by Mark Ayre
Like all possessed, Betty boasted incredible speed and reflexes. Had she retained focus she could have either reclaimed the grenade before it flew too far, or grabbed Mercury before she could escape.
Shock prevented her from taking either action.
Mercury flew through the door, into the living room.
The grenade hit the wall, the wardrobe, the carpet. It rolled beneath the bed.
Accelerating as fast as was possible, Mercury dived across the living room, making it halfway to the front door, to escape, in a couple of seconds.
Then the bomb went off.
Four
In a van, across the street from the pub, Benny ran her through the plan once more. When she didn't respond; worse, couldn't even look at him, he leaned in, putting an arm around her shoulder and a hand upon her leg, just north of her knee.
"I know you're frightened. I'm asking a lot, but only because I trust you. Because I know you can do this for me. Come on, make me proud."
Still, she could not look at him. Across the street a bouncer in a cheap black suit stared at his phone, looking up only to ID check the infrequent new patrons. Through the glass windows, Sam watched blurred faces chatting, drinking, laughing.
At least one drinker was alone.
"Sammy," Benny prompted. As he spoke, he squeezed her leg. Not so hard it would hurt. Hard enough to be sure he had her attention. "You need to get moving."
Growing fear and guilt brought tears to Sam’s eyes. Countless times over the past few days, they had reviewed the plan. Repeatedly, Benny had promised it would be okay. She should have no doubts. Should be pleased for the chance to help Benny. She owed him everything.
Regardless, she did not think she could do it. She didn’t know how to tell him.
"Sammy." The voice was a little sterner now. He squeezed a little tighter, if only for a second. Sam flinched at the bite of pain. At last, looked his way.
"I don't know if I can do this."
It had been a pervasive thought the past few days. That Sam had verbalised the fear amazed her. For several seconds, Benny held her eye, then turned away.
With his gaze, he took his arm and hand. Releasing Sam, he shifted in his seat, twisting to view, as Sam had, the bar, the bouncer, the target.
The next couple of minutes, they passed in silence. Benny was a talker by nature. The quiet signalled his disappointment, and the disappointment was like a tonne weight pressing upon Sam's skull. Her lungs constricted. She wanted to say something but was afraid of the response.
Five minutes passed before she managed, "I'm sorry."
As she spoke, he twisted her away. His look was a blade to her gut. When he leaned in, she resisted the urge to flinch.
"When mum and dad died, everyone thought I'd piss off, abandon you. Remember that?"
"I never thought—"
"I stuck around," he cut in. "Raised you, protected you, did everything for you." He shook his head; his expression spoke of his revulsion. "This," he jabbed a finger towards the bar, "is nothing compared to what I’ve done for you, to what I sacrificed. How can you not get that?"
Trying not to cry, she said, "I get it. I do get it. You've been the best brother in the world. Perfect. I want to pay you back, I do. Just…"
He looked at her, waiting. There were no more words. She searched, desperate for something useful to say: found nothing.
"Not this?" He asked. "You'll do Anything to pay me back for everything I've sacrificed. Just not this. That right?"
She opened her mouth. First time of trying, nothing escaped. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she nodded and forced out the words.
"Anything else. I promise. Anything else. With this… I just can't. I'm sorry. I'm useless."
Benny looked away, over to the bar, considering. After a few moments, he sighed, stroked his cheek, and leaned towards Sammy, replacing his arm around her shoulder, his hand on her knee.
"Sweet Sammy, there is nothing else. All these years I've done everything for you and asked nothing in return. At last, I need something. One simple thing, and you say you can’t." He looked back at the bar; his fingers on her knee gripped tighter than they as yet had. "You will do this," he continued, now tightening his grip on her shoulder, too. "You will do as I ask because you owe me, and you will not mess up, do you understand?"
Her brother's grip grew tighter with each passing second. If there had not already been tears in her eyes, the pain would have done it. It hurt too much to talk. She managed a nod.
"Good girl. Smart move. I knew you wouldn't let me down."
The pain reached a new intensity. Sammy could feel Benny's eyes on her face as she fought the urge to scream. It felt as though the bones in her shoulder and leg were about to snap. She could hold it in no longer. She opened her mouth and—
Benny released. When he patted her knee, she flinched and whimpered. He stroked the back of her hair and kissed her cheek.
"I love you ever so much, Sammy. You know that, don't you?"
Sammy nodded. "I love you too."
Smiling, he kissed her cheek again, then opened her door.
"Great stuff, now go on kiddo. Knock 'em dead."
Five
In the second Trey had driven his blade into the heart of his prey, even as he was throwing himself from his victim, he had experienced a moment of pure elation.
He had noticed the SUV’s arrival. Machete’s actions told him this vehicle contained more enemies. He knew if any of Machete’s blood hit him, he would suffer unparalleled agony; possibly worse.
Both facts he forgot as the blade sunk deep. For the first time he was not Trey; passenger, but Trey; warrior. He had proven his worth; had saved Amira.
Trey’s victim had ceased to scream. His body was a mess of melted flesh and smouldering leather; of charred bones and sizzling muscle. His fellow infectees would not mourn their fallen associate but might be incited to violence by his demise.
They had Trey in their sights. As they shouted, he rose; as they gave chase, he bolted.
Behind him, they fanned out, creating a line which would cut him off if he went for the car. Turning the corner, he raced for the fire escape which ran from ground level to top floor.
Reaching the stairwell’s foot, he swung around the railing and climbed, his feet clanging on metal.
Having watched him ascend the steps, several of the infected halted their pursuit. Most returned to the building’s entrance. A couple ran past the fire escape towards the block’s back wall.
Only three stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Two of these remained at ground level. One ascended.
Without pause, Trey rushed past the middle floor onto the top. The roof was out of reach. His only route forward was through the window into the top floor corridor, along which stood Amira’s front door.
Seemingly in no hurry, the infected continued to rise, moving ever closer to where Trey was stranded.
The element of surprise not an option, Trey did not fancy his chances in the forthcoming altercation. Despite this, he grabbed from his bag the second knife before searching his pockets for his phone.
Despair and humiliation crawled along his wrists as his fingers found no trace of a mobile. Now he remembered dropping the handset between his legs in the car. When he had departed to take on Machete, he had not picked it up.
As his new enemy ascended the final flight of stairs, Trey saw first his face, decorated with an insane, giddy grin. What followed was a slender body cloaked in baggy, stained clothing. In his hand was a baseball bat.
How could Trey have been so stupid? Had Amira not warned him to stay in the car, to not attempt to take on their enemies? This was why. If he had listened, Amira would have known about Machete, and the backup that followed. Forewarned is forearmed. Amira was about to be overwhelmed and had no idea what was coming.
The window into the upper corridor was locked. On the wall, Trey spotted a fire alarm and a hammer for breaking its glass cover. Neither of which were
of use this side of the window.
Having reached the fire escape’s summit, the infected stopped. A metre separated the pair. One hand tightening on his bat, the infected raised his other in greeting.
“Howdy,” he said. “You must be Trey.”
“I am.”
Trey was worthless, useless. In trying to be a hero, he had plunged Amira into danger. He wished this infected had a gun. A bullet to the brain and Trey would feel no more guilt. The bat could also kill him, but first there would be significant pain. Despite his vast experience with physical beatings, Trey still feared agony.
Raising his knife, he said, “Stay back.”
With unexpected ferocity, the infected swung the bat into Trey’s extended knife-wielding hand.
The blade flew over the railing into the night. After pumelling Trey’s hand, the bat hit the window, cracking but not smashing the glass.
Once Trey was done screaming; as he took deep breaths in an attempt to control the pain, the infected said, “You were saying?” Then began to laugh.
Trey was bent double, good hand cradling bad. Already suffering from burning anger at himself, for his failings, the infected’s laughter pushed him over the edge.
Roaring, Trey launched from his bent stance, wrapping his arms around the infected’s legs and falling, putting all his weight into the move.
He fell. As the infected gave way, Trey landed on his stomach, on the top deck of the fire escape. Further back, the infected hit the stairs, rolled over his head and began to slide. As he went, he thrust his arms towards Trey, and Trey took advantage. Reaching out with his good left hand, he grabbed the bat and yanked.
“No,” the infected groaned. Rising, he began to scramble up the steps.
Wasting no time, Trey swung the bat. With his right hand broken or at least sprained, Trey had to rely on his weaker left for the swing. Had the window been undamaged, his assault upon it would have done little more than leave a scratch. Having already been cracked, beneath the bat’s weak blow the glass shattered, cascading into the corridor beyond.
The infected was coming, marching up the stairs, his grin gone.
With the bat, Trey cleared the last shards of glass. As the infected lunged for him, he hopped through the window and sprinted along the hall.
There were only six flats on the top floor. It took Trey only ten seconds to reach Amira’s door and to pound upon the wood with his bat.
Pause.
Trey glanced back along the hall. The infected stood beyond the shattered window. As though he were a vampire and could not enter without being invited, he remained outside.
The monster’s grin had returned.
Afraid, jumpy, Trey raised his fist to knock again.
As he did, the door swung open. Amira appeared, pointing a gun in his face.
“What the—” she started.
Then the bomb went off.
Six
Seemingly, Mercury heard the blast and was simultaneously caught in its wave.
It tossed her into the front door Liz had been so kind to replace. The new door buckled as well as had the old, and bent out of, but did not fall from, its frame.
Mercury hit the floor. The blow would have rendered an ordinary human unconscious. Reinforced by whatever Heidi had left behind, Mercury’s head swam but did not blackout. Her entire body ached, but she retained the strength to lift her head and survey the bungalow.
The blast had ripped from its hinges her bedroom door. The glass panel in the back door had shattered, as had the living room light and a bottle of cooking wine which had sat beside the oven. Like blood, the pinot noir snaked across the counter, dripping down the cabinets onto the kitchen floor.
The sofa was on its back. Mercury’s favourite reading chair had been tossed into the wall. The reading lamp lay across Mercury’s legs, as though someone had chucked it her way thinking she’d be in a reading mood after she’d found the strength to sit up.
Mercury had neither the strength nor the inclination to dive into a good book. Had she wanted to, she would have struggled to find the reading material. The explosion had torn through her bedroom wall and smashed her wooden bookshelf. The volumes with which she had lined the shelves were no more than confetti, littering the floor and tumbling through the air like snowflakes.
Mercury’s favourite book, The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, was safe in Amira’s car. To her, each book had been precious, and she mourned the passing of the remainder.
Not only the books. The ceiling creaked. Mercury turned her attention above the fireplace, to Dom’s favourite portrait. As she looked, the frame collapsed from the wall, shattered on the carpet, as though it had been defying gravity long enough to catch her attention, to break her heart.
Her body’s many aches and pains demanded she remain vertical. Ignoring their pleas, she kicked from her legs the reading lamp and attempted to stand.
Her eyes stung. Debris cascaded through the air, towards the carpet.
Through the holes in her bedroom wall, she could see the damage caused by the blast at its epicentre. Her bed and furniture were little more than firewood; her clothes were tatters. The window had shattered. Chunks had been smashed from the exterior wall.
Mercury was some distance from her closest neighbour. Surely someone would have heard the blast. The police and perhaps the fire brigade would be on their way.
Across the room, she staggered. Though it appeared nothing was on fire, a heat emanated from the bedroom. At least at first. As she drew nearer, the cold night air, which flowed freely through the glassless window, whipped her skin.
She could neither see nor hear Betty. Perhaps this was unsurprising, given the haze in the air and the ringing in her ears. Still, no shapes seemed to move. There was no sign of the enemy.
She came to what had been her bedroom door. Around her feet, splinters of wood and the torn pages of timeless classics. Bending, though it hurt her back, legs and neck to do so, she collected scraps, noted the handful of words on each. By reading what little remained, Mercury suspected she could pinpoint the novels to which the page fragments had belonged. She brought them for closer inspection.
From behind the shattered remains of Mercury’s bed, Betty appeared. One moment, she was across the ruined room, the next, inches away, her fist incoming. Mercury used the precious time between these two points, not to defend herself, but to slip the paper shreds into her pocket. Betty’s fist met her stomach, travelling upwards, carrying her from the ground, into the air.
The fist withdrew. Mercury crumpled.
Before she could think of moving, a foot found the same spot as had the fist. The connection lifted Mercury from the ground once again and sent her rolling across the room.
Like Amira and Trey, Mercury carried two blades. Between the three of them, they owned one gun. As Amira’s contact had provided this weapon, and as only she had undertaken target practice, Amira tended to carry the firearm. Before they split, Amira had suggested, this time, Mercury take it.
Having chased her prey across the carpet, Betty grabbed the back of Mercury's top and threw her over the breakfast bar with enough force to crack the oven's front. Something the grenade blast had been unable to accomplish.
Mercury had refused the gun. She was starting to wish she hadn’t.
Betty rounded the breakfast bar with a speed that might have indicated caution. More likely that she enjoyed toying with her food.
When the stomach kick had sent Mercury rolling across the carpet, she had lost a blade; had felt it slip from her belt. The one which remained might be the poisoned option which would kill the possessed Betty where she stood. Might be the other, and therefore as useful as a lit match in a swimming pool. Examination would answer the question. Betty would not give Mercury the time.
Planting her hands between shards of broken glass, trying not to slip on spilt red wine, Mercury moved to a kneeling position. Only when she looked at Betty did she see moving lips.
&nb
sp; “Ringing ears,” Mercury said, pointing. ”Can’t hear you.”
As though this was a personal affront, Betty moved, lightning-fast. Two strong hands grabbed Mercury and swung her along the tiles, into a kitchen cabinet door which cracked beneath the impact.
Betty grabbed Mercury again, bringing together their faces.
“Hear me now?”
Mercury opened her mouth to answer, then didn’t. She wasn’t sure if she had heard or lip read. Her ears still rang. She hoped she didn’t look as bad as did Betty. Having taken the full force of the blast, the would-be assassin's skin was purple or charred where it wasn’t torn and blood-drenched. Half her hair was missing, the other half matted with blood and sweat. Across her body, Mercury could see shards of wood from the bed and glass from the window piercing her body.
She looked awful. Had she been human; she would have been dead.
Again, Betty's mouth was moving, and again, Mercury shook her head. In response, Betty pulled her closer and yelled. Mercury caught most of the words. Could work out the rest.
“Heidi… right… you. Good trick… grenade. Hasn’t… you though. Now I’m going to… you.”
Mercury wanted to ask if the last missing word had been kiss or kill. Speaking hurt too much. Not worth the joke.
Betty pulled her forward and slammed her back. This time the cabinet door did not crack but split in two. As the two halves disappeared beneath her weight, Mercury collapsed into the plates which rattled but did not fall or shatter.
Betty rose. On one of the kitchen surfaces had been a block of knives. The blast had tossed it across the room. By the fridge, it lay on its side. The largest knife was missing.
The cupboard into which Mercury had fallen comprised two shelves. Plates on top, bowls on the bottom. While Betty turned her back, Mercury shifted to the right, though it hurt her stomach, her back, her legs, to do so. With one hand she went for her waist, lifting her shirt. Something wet her fingers. In the melee, the knife at her waist had twisted and bitten her skin.
