by Rick Wood
“…when we released the infection…”
“…we didn’t create what we intended…”
“…there must be a way to still use it…”
For the first part of the journey, she had pounded that metal casing with all the energy she had. Chunks of mascara clouded her vision as her tears destroyed her makeup. It all mattered so little now. Eyeshadow, lipstick, all of it – what did it matter what she looked like when she was going to die under such horrific circumstances?
And that was one thing she was certain of, yet that she could not accept: that she was going to die.
“Let me out! Let me out!” she screamed. She went to say, “Or I’ll…” then realised that she had no end to that sentence. What could she threaten them with? What leverage could she possibly hold? How could she stand up to the acting prime minister and his well-built general?
She had nothing. Nothing but the battering of the bumpy roads smacking her face against her metal imprisonment. She felt blood dripping from her nose. Like it mattered. A nosebleed was nothing.
What must have been a sharp turn sent her flying against the other side of the car boot. She felt the metallic box closing in on her, giving her less space, restricting her. She knew it was the same size as when she had been thrown in, but it felt smaller the longer she was in it.
Sheila.
Oh, God, Sheila.
The image flashed inside her mind with a vague recollection at first, then it imprinted itself like a cinema screen stuck on a reel. It did not go away.
Sheila had been her friend. She’d held her hand through their complications. Eugene had a habit of burying himself in his work to cope with the deterioration of their marriage, and Lucy had ended up being the next best thing Sheila had to a friend. Lucy had always covered her hopeless demeanour and introverted nature with an image of professionalism and false strength that often meant distraught women would look to her for guidance; but, in that moment, thrashing helplessly against the confines of the boot, she understood how far from reality the image she projected was.
She didn’t care.
She just wanted to live.
The bumps stopped. The engine died. The faint sound of two car doors gently slamming rocked the car and she waited. Waited for what, she didn’t know. Fate. Surprise. Death. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to confront it. She’d rather stay in the boot. At least she knew they couldn’t do anything to her while the car was driving. Now their muffled voices were coming closer, and the key was in the lock, turning the lock, and it opened, the sun behind their shoulders making her squint.
They didn’t even break stride in their conversation as Hayes dragged her out of the boot by her collar, as if he was emptying shopping.
“But have we got any samples yet?” asked Eugene.
“Samples?”
“Yeah, like, anyone whose genes would splice properly.”
Lucy tried to kick her legs up so she could walk on them, but she was being dragged at such a pace that, no matter how much she tried, she could not find her standing. Hayes was dragging her as if it was nothing. As if it was a large sack of potatoes that wriggled in a way that was only a mild inconvenience.
“That’s the kind of thing you need to ask the labbies.”
“I don’t want some convoluted diatribe from a scientist, Boris, I want to know what your take on their progress was.”
She needed to get out of his grasp. She needed to find a way. This was her only way to escape.
She could see the fences they were going toward. They formed a perimeter. Around a building she didn’t recognise, something official, something that didn’t look like people escaped from.
“My take? Those things were killing everything, that’s my take.”
“But were there any that were better than the others?”
Finally, her feet planted on the floor, and she used them to try to run. As soon as she thought she had successfully found her balance, Hayes kicked her feet from under her and sent them flying above her head. Her spine pounded onto the harsh bumps of the cement with a discomforting oomph.
“This one’s a wriggler,” Hayes declared, smirking as he grabbed her by the neck and lifted her up. Her legs dangled beneath her, kicking out, her eyes level with his. “She’s a keeper.”
“Please…” she begged. “Please don’t hurt me…”
Eugene laughed heartily. The kind of laughter that comes after a hilarious prank, or a witty t-shirt on a stag do.
Hayes didn’t look as amused.
“Gosh,” Eugene said. “I always wanted to fuck this one. I really did. Shame, really.”
“We got shit to get to.”
“Righty-o, let’s get to it then.”
Hayes hoisted her over his shoulder, carrying her effortlessly despite her continual belligerence. She bashed against his back and it seemed to do nothing. Kicked, and it didn’t even unbalance him. Shouted verbal abuse, and he just spoke over it.
“So we’ve got London?” Eugene continued, swiping a card on the outside of the fence that allowed them inside. Two soldiers let them in and shut the gate behind them.
“Help!” Lucy beseeched the soldiers, but they did nothing.
“We have London. It’s pandemonium out there.”
“Excellent. Now we hit everywhere else.”
“The rest of the UK?”
“Think bigger, Boris. Think bigger.”
They walked toward the large building, professional, under armed guard, soldiers patrolling the perimeter. They did not enter, however. Instead, they walked the circumference of the building until they reached a large pit.
Hayes threw Lucy into it.
As soon as she landed, she leapt back up to her feet. The landing had injured something, something in the base of her back, but she ignored the pain. She had to find a way out.
And boy, did she try to find a way out.
She jumped against the walls, scraped her fingernails along the surface, but no matter how much of a runup she got, or leap she managed, it did nothing. She was stuck in there.
She paused and looked up at them. Waiting to see what they would do next. Waiting to see how they planned for her to die.
“Right you are then,” Eugene said. “We don’t have all day. Time to show me how this thing works.”
Hayes turned and whistled at someone behind him. Someone Lucy couldn’t see.
Hayes turned back around and winked at her.
Growling. Distant growling, of something inhuman, something animalistic, but not quite. Like the low hum of a lawn mower mixed with the screeching of a cat in pain. Something obscure, out of place. Something that didn’t belong.
Then it got louder. It was more than just growling, it was yapping, grumbling, snarling, snapping, weeping.
She saw it. A soldier held a metal rod with the creature fastened to the end of it via a rope around its neck. It was a person, but not. It had a head, a body, arms, and legs, like a human, but its face had nothing of humanity about it. Its skin was torn, grey, falling off the bones. It limped, falling to one side. A long, bloody slit was painted across its belly.
It wore a soldier’s uniform.
“In you go,” Eugene sang.
They released it, then kicked it into the pit with Lucy.
Chapter Four
Astonished. Proud. Delighted.
Pick any superlative and it would be likely to match Eugene’s emotions.
As he watched the infected individual snap and bite and grasp for that irritating little woman, he couldn’t help but marvel at the job they’d done.
“We can’t stay here for long,” Hayes said.
“I know,” Eugene confirmed.
“We can use this as our place of operations, keep it concealed – but if you’re acting prime minister, you’ve got to do it in a way that doesn’t bring attention to here.”
“I know.”
“After all, this is the place where we plan to–”
“For
Christ’s sake, Boris, I said I heard you, I agree.”
Eugene was too interested in watching their creation in the pit below. The cowardly woman was running to every corner of the pit, clambering to be out of the creature’s clutches. Pathetic, really. It was a pit the size of a large grave, and yet she was trying to run away.
Don’t people do stupid things when their life is about to end?
Instinct is a strange compulsion. At times, it protects you. At other times, it makes you look like an utter moron.
“We should probably get you a weapon, you know,” Hayes pointed out. “To keep on you. Just in case.”
“This one,” Eugene said to the soldier behind him, pointing at the infected. “What happened there?”
“He was a soldier. He fought off a bunch of them and they got him. I don’t think he realised what they could do.”
“Silly fool.”
A distant rumble grew closer. Growls from the perimeter. The stench growing ever more prominent.
They were here.
“Eugene, it’s my job to protect you. We need to get you a weapon, and get you away from the fence.”
“I thought it was reinforced?”
“It is, and it will stand, but it’s still not wise to be near it, you at least need a gun or–”
“Fine, fine!”
“The armoury is inside.”
“No, no, in a moment! I want to watch this girl die first.”
Eugene remained glued to the fight occurring below. The infected was now on top of the girl, out-muscling her, its jaw hanging to its face by a thin string of skin, its saliva drooping in heavy gunks onto her forehead.
The rattle of the fence caught Eugene’s attention. He did a double take as he observed it, astonished.
“By God!” he exclaimed, “there are hundreds of them.”
“Eugene, really, we need to get you inside.”
“Yes, yes, soon.”
Hayes looked around, trying to be resourceful, making sure Eugene was protected. He had an idea.
“The soldier in the pit,” Hayes said, turning to the soldier behind him. “Give his gun to the prime minister.”
“His gun, sir?” the soldier asked.
Hayes’ anger boiled to the brim. How stupid could people be?
“Yes, his gun. Give it to Mr Squire.”
“The gun?”
“Yes, the gun that the soldier, now the infected, had. Give it to the prime minister. Now.”
“I…”
“You took his gun, did you not?”
“No, I didn’t think–”
A gunshot echoed.
The infected dropped to the floor, revealing the woman holding the dead soldier’s gun in her quivering hands. She took aim as Hayes took Eugene to the floor. A bullet sliced through the earlobe of the useless soldier standing cluelessly behind them.
By the time Hayes had drawn his weapon and crawled to the edge of the pit, it was too late. The woman had already used the body of the infected as a stepping stone. She was dangling on the edge of the pit, her arms dragging her upwards, reaching, almost there.
As soon as Hayes’ face appeared, she aimed the gun and shot, forcing Hayes to duck out of the way.
“Are you okay?” he asked Eugene.
“What the heck is happening?” came the response.
The woman lifted herself up and hoisted herself over the edge.
Hayes fired.
Nothing came out.
“Bloody typical…”
He recharged his ammo. Stood. Aimed. But, by the time he’d done that, the woman was already standing in front of him with her gun aimed at his head.
And there they stood.
A Mexican standoff.
Hayes with his gun aimed at her, her with her gun aimed at him.
Waiting.
For someone to kill. Someone to die. Someone to make a move, any move.
“Let her go,” Eugene instructed, still on the ground.
“What?” Hayes demanded.
“Look at the perimeter, this place is surrounded. She won’t get far. If we don’t kill her, they will.”
Hayes nodded. It made sense. He just hated to see a target escape.
“But, sir, the information she knows, the things she’s heard us say–”
“I won’t tell anyone,” the woman lied. “Please, I just want to get out of here.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Eugene continued, “she won’t make it past the fence. Just be done with her.”
Hayes hesitated.
This sucked. But he had his instructions.
“Fine.”
She backed away, both of them keeping their guns aimed, keeping their targets in sight.
As soon as she reached the corner of the building, she turned and ran.
Eugene stood. “See to it that all other government personnel are killed in the outbreak. We can’t have any more loose ends. There can be no one she’s able to talk to that would listen.”
“Roger, sir,” Hayes confirmed, watching the woman grow smaller in the distance, toward the mass of infected surrounding the compound.
Toward an imminent, undoubted, certain death.
Chapter Five
She had no idea where she was going. What she was doing. Why she was there.
She knew what she’d heard. What they’d said. Although it was hard to decipher their vague comments whilst fearing for her life, she’d acquired a general understanding that she was sure only touched the surface – but what little she knew was still enough to terrify her.
Was it really them?
Had they caused the outbreak?
And would anyone believe her if she told them?
Doesn’t matter.
Not important right now.
The foreseeable future was about survival. That was it. Living, that was all that mattered.
She reached the fence. It was leaning toward her, bustling under the pressure of so many of those… things. She’d faced one of them, one that had terrified her, almost taken her life – now here were hundreds. Their hands reaching out, as if they could smell her blood, smell her fear.
What were they going to do with her should they get her?
A bullet whipped pass her shoulder and into the head of one of them, a few metres across the fence. Then another bullet. And another. And another.
She looked above herself, to the building. Snipers. Taking them out. Of course, it made sense – if this was their concealed location, their place of secret operations, they would want some of the infected to remain at the fences to keep people away; but not enough to break them down.
It would only be a matter of time until the snipers were told to target her.
She ducked to the floor, as if that would do anything. She ran to the shelter of a vehicle, yards away, an army jeep left discarded.
She focussed on her breathing.
Her adrenaline, she could not control. Her fear, she could. She had to remember that. She had to master it if she was going to survive. Push herself in a way she’d never been pushed.
She closed her eyes.
Focus on the breathing. That comes first. Need to breathe, or it’s no use. No breath, no life.
Easier said than done. She was hyperventilating, wheezing against her lungs. But they were her lungs, and she needed to control them.
In. Out. In Out.
That’s it.
Big, deep intake, long breath out.
She put her hands against her chest, felt her lungs inflate, deflate, her breath sucked in, then released.
That was it.
Her breathing was done.
She opened her eyes. Not just a gradual lift of her eyelids – she whipped them up like a bullet. That opening of her eyes sparked a sudden change; it was the match that lit the fire, the curling of the fist that struck the face, the roar of the war cry.
She changed. In that moment, her whole personality, her life, her abilities, transformed in the speed of her racing h
eart.
This suit she wore did not define her. It wasn’t even close. It mattered not.
She removed the blazer. Discarded it.
What was that beneath it?
A nice, flowery blouse with a frilly pattern over the buttons?
Fuck the frilly pattern.
She straightened the sleeve. Ripped it. Tore it right up to her shoulder, where she pulled the entire sleeve right off. Then she repeated this with the other.
She undid the bottom few buttons. Ripped the circumference around the base of her breasts, throwing the useless material to the side, revealing her untouched navel. Minutes ago, she would never have had the shrewdness to reveal such a thing in public; she was too insecure about it. It bore stretch marks from a brief period of being overweight as a child, and it bore the scar of a belly ring she’d had during a vaguely rebellious adolescence, it even bore a few rolls when she crouched down – fuck those marks, fuck that scar, fuck those rolls – but, most of all, fuck that girl who sought the shadow of her peers to hide the timid wretch in the dark.
That person died in that pit.
She stood.
Ripped off those skin-coloured tights.
Ripped a slit in the side of her skirt. Exposed the outside of her thigh. She needed to run. A pencil skirt was useless to her.
And, if she needed run, she was not going to do it with heels.
She took them off. Looked them over.
Those heels were quite sharp.
She held a heel in either hand.
She looked to the infected clambering for her.
She climbed the vehicle. Prepared her jump over the fence. Held her arms out, forming a crucifix with her body, clutching the weapons in her hand that had so far only given her cramp in her feet.
She screamed. Leapt. Landed amongst them.
They reached their arms out for her. Fought against one another to reach her, to grab her, eat her, taste her, find her.
She stuck the first heel into the throat of the closest infected.
She unseamed the next from its belly to its throat, its guts falling down her legs, sliming, dripping, painting her red.
Minutes ago, she would have gagged. Not anymore. Blood suited her. It was her colour.
