Surviving The Ravenous

by King, Christine

  Surviving the Ravenous

  CAAB Publishing

  Foxbridge drive

  Chichester

  West Sussex

  www.caabpublishing.co.uk

  Copyright © CAAB Publishing 2020

  Front image copyright © CBROWN

  All rights reserved. Any characters in this book are fictitious and resemblance to any persons living or dead is unintentional and coincidental. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights.

  Published 2020.

  Printed in the UK

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to all those that have supported me and helped me to get my work out there. I have wanted to be a writer since I was a child and seeing my work in print is always amazing. This is my first novel and it is many years of work in one small book. Thank you to my hubby and my daughter who always make me feel like I can do anything. Thank you also to my work mates who didn’t dob me in for writing this instead of working. It wasn’t often, but you are all understanding and amazing people.

  About the Author

  Christine King writes Horror but she chugs out a few Fantasy pieces and other genres when she feels the urge. She also writes poetry when she is feeling melancholy or adventurous.

  She lives in Chichester at the moment, having recently returned from living in Spain, but hails originally from London, England.

  Christine enjoys archery, a good cocktail and sushi. Her influences are Stephen King (whom she has loved since she was 15) and Terry Pratchett (who gave her encouragement as a writer and a place to escape to as a reader, RIP Sir)

  She is also a mum and a wife, and she always gets the same response when she says she writes Horror. "But you seem so nice!"

  Christine worries people don’t know her very well.

  Chapter 1 – The End

  A shrill buzzing jolted me out of my rather pleasant dream about beaches and ice cream, I wearily muttered “Off”. Hearing the tones subside as I got up. With a yawn and a stretch, I shuffled to the kitchen and switched on the kettle, the sun shone brightly through my thin curtains and I sighed as I got myself ready for another dull day at my work placement.

  Eyes still blurry, I sipped my coffee and pulled a plain skirt and blouse from my wardrobe, my fingers brushed past brightly coloured clothes and searched for the most boring items I had, the ones that screamed, ‘responsible’. For a brief moment, I felt an urge of rebellion rise up and I almost grabbed a yellow and green pair of tights, but I took a deep breath and pulled out my plain nude tone ones instead.

  I did my hair, teeth, makeup and grabbed a hydrated crisp apple package for lunch, a ritual that was becoming so embedded in me that I usually found I didn’t fully wake up until I was half-way to the small office that I worked in as an assistant administrator.

  Leaving the house, I felt the sunshine on my skin and my mind wandered away to thoughts of meeting later with friends. As I began the slow trudge to the office, the lack of cars on the road mildly surprised me and that there seemed to be no drones buzzing about delivering packages; I kept checking the time on my watch; sure that I had got up too early. It would explain the lack of people on the streets.

  Looking back, I also recollect that there were no birds twittering. Usually, their songs filled the woods near my home, and the lack of noise was unusual and disconcerting. If I had been more awake, I might have paid attention to the lack of sound, but I was never really a morning person.

  The sun shone down strongly as it frequently did now that global change was a reality, the walk to work was always a bit of a slog in the hot weather and I hated the small hill leading to my office, it left me sweaty and feeling grubby from the exertion. It was better when there were clouds in the sky blocking out the constant heat, not that it rained often, droughts were the bane of everyone’s existence. Fresh ideas for saving water kept being broadcast by the government, but most people just ignored them and carried on as usual. We all tried not to shower too often and to recycle water to use on plants, but old habits die hard and although hose pipes were illegal, some keen gardeners still had them hidden in back rooms to use in the night. I found myself longing for my driving licence as I climbed that hill, just a few more lessons and the test to go then I could finally buy the little second-hand car I had been saving for.

  The office was locked up and deserted when I arrived, which was not unusual, so I opened up, punched in the alarm code, and started my day.

  No-one turned up, but I didn’t let it bother me they sometimes came in late or had breakfast meetings, I just made a coffee and began typing some emails. I lost myself in the words of the boring correspondence that my work seemed destined to send out over and over again and tried not to notice the empty desk’s around me or the feeling of worry that niggled at the back of my mind.

  When I finally glanced at the clock it was after 10 am, now I was getting worried, my colleagues were never this late. I checked the ins and outs board on the wall. It showed there should be at least three people here by now.

  I tried to ring our office in London but got no answer. This made me even more uneasy as that office was fully staffed and I always got through to someone. Feeling irritated, I tried my bosses’ mobile; half hoping she would answer and tell me off for being a drama queen and a silly girl, it went straight to answer machine. I was getting frustrated and a little scared I wasn’t sure what to do next. Where was everybody?

  I was on the phone trying to dial directory enquiries when the phone went dead, and the lights went out.

  I think I may have screamed, I know, very girly, but the office had heavy blinds and not much natural light permeated the dusty space I worked in, so the lights going out made it suddenly very dark.

  It was only really a slight squeak that escaped my lips, but I was still a little ashamed. I thought of myself as a strong, independent young woman, not a foolish kid who screamed at nothing.

  Well, I consoled myself that there was no one around to have heard me and after laughing at myself a little and checking my mobile still had power, which it had. I went outside to see if any of the other buildings in our little complex had electricity. None of them were open, they all still had the shutters down and on trying the doors I found they were locked.

  I went back inside and grabbed my bag. I reasoned that I couldn’t use my computer or answer the phone and that I could hardly see in the dark stuffy office, so I may as well head out and see if I could find out what was going on. I left a note saying to call me on my mobile if anyone turned up and why I’d left. Then I locked up and headed back out into the silent world.

  As I walked out of the office complex and into the sunlit car park, I realised there was a small dead bird, a starling perhaps, close to the gated entrance. It looked so frail its wings outspread as though it was still in flight. I hadn’t noticed it on the way in as I’d been half asleep. ‘Poor little thing,’ I thought as I turned away and wondered briefly how it had died. The next one I saw was half in the undergrowth, a sparrow, it disturbed me as I hated to see dead animals, I was getting used to it with the number of cars usually whizzing past our offices and the number of animals that tried to cross the busy roads near work, but it still upset me, and I was not used to seeing them in and around the car park. Walking out towards the road and the woodland that surrounded this
part of the town I noticed another one, a fat pigeon under a lamppost; it stared at me with one cold, dead eye. I shook my head, stepping around it carefully, wrinkling my nose in sadness and disgust. As I turned away to look up the road I saw a small metal container by the bushes, it was slightly hidden and must have rolled out from the shade into the light; sunshine bounced off it, making it glint and shimmer. Curious, I nudged it with my shoe, and it rolled a little further away, I could see it was silver all over and pod-like with a nozzle on the end. It looked like a small oxygen tank and I felt slightly angry at the kind of person who would throw trash around my offices in this lovely wooded area. There was a perfectly good recycle bin a few feet away. I bent down to pick it up, getting side-tracked from my worry by my anger at people’s lack of consideration, but my hand stopped short as I saw more dead birds were in the undergrowth. I looked at them with dismay. Could it all be down to cars on the road hitting them? Surely not, had someone poisoned the birds? I felt confused and on edge, turning away from the carcasses; all thoughts of recycling forgotten. I concentrated on walking away from the office and looked up and down the road for cars; finally, I saw one it was badly parked high up on the kerb. It was a red self-drive Proton; I had not seen one in a long time as the idea of self-drive cars had never really caught on. This one was skew whiff and at an odd angle and if the road had been busy, it would have been touch and go to whether his wing mirrors would have still been attached five minutes after rush hour started. I walked over and saw someone sleeping inside, a man in a shirt and green trousers. Relief washed over me, and I did not realise until that moment how alone I was feeling in this dead, noiseless, landscape. I looked in at him and saw he was curled up on the two front seats, squashed against the dashboard. My first thought was ‘Blimey he must be hot with all the windows done up.’ I knocked on the glass and when he didn’t move, I knocked again, only harder. As I stared in at his prone form I realised his head was sort of lolling and his tongue was a little way out of his mouth, he didn’t look well, I knocked franticly on the glass and tried the door, of course, it was locked. The man wasn’t responding, I quickly thought through my options, I could walk away or do something that would probably get me in trouble. I shrugged my shoulders and looked around for something heavy, I’d never been one to walk away if someone needed me. Finding a piece of discarded brick nearby, I picked it up, putting my hand inside my shirt sleeve to protect it from the impact and any sharp broken glass. I whacked at the side window, I’d never smashed a car window before and blimey was it hard work. The first couple of tries I was hesitant and the brick just rebounded making a thudding noise that echoed in the quiet, then with a full swing of my arm a crack finally appeared and eventually a small hole; after a few more hits the window was history. I kept expecting to hear police sirens or for the man in the car to jump up and shout “What the hell are you doing?”

  I put my hand in and gingerly shook his leg; I guess I still hoped he might wake up.

  My brain kicked in, and I opened the door by lifting the latch.

  Now, I wasn’t sure exactly what to do, so I felt for a pulse. His arm was a dead weight, heavy and stiff. I couldn’t feel anything beating or pulsing in his wrist and his skin was clammy and cold to touch, I felt his shirt sleeve brush against my fingers, the material felt rough and unnatural. “Ok,” I said aloud and dropped his arm, jumping at the sound of my voice in the stillness surrounding me. “Come on Cathy, dial the emergency services, they can sort this out.”

  I fumbled in my handbag for my phone, but as I pulled it out, I realised it had no signal; I tried to check the internet for a news broadcast, emails, or something to give me some idea of what was going on, but nothing seemed to load. I felt afloat, drifting on a sea of nothingness. What to do now?

  Searching my brain for an idea, I thought of the local area; not far from my work was a service station; surely that would mean people, cars, and lights. So, with no other options presenting themselves, I headed there. My strides lengthened as I walked, and I started to jog and then run at a desperate pace. The thought of getting help raced through my mind. I kept thinking over what I was going to say, ‘Hey, there’s a dead guy down the road,’ seemed a little trite. ‘Help,’ was not descriptive enough, but ‘What the hell is going on?’ could be kind of useful and might not only get help but get me a few answers, unless they all looked at me as though I was crazy. I kept imagining the people’s faces when I ran in all in a panic. Ideas flashed through my mind. Was I dead, and this was hell? Was everyone still here, but I was really gone? Could it be some government experiment? Answers were around the next corner, I just had to keep running. Arms flailing, I made it to the car park of the service station, breathless and panicked, but the place was all locked up. My mind felt fuzzy, my legs buckled, and I fell to my knees, shaking my head uncontrollably. Where were my answers, my salvation? I knew it wasn’t a 24-hour service station, but it should have someone attending from about 6 am. Yanking up my sleeve to stare at my watch, I saw it was almost mid-day. The heat and the futility seemed like a weight bearing down on me, my knees hurt from the gravel beneath them digging in and I wanted to curl up into a ball.

  Tears stung my eyes. Where was everyone and why was I so inefficient at getting help? Feeling totally useless and completely exhausted, I took a deep breath; this wasn’t like me.

  Swiping at my wet eyes with the palms of my hands and I felt my mind reeling with so many questions, but there were no answers here. I shook my head, trying to clear the fuzziness, and told myself not to be a stupid wimp. I was hot and sweaty and starting to feel irrational; I needed to go somewhere familiar and calm down.

  Mary Jane, my best friend, lived just around the corner from the service station and I had a key so I could come and go as I pleased, just as she had a key to mine. Maybe she could help or at least talk me down from feeling on the edge of craziness. With this in mind, I headed down the hill to her small one-bedroom house, on the way I kept a lookout for people or cars or even birds in the sky but all I saw was more silver pods and a few dead rabbits and foxes.

  I knocked on Mary Jane’s door a few times and then let myself in; I was upset and jealous that she must have got up this morning and gone to work, that right now she was probably sitting in her air-conditioned office blissfully unaware of all the things her best friend was going through.

  The first thing I noticed as I went through the door was the smell, kind of hot and musty. Mary Jane would never let her house smell so old; she opened her windows every morning to keep the place fresh, but for now, everything was closed up tight. I called her name loudly a few times out of politeness and headed into the kitchen. I tried the light switch, but her power seemed to be out too.

  Sitting forlornly at her kitchen counter, I wondered if I should try to ring her mobile. She was on a different network, so it might work; of course, she never answered it at work, but I thought I’d try anyway. Automatically, I got out my mobile and cursed myself for forgetting it had no signal, quickly I walked into the passage, I knew Mary had an old plug in phone; it was retro, she said. I picked up the handset and checked for a tone; it seemed to be working, so I dialled her number and stretched the cable back into the kitchen as I went to open the fridge.

  A noise made me jump. It sounded like distant buzzing. I hung up, so I could hear it better and it stopped. With a rising sense of dread, I carefully re-rung the mobile number and listened as the buzzing started again. It was coming from upstairs and I knew what I was. My stomach clenched as the realisation filled me with fear, I knew Mary Jane never left home without her mobile it was her most prized possession, her life was in that phone. I headed upstairs, following the buzzing noise. On the way, I passed her handbag on the stairs and the awareness that something was completely out of place made me feel cold all over. Her handbag held everything she needed, makeup, cash, and keys. She never left it behind even to pop to the local shop, and she had said many times that she would rather fight to the death with a
mugger than let them take her bag.

  I took a deep breath before pushing open her bedroom door. My brain was already racing with images of what I’d find. First to hit me was the smell, old and musty it filled my nostrils I glanced towards the bed knowing I didn’t want to look but forcing myself. There she was, lying in the dim shadows. My Mary Jane, she looked as if she were sleeping, one slender leg poked out from the bedsheet and her chestnut hair in a mess, her mobile on the pillow beside her. My chest tightened, and my legs felt like jelly as I walked to her side, I considered shaking her or trying to wake her, but I knew it was too late, I knew that she was dead. Part of me wouldn’t accept what my eyes were seeing, and I wanted to try something, anything that might work and make her wake up. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to move her. I just pulled the bedsheet over her head, covering her curly locks, tangled and in disarray. I had seen it done in movies and some vague memory said it was done out of respect. As I moved the sheet, my hand brushed her skin, it was so cold. I turned away and with tears streaming down my cheeks I headed back out the door and walked heavily down the stairs, my heart aching and my mind numb.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I picked up the old wall phone and tried the emergency services. The number rang and rang until it ran out of rings and made a noise like a machine in a hospital telling the world that the patient’s heart had stopped. I listened to that sound until it too ran out. The heart of the world had stopped, and this was the noise that signalled its death.

  Despondent, I sat in Mary Jane’s little kitchen for quite a while, perched on one of the bright yellow bar stools I’d helped her bring home from the thrift store, Mary was all I had, my only family. Both of us alone with no siblings, no parents, just us. We’d met by accident in a children’s home when we were about ten and we had stuck together like glue over the last twelve years. I remembered her running into me in a corridor when she was off exploring the huge house that held us orphans; I had been crying; I forget why but she had made me smile and although she was assigned to another wing of the large building we became inseparable. We became each other’s world, somehow that was enough to get us through years of not being adopted, of being the outcasts, of being alone. Mary Jane was tough and feisty, and it turned out that I was the one person able to keep her laughing, always bringing a smile to her lips with my foolish ideas or plans for the future. She protected me from care workers who wanted a little extra from the girls they took care of, and I made her feel safe when no one else could.