Convulsive Box Set

by Marcus Martin

  “Of course. We’d made it through so much. We’d survived the virus, survived the unspeakables, and survived the winter – spring was coming. Then we heard of this new disease plaguing the small survivor communities outside the wall, and I knew we had to help. I had to do what was right. If you can’t follow your conscience, what hope is there for any of us?” said Charlie.

  “Sounds like your wall friends have a different definition of ‘conscience’,” said Lopez.

  “Which is why we left. ‘We’ – it’s just me now, isn’t it. Funny how life goes,” said Charlie, bitterly.

  “I feel you there,” said Lucy.

  “Ditto that,” said Lopez, to Lucy’s surprise.

  “How many people have you treated?” said Lucy, probing Charlie further.

  “Going on eighty,” replied the doctor.

  “I’m glad to be in that number. We saw a couple die of this thing. Didn’t look good,” said Lopez.

  “It’s not the dying you want to worry about. It’s the timing. If things go against you, there can be real complications,” said Charlie.

  “Like what?” said Lucy.

  “Like the complete degradation of the human abdomen and bowel,” said Charlie.

  “For real?” said Lucy, horrified.

  “That’s kinda what those Faithful people do to you anyway,” said Lopez, shrugging.

  “How many people have they killed?” said Lucy.

  “They’ve only started hunting sufferers recently. Now that the unspeakables are gone, or hiding among other communities, the Faithful need a new hobby. A new ‘righteous cause’. But they don’t yet have the resources to purge a whole city, so they do random patrols and raids. They usually catch people foraging for food,” said Charlie.

  “So there are sick people hiding all over?” said Lopez.

  “Yeah, but I can’t figure out if that’s because the disease is everywhere, or just if it’s because people are moving around a lot to evade detection. I’ve been trying to plot a map of the outbreak but it’s proving near impossible to establish a common vector. That’s a point – I’ve yet to take your medical history,” said Charlie.

  “This again,” snorted Lopez.

  “What?” said Charlie.

  “Ask my executioner,” said Lopez, bitterly.

  “Screw you,” said Lucy.

  “Can one of you fill me in?” said Charlie.

  “We ingested some white powder,” said Lucy, wearily.

  Charlie looked baffled.

  “It’s a toxin that grows off infected D4 creatures. It’s poisonous to them, so we took it as a deterrent, so we could escape them. But apparently it’s poisonous to us, too,” said Lucy.

  “Thanks again for the death sentence,” said Lopez.

  “What were you escaping?” said Charlie.

  “The beasts. Jay said you’ve not had any up here?” said Lucy.

  “Not yet,” interjected Lopez.

  “Is that what ‘D4’ is?” said Charlie.

  “It’s one version. Remember the ‘virus’ that wiped everyone out? Well, it carried on evolving. The bacterium appropriated the DNA of everything it encountered, and one of the end products was a pack predator with enough strength and coordination to threaten the remaining humans across the east coast and the central states. Hell, they reached New York,” said Lucy.

  “They’ve made it all the way from the West Coast to New York, but not Boston?” said Charlie.

  “Right. So I’m thinking there must be something stopping them?” said Lucy.

  “Rivers,” said Lopez.

  “What?” said Lucy.

  “There are rivers that cut across the whole state. I’ve been thinking about it, planning my route. Say a river’s contaminated upstream with a big dose of white powder. That would be a barrier to migrating beasts. Like a line in the sand. Contaminated water could also be what’s hitting people round here. Just a theory,” he shrugged.

  “And you didn’t think to share it sooner?” said Lucy.

  “I was gonna tell them in DC,” said Lopez.

  “Hey, we’ve made it. The safe house is down he-,” began Charlie.

  She stopped in her tracks. Two bodies sat in the front yard, each tied to a fence post hammered into the center of the lawn. Both corpses were bloodied, and surrounded by rocks. The left corpse had lesions. They each bore a different sign around their neck. The first read SINNER, the second, AGENT OF SATAN. Charlie knelt down and reached out to the dead man’s boot. She dipped her head and sobbed. Lopez placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. After a moment, the doctor drew a sharp breath and stood up, wiping her cheeks.

  “This is what they did to Petrov – my lab partner,” said Charlie.

  Shouts echoed out from the neighboring street. There was the sound of an old-fashioned, hand-held bell ringing. People were shouting aggressively. Their curses and orders were punctuated by an individual’s cries for help.

  “What’s that?” whispered Lucy.

  “That’s them,” said Charlie, anxiously adjusting her sling.

  “The people who did this?” said Lopez, gesturing to the corpses.

  “Without a doubt,” said Charlie.

  “You two take shelter – get back to the safe house, I’ll find you there,” said Lopez.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Lucy.

  “Protecting the civilians,” said Lopez.

  “Are you insane? Now you’re taking a stand? We can’t risk them getting Charlie!” said Lucy.

  “Which is why you’re in charge of her,” said Lopez.

  “While you do what?” said Lucy.

  “You were right, OK? I can’t wait for DC to come to them. Not when they’re stoning unarmed civilians in the streets. I’ve got a conscience, and I’m saying no more. I’m DC,” said Lopez.

  “Major, if you try this alone-” protested Lucy.

  “Get the doc to the safe house,” said Lopez, cutting her off.

  “I’m not letting you do this. It’s a suicide mission,” said Lucy. She grabbed Lopez’s arm but he shook her off.

  “Major, you can’t leave!” insisted Lucy.

  The bell rang out again, prompting more shouts. The cries were getting closer. Somewhere in the maelstrom was an engine.

  “For the last time, Young, get inside!” hissed Lopez, shoving her away.

  A man careered around the corner, at the far end of their street. He was running, but with a limp. His pant leg was torn, and his leg bloody. The skin on his face was pockmarked with lesions. He spotted Lucy’s group and cried out in despair, opening his arms imploringly. A dog bounded across the road and sunk its teeth into the man’s calf, dragging him to the ground. Its masters were close behind, their shouts egging the dog on.

  “Get down!” hissed Lopez.

  The three of them dived behind a car. Lopez took the safety off his pistol and peered around the side. Lucy copied. One of the attacking humans whistled and the dog’s snarling ceased instantly. The dog released its ward but stayed looming over him, ready to bite again if instructed. The man lay on his back and begged for mercy, as four humans closed in. Each wore a full length black robe, with the hood pulled up.

  A car pulled up by the group. The driver climbed out and kicked the sickly man repeatedly, shouting as he did so. He demanded repentance, and pointed to the car. In the front passenger seat sat a man wearing a robe of brilliant white. Around his neck hung a bronze medallion on a crimson cord. He watched the proceedings without dispassion.

  “That’s him – the Preacher. He’s the cult leader, the one who started it all,” gasped Charlie.

  “You two get inside the safe house. Stay low. I’m gonna move up and pick as many of them off as I can,” whispered Lopez.

  “Don’t be insane,” hissed Lucy.

  “If I don’t try, then it’s all been for nothing,” said Lopez.

  “What are you talking about! Major, get a grip!” said Lucy.

  “It’s over, Lucy. You heard the
doc. No cure, no drugs, not time left. This is gonna end one way or another. I’m choosing to end this as a soldier,” said Lopez.

  “Lopez, listen to me, I was wrong! You take them on and you’ll die. You might kill two of them before they get you, but what difference will it make? We need to get to DC, tell them everything we know, and bring the full weight of justice upon these people. You cannot do this alone,” insisted Lucy.

  “No, no you don’t understand. Lucy, this is our chance to kill the Preacher. He’s almost never out of the compound, we have to try,” said Charlie, grabbing Lucy’s arm.

  “Lopez, don’t do this – don’t go,” implored Lucy.

  Lopez stared at her, his eyes narrow, his jaw clenched, as the hunters’ taunts and the injured man’s whimpers echoed around the street. She watched him grappled with everything she’d said, the vein on his forehead bulging with adrenaline, until finally he grunted in concession. “Young is right. We move one at a time, starting with you, doc. Keep low and get to the safe house yard. On three,” he said.

  Charlie shook her head in disbelief. “We may not get another clear shot, we have to kill him. He’s the head of it all, kill him and the rest will stop!” insisted Charlie.

  “It’s not a clear shot,” said Lopez, peering at the Preacher, who remained in the car, obscured by the cult members moving in front of it, beating the captured man.

  “You don’t get it, he’s the one who killed Petrov,” said Charlie, with a crack in her voice.

  She grabbed Lucy’s pistol and lunged out onto the street.

  “Shit!” cried Lucy, reaching after her, but it was too late. Charlie fired at the Preacher.

  The hooded figures flinched en masse as the bullet tore past them. It missed the Preacher, but shattered the two front windows of the car. The cult members scattered, taking cover. The driver immediately leapt into the seat, speeding the Preacher to safety.

  The remaining robed members opened fire on Lucy’s group. Lopez propped his arms on the hood of the car and returned fire, killing one instantly. “You two – go!” he ordered.

  Lucy grabbed Charlie’s arm and heaved her away, wrenching back her pistol as they went. They ducked behind cars and hedgerows as they ran, passing the murdered couple in the yard, and fleeing onto the street beyond. The gunfire stuttered away behind them. Shots were sporadic as both sides strove to conserve ammo.

  “Over there!” cried Lucy, spotting an alley.

  “This way,” called Charlie, at the same moment, racing across the intersection towards a different street, her pace hampered by her sling. Before Lucy could change course, the Preacher’s car screeched around the corner and onto the boulevard. Charlie darted between two houses. Lucy sprinted into the alley, and leapt over a fence into someone’s back garden. The Preacher’s car skidded to a halt and the doors opened.

  “You two take the other one, we’ll get the doc,” cried one of the men.

  Lucy ran – hauling herself over garden fences, and fleeing deeper into the suburbs, as gun shots continued to ring out from Lopez’s street.

  ***

  The light was fading. Lucy’s legs were weak. She’d trekked for hours, desperately evading the Faithful as she sought out her last glimmer of hope; her mother. She stowed the stolen city map away in her backpack as she read the street name before her: Carlton Avenue. This was it; the address the agency had mailed her all those months ago.

  The houses were narrow, terraced affairs, made of red brick. Aside from that the street was like every other; deserted. After months of dreaming about her, of planning this moment, Lucy felt hollow.

  She approached the door and took a deep breath, trying to suppress her flickering hope. She knocked several times. No answer. She looked around for a spare key but there was none. Raising her pistol, she took careful aim and fired at the lock, blasting it open. The gunshot reverberated around the silent streets. She pushed the door open.

  The hall was filled with unopened mail. Final notice. Payment due. Do not ignore. Almost half of the envelopes bore the same bold print. The rest was a mixture of high fashion catalogues and lifestyle magazines. The mail was addressed to different people. Mrs. Edelstein, Ms. Sanchez, Rosemary Carter, Mrs. Walker. Then finally, one Lucy recognized: Tessa Young.

  She picked it up and stared at the writing. There she was. Her mother. The letter was for an unpaid parking fine. That would figure.

  Lucy moved further into the house. The level of dishevelment was immediately familiar. Discarded clothes, magazines and used crockery occupied every viable surface including the floor. Beneath the detritus Lucy identified a sofa, a bean bag, and a large reclining armchair. Books were stacked up in piles by each – holiday reads, chick flicks, detective stories. The floor was covered in short pale hairs, as were the sides of a tattered dog basket in the corner. It looked large enough to take a Labrador. Knowing her mum, it had probably housed a husky.

  A wrinkled blanket lay at one end of the sofa, along from a bedroom pillow, which was propped against the opposite arm. Lipstick and makeup cluttered the coffee table, which was stained with rings from hot mugs. A collection of three different-sized Yankee candles held the central position.

  Lucy headed upstairs to explore the top floor. It was in a similar state of disarray, decorated in clothes, makeup, and books. The master bedroom featured an un-made double bed. A torn condom wrapper lay on the carpet. Near it lay a lighter and an ash tray brimming with cigarette butts. Lucy pocketed the lighter, which worked, and kicked the condom wrapper under the bedframe, wincing as she did so.

  She opened the wardrobe. None of the clothes were familiar, but she recognized her mother’s style. Subtlety had never been her forte. The woman was a great believer in the adage ‘more is more’. Lucy pulled out a selection of clothes – jeans, a t-shirt, a long-sleeved jersey, and some thick socks – and laid them out on the bed. She unzipped the top of her uniform, then reconsidered; it had been days since she’d washed properly.

  She took herself to the bathroom and inspected the shower. Lime scale water marks gave the glass screen a mottled appearance. A mass of long black hair clung to the drain. The cubicle floor was grimy, too. Lucy grimaced and checked the sink instead. It had a hairline crack, and large orange stain around the plug hole. She tried the tap but nothing came out, so she turned her attention to the toilet instead. Cautiously, she lifted the cistern lid off, remembering the twitching tadpoles she’d seen in the semi-frozen house by Madison.

  The cistern was full, and the water was clear. Lucy fetched a glass from downstairs and scooped some out, quenching her thirst. She stripped off, removing her well-worn uniform and sweat-stained base layer. She took a flannel from the towel rail and squeezed soap into it from the dispenser, then tipped some of the glass’s water onto it. She cleaned herself briskly in the chilly house. As she scrubbed, she marveled at her skin – there was no trace of the lesions. All that remained were scratches and bruises from her escape.

  She dried herself with a towel, then returned to the bedroom where she quickly changed into her mother’s clothes. The thick socks felt luxurious against her aching, blistered feet. She slid on a pair of slippers, threw a dressing gown over her whole outfit, and headed downstairs, with a fresh cup of water.

  She drew the curtains, then searched the house for food. She didn’t bother opening the fridge – remembering the rancid smell of the farmhouse’s abandoned unit. Instead she checked through each empty cupboard in turn, until her eyes fell on the dog bowl. Lucy knelt down before her last hope: the cupboard under the sink. To her joy she discovered a box of dog biscuits. She shoveled several down on the spot, savoring the crunchy, calorie-filled nourishment, groaning with pleasure as she chomped.

  She carried the box into the lounge, where she lit the Yankee candles, then sank into the sofa, clutching the box like it was popcorn. The treats tasted better than she’d expected – certainly no worse than the leaves. She gorged until she could eat no more, then let out a dog-food-flavored b
elch.

  She finished the water and placed the empty cup on the floor, beside a pile of books. Next to it, she noticed a pen. She reached under the sofa and groped around until her hand landed on a hidden volume, which she pulled out. The cover had no text, just a polka dot pattern of gold on fluorescent pink. Lucy opened a random page and recognized her mother’s handwriting immediately. The entry was over nine months old.

  8th June. Went to Cindy’s today, as per, and this new bitch at the mall asked me for ID when I tried to pay by check. I was like ‘excuse me?’, and she was like ‘yeah?’ I informed her of her error – I am a loyal customer. They should put that in the friggin training manual. The manager came over, all embarrassed, and was like ‘Ms Sanchez, forgive my colleague, she’s new here, of course we don’t require ID from you,’ and I was like ‘damned right you don’t.’ Normally I’d have given them a piece of my mind – otherwise how else are they gonna learn? – but I had a lunch date I simply could not miss, and the jacket was very cute, so I needed it in a hurry, obviously.

  Lucy skipped to the last entry in the book, hoping to find some clue as to her mother’s fate.

  2nd September. Jacob’s a piece of shit. I told him I don’t have the money, but he gives me all this bull crap about his rights, and I told him to go get a lawyer if he felt that strongly about it, which he won’t, because he doesn’t, because the man couldn’t feel strongly about something if his life depended on it. He’s got zero backbone. Like, zero.

  She thumbed through the diary, drinking in snapshots of her mother’s second life; the one she’d left Lucy for. It spoke of people, and boyfriends, creditors and lawyers, job interviews and tribunals, parties and breakups. Lucy kept reading, hoping desperately to find something concrete – the reason her mother left, perhaps, or even some mention of herself, but the entries were vacuous and self-absorbed, and all Lucy found was sleep.

  ***

  Lucy squeezed her way between the adult guests’ legs until she reached the bar. “Excuse me, mister, can I get a cream soda?” Lucy shouted, straining over the music her parents liked. The bartender tapped the sign above his head. Over-21s only. “Please?” added Lucy. The man let out a sigh and poured her a glassful. He slid it across, with a frown, then shoed her away quickly as his supervisor returned.