couldn't say I blamed him. The edge of his taxi smashed into the APC and the idiot came flying out, smashing the windscreen and arcing through the air right into the path of about a dozen or so waiting diseased maniac. His misfortune was our escape plan.

No one suggested we grab the taxi, we just all ran for it. Gordon jumped into the front and started the engine while we all piled in the back and got the fuck out of there sharpish. By the time we made it to Cowcaddens the Military were already dropping bombs in the centre. We realised we had to get out of the city. Mitch told us he had a farm cottage a few miles out of town and so we decided to head there.

It wasn't just the city that had fallen, the outskirts and suburbs were in chaos too. We saw the collapse of civilisation through blood smeared and rain spotted windows of a black taxi. We watched two children, no more than ten years old, pulverise a young woman to a mushy pulp with mallets, just to stay alive. We saw the infected, still ablaze storm through the windows of a care-home. We saw worse, much worse. We witnesses things that were unspeakable, things that burned into our memories so completely they were like the equivalent of looking at powerful bright lights, their image remaining even when you closed your eyes.

We were thankful to be out in the farmlands as what remained devoured itself. Despite the horror we even managed to muster a cheer when Jason revealed he'd swiped a bottle of Longmorn from the bar while everything was going bananas.

I wished we still had that bottle, it might have been the perfect dram to send Jason on his way. A strong nip, even with water, with hints of black tea and beeswax almost drowned out by a taste of pencil shavings smothered in maple syrup. He'd have been able to enjoy that even with all the blood in his mouth and throat.

We'd drank it though. What else were we going to do? The TV and radio were dead air after two days. We were far enough from civilisation that we were safe enough but I think we all knew that it was futile. We were alive, sure, but what was the point? Five middle aged men, none of us with any family to protect, we were just there waiting for the inevitable, fruitless end.

To keep us active and alive, we took turns at scouting. The taxi proved useful for us to forage the nearby stores and despite a few close shaves we all managed to survive, stocked up on tins and booze. We spent our days and nights getting hammered, mostly on common blends and failing that vodka. We were all drinking ourselves to oblivion, but if the truth be told we would have probably have been doing that even if the world hadn't fallen to a pandemic of diseased psychotics who seemed able to come back from death.

When, yesterday, Gordon Jason and I took our turn to go out looking for supplies we decided to take a chance and headed towards a large discount warehouse not far from Paisley. That had been a mistake. The place had looked empty and we entered with a sense of confident abandon. Inside it was dim, stale smelling, the air filled with weeks of dust and mildew. There was an odour of putrefaction which we had become accustomed to, the stink of fresh food gone off. As we began to explore we turned one corridor into a lane which was filled with infected. They were after us at once and despite us having quite the head start on them, they just poured out of the place after us, screaming that unearthly scream that seemed to act as a siren for others of their kind.

We bolted across the car-park with dozens of them gaining on us. I thought we had made it, I really did. Things were crazy, violence and screaming and banging and swearing but we all got in the taxi and were off. We were buzzing with adrenaline, gibbering and laughing at our close shave. It wasn't until we were well on our way back to the farm that Jason showed us the deep bloody wound in his arm. There was still a shard of decayed tooth lodged deep into one edge of the missing chunk of dark, bruised flesh.

It was a sombre afternoon. We had no booze and so we were all on edge to start with. Having Jason there, waiting to turn, didn't help. Mitch and Jim obviously wanted him out, even if they said nothing, but Gordon and I felt somewhat responsible and so wanted to make his last hours as comfortable as possible.

“I could murder a dram.” He had said. It was his last request. Our silly risk had been responsible for his horrible fate, how could we deny him a quality whisky to send him on his way?

Mitch, Jim and I agreed to head out. It was Jim who suggested we take a trip to the Auchentoshan Distillery. It was a good call, one we didn't even have to take a vote on. It was fairly close, was likely to have a tonne of whisky and, well, we were all, by that point, gasping. To be fair, I think Mitch and Jim just wanted to get out of there in case Jason turned. They didn't want to deal with it, I understood. Gordon said he would if and when it came to it.

When we started out the sun was already sinking behind the hills and it was dark as we got onto the Old Greenock Road towards Erskine. At first the bodies were as sparse as the infected but as we approached the Bridge over the Clyde both began mounting up. The military had, at some point set up checkpoints at the entrance to the Erskine Bridge but they had been overwhelmed. “Fuckin' useless.” Jim had said shaking his head.

“They tried their best Jim.” Mitch responded. “They were hardly prepared, no one was expecting this.”

We headed over the bridge slowly, swerving past the blockades and cars, most of which had their contents and passengers torn up and spilled out onto the tarmac. There were several infected wandering about, but they didn't seem to care that we were passing.

We got across the bridge and were soon approaching the distillery. Our faces all fell when we saw it had been razed. It had been recent too, smoke and flames still tickling the night air. There were dozens of bodies, mostly infected by the looks of them; charred, missing chunks of flesh or limbs. Here and there we could see the ragged corpses of several others who'd come here, probably with the same idea as us. It had gone badly for them.

We drove close to the remains of the main building. The copper still outside had a large hole in it and the top half was black and soot covered.

“We're here now.” said Jim, obviously disappointed. “We might as well see if we can find something.”

Inside the burnt out building we could see charred husks of casks and of humans. There was broken glass everywhere, mostly from the windows but quite a few bottles.

“Crying shame.” Jim said. “Crying fucking shame.”

It was a sentiment we all shared. The place had been gutted, it didn't take us long to figure out that it had been ransacked long before the fire had hit it. The group who'd came before and died had not been the first with the idea to spend the end of the world blotto.

We were dejected by the whole thing and decided it was best to leave before more infected turned up. We were close to civilisation, it was only a matter of time before they arrived in their hundreds. As we exited round the back when we saw more bodies. More infected and about four others, one of whom seemed slumped over at a weird angle. It was Mitch who got curious. He walked over and with the sharpened shovel he used as a weapon, pushed the corpse aside. Underneath him was a single case of whisky. He turned to us with a wide grin on his face. He didn't need to say anything. This was a case of their 1965 vintage. You'd have thought we had struck gold. In a manner of speaking we had. To us the vintage whisky had more value than gold. It was probably incautious for us to laugh and cheer, but we opened it to find 12 gorgeous bottles still in their fancy silver cases. We didn't chance our luck. We lifted the case and got back in the taxi. Just in time too, we could see the infected coming out of the dark towards the distillery.

Back at the farm we opened the bottle and poured out some glasses. Jason's skin was already turning that bruised greenish colour, and he was obviously in a lot of pain but he was still in his right mind. We drank, ironically, to his health.

The flavour was wonderful. It had a sharp citrus tang which played well against the notes of smooth sweet honey and rich toasted coconut. It went down well, though with a bit of a afterburn which was warm and comforting rather than abrasive. We finished two bottles of it that night. Sang some of Jason's favourite songs as the fever finally entered his brain and took what was left of him away. Gordon cried when his eyes finally closed and I must say I shed a tear or two of sympathy myself.

After a few minutes, Gordon sniffed, took another belt, swallowing the priceless liquor in one fell swoop and then grabbed Jason's body by the feet. He dragged him onto the floor and then, with Mitch's shovel and his foot, took Jason's head off his shoulders, like he was digging up Earth. We helped him take what was left out the back and burned the body.

Afterwards, Gordon said, “I need a drink.”

We had ten bottles left. All in all, it was well worth the risk.