First Light

by Kody Boye

  Rose turned.

  The public service announcement display illuminated the TV in coarse, stark light.

  The monitors, she thought as she recounted what they’d seen the other day. The fighting, the violence, the people—

  It all made sense now.

  It was here, in their little town, just outside Liverpool…

  It’d come overseas.

  The planes had brought it here.

  Rose’s breath caught in her throat. “Lyra,” she said, voice trembling as she fought to control her shakes. “Where is Mary?”

  “I don’t know,” her friend replied. “She said she was going down the road for a smoke and to meet Spencer and then—”

  Something slammed into the stairwell door.

  Someone screamed.

  Moments before Rose could make it to the kitchen, the door burst open to reveal Mary—crazed, wide-eyed, and with tears streaking down her face. “Shut the door!” she screamed as Rose started toward her. “He’s come—”

  A figure lashed forward.

  Rose pushed her roommate out of the way and slammed into the door.

  Her eyes struggled to focus on the figure trying to break in.

  Mary’s screams, the man’s snarls—

  Rose finally took note of the person.

  Caught against the doorjamb was none other than Mary’s boyfriend Spencer.

  His face was a viscera of horror. Mouth curled open, lips shredded, teeth cracked, blood pooling from his neck, eyes glossed over but filled with a violent edge that set every nerve in Rose’s body on end—he lashed out and only barely managed to claw at Rose’s arm before she forced her entire weight against him.

  For each moment he was trapped against the doorjamb he screamed—a sound so guttural and raging it didn’t seem possible.

  This can’t be happening, she thought as she struggled to keep the door in place. This can’t be. It—

  “HELP US!” Mary screamed from the place where Rose had pushed her onto the floor. “SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP—”

  “Hey, tough guy,” Lyra said. “Eat this.”

  The flat side of a skillet slammed into Spencer’s face just as he turned and screeched at her. He faltered, stumbled through the door and to his knees, then lashed out at Mary.

  Spencer screamed.

  Lyra swung the pan about her broad frame and smacked him again, but just like before, Spencer continued his rampage, regardless of the broken nose and shards of cartridge exposed on his face. His fierce intent on Mary shifted to Lyra as his mouth turned into a monstrous snarl.

  “HIT HIM AGAIN!” Mary cried. “HIT HIM AGAIN!”

  Lyra smashed Spencer’s face and sent him stumbling into the hall.

  She reared the skillet behind her shoulder baseball-style as he ran for her.

  The blow connected with his chin.

  His head snapped up.

  In one deft move, Lyra swung the weapon over her shoulder and allowed gravity to bring it onto Spencer’s head.

  A sickening crack split the man’s skull.

  Spencer dropped to the ground.

  This time, he didn’t get back up.

  Trembling, chest heaving, Lyra looked down at the body before her and watched as a pool of blood began to spread from the man’s concaved head.

  Mary, ass on the floor, wailed.

  “What happened?” Rose asked, grabbing her inconsolable roommate and shaking her shoulders. “What happened, Mary? What happened?”

  “I was waiting for him to meet me at the train and I saw him running toward me. I thought he was happy to see me and I wanted to see him so bad, and when I saw he was hurt, I just… ran to him… and then he… he—”

  “What happened?”

  “He jumped me!” Mary wailed. “He grabbed me and tried to bite me and I couldn’t get away and he—”

  “Are you hurt?” Rose asked.

  Mary broke into hysterics.

  Rose paused before she could say anything further.

  Something dripped onto her arm.

  Blood.

  Mary’s wrist was shredded—the telltale imprint of teeth stark upon her flesh.

  “I killed a man,” Lyra said, her voice mute of expression as she looked down at Spencer’s cooling body. “I actually killed the fuckin’ wanker.”

  “It was self-defense,” Rose said, rising to put her hand on Lyra’s arm. “Put the skillet down. We have to get him out of here.”

  The sound of the skillet hitting the floor was deafening, even with all the chaos happening outside.

  “Lyra,” Rose said, grabbing her friend’s arm. “Lyra. Lyra—”

  “I killed him,” her friend said. “I… he—”

  “It doesn’t matter! It’s done! Over! We have to get him out of here before anyone else comes.”

  “What’re you—”

  An animalistic screech rose from somewhere in the streets.

  Taking hold of the corpse’s leg, Rose waited for Lyra to round the body and take the other leg before she began to drag the skinny man from the flat.

  A thick smear of blood was left in his wake.

  Once deposited in the stairwell, Rose kicked the body as far away from the threshold as she could before dragging Lyra back into the flat.

  The door was locked and chained.

  Sirens blared throughout the city.

  Mary’s wails only got worse.

  “We have to get her quiet,” Rose said, patting Lyra’s cheek as a semblance of the woman’s normal self began to materialize. “We can’t let her keep crying like that.”

  “I,” Lyra said. “What about—”

  “Just go. Go!”

  Lyra only offered a panicked, wide-eyed look before starting toward the hallway, where Mary had managed to leave blood on the carpet by crawling halfway toward her room.

  Rose scanned the flat.

  Her eyes settled on the window in the living room.

  The answer was clear.

  She threw herself across the flat and secured as many doors and windows as she could—tearing curtains across glass, turning or snapping locks into place. She considered the strength of Spencer’s assault and how adamant he had been to attack regardless of their defense, and started to drag the kitchen table toward the doorway.

  A chill ran down her spine.

  The force of it stopped her in her traps.

  Her sudden realization was absolutely haunting.

  They were on the third floor.

  Spencer had made it up here so easily.

  If they were to get swarmed—if anything was to block them in—

  The only exit they had was outside, through the living room, on the third-floor balcony. The fire escape was completely inaccessible.

  A tight knot of anguish rumbled through her as she shoved the table up against the door with a final admission of defeat. They couldn’t leave—not now, not in the midst of all this, and especially not with Mary screaming like she was.

  He went straight for her when she was yelling.

  His eyes…

  She knew Spencer dealt coke, but she’d never seen anything like that before. He’d looked… dead, like they did in the movies.

  She looked up at the sound of a door closing. Lyra emerged from the hallway, briefly disappearing into the bathroom to wash her hands before making her way toward her. “I took care of Mary,” she said.

  “Is she ok?”

  “About as ok as she’s going to be. The bleeding’s stopped, the wound’s been bandaged. I’d even venture to say that she’s not even in shock, but if you ask me, it’d be pretty hard not to be if your boyfriend tried to eat you.”

  “Guess working in a clinic helped after all, huh?”

  Lyra shrugged, the normally-amused remark that would have followed nonexistent. Her eyes strayed to the television set that still displayed the PSA screen. “You got everything closed in here?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Rose said.

  “Windows, doors?” />
  “Uh-huh.”

  “We need to do the rooms, too. I know we’re high up, but… you never know, you know?”

  Rose nodded. “Hey,” she said, catching Lyra’s shirtsleeve before she could start away. “Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine,” Lyra said, the tremor about her shoulders and arms still there. “Really—I’m fine.”

  “I’d imagine you’ve seen worse.”

  “Nothing like this,” she said. “Nothing like… that.”

  Lyra gestured toward the bloodied skillet on the floor, flecked with the remnants of Spencer’s nose.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Rose said, taking her friend’s arm and leading her toward the couch.

  “But Rose—”

  “I’ll take care of the rooms.” She gently pushed Lyra onto the couch. “Take a breather for a minute. Ok?”

  “Ok,” Lyra said.

  Rose forced a smile before turning toward the hallway.

  Outside, the world was going to hell.

  And they were right in the middle of it.

  She secured her and Lyra’s rooms before she presented herself in Mary’s room. Stalwart in her determination to ensure that all of them were safe, she knocked on the door before pushing it open. She found Mary curled up in bed, the windows full and exposed, the girl’s frame graced by the light of the violent afternoon.

  “Mary,” Rose said, entering with care as she took note of her roommate’s possibly-sleeping form. “It’s just me. I’m coming in to close and lock your windows. We don’t want anyone knowing we’re in here while all of this is going on.”

  “He loved me,” Mary mumbled.

  Rose paused. Halfway to the window, she looked over at her friend and asked, “What?”

  Mary said nothing. Her eyes, now revealed by the angle of her position, were shown to be open—gazing without fault at the window. Only her lips moved occasionally, as if she were speaking to someone who wasn’t even there.

  “Mary?” she asked.

  She stepped toward the bed and extended a hand to her roommate.

  Mary screamed and lunged off the bed.

  “What’s going on?” Lyra asked as she flung herself into the room.

  “He tried to kill me!” Mary said, trembling, her body one massive tremor as Lyra attempted to approach, only to be rebuffed in the process. “He… he bit me… he bit me, guys. He’d never do that! Never! So why… why…”

  “It’s ok,” Lyra said, smoothing her hand along the blonde woman’s hair as if she were a child or small animal. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’re safe here. But you need to calm down. Rose is just in here to make sure everyone is safe.”

  Rose nodded as she snapped the curtains into place.

  Almost immediately, Mary began to sob. “It’s so dark,” she said. “So… so…”

  “We’ll leave the door cracked,” Lyra said. “We’re here, Mary. We’ll be right outside if you need us.”

  Rose could only just make out the nod that came from Mary’s silhouetted form before she followed Lyra out into the hall, then the living room.

  Near the kitchen, Lyra expelled a long sigh and lifted her hands to massage her temples. “Fuck,” she breathed.

  “What is it?” Rose asked.

  “I’m not a doctor or anything, but didn’t it look like she was going into—”

  “Shock?”

  Lyra nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Like catatonia. Only she reacted when we tried to reach out to her.”

  Even the idea that the third in their trio might become a vegetable was enough to send Rose into the throes of panic. Wanting nothing more than to be free of their skyward prison and within the protection of the British police force, she tangled her hands through her hair in an effort to hide her growing anxiety, and allowed herself a moment to breathe.

  They were fine.

  Here, on the third floor, they were as safe as could possibly be. The bottom floors were the most accessible. Anyone who wished to raid or attack anybody up here would have to go up a flight of stairs, and surely if they were of any conscience, they would turn back once they saw the body—or, hopefully, even call the police.

  But his eyes…

  How haunting they were.

  Shaking her head as if the act would free her desperation, Rose directed her attention to the blood smeared across the floor. “We need to clean that up,” she said. “If it is… whatever it is… and he had it…” She swallowed the lump in her throat, unable to continue any further.

  “I’ll get the mop,” Lyra said.

  Rose nodded.

  She didn’t want to consider how far this could go.

  The situation became all but despairing when by nightfall absolutely nothing had changed. Gunshots, screams, the occasional siren, the bark of dogs—Rose lifted her head from her place in the kitchen, where she’d spent much of the afternoon cleaning and sanitizing the once blood-covered floor, and glanced down the hallway.

  Mary’s prognosis, Lyra said, was not good.

  She’s not coming out of it, her friend had said when she had gone to check on her just before dark. She’s just… laying there.

  She’d so desperately wanted to ask if Lyra knew what was wrong, but there was no point. Her friend wasn’t a medical professional. She just worked as a filing receptionist at one of the clinics.

  After reconciling with the fact that she could get the floor no cleaner than it already was, Rose lifted the bucket filled with bloody water in her hand and began to guide it toward the sink.

  Halfway there, she stopped.

  This was where their drinking water came from. If she were to contaminate it—

  The subtle notion led her eyes toward the living room—directly to the sliding-glass door that led onto the balcony.

  Would it be worth the risk?

  I can’t, she thought. I shouldn’t—

  But was refusing to go outside, if only to dump the water—or even the mop and bucket with it—worth risking their lives?

  In the grand scheme of things, she realized that one moment of apprehension would be far better than anything this outbreak had to offer.

  Hefting the bucket into a sturdier grip, she balanced the mop against her shoulder and made her way to the balcony window.

  Her hesitation in the matter was apparent. Hands trembling, heart thundering, she undid the fine clasp that held the curtains together, then parted them before unlocking, then snaring her fingers along the plastic lining the door.

  She pushed it open.

  Cool air blew in.

  Outside, the world was calm.

  Silence, Rose thought, before the storm.

  She tried to push the metaphorical matter from her mind and stepped onto the cold granite, her ears attuned but completely baffled by the lack of sound around her. Everything—even the madness of the earlier hours—was gone: reduced to nothing, as if God had clapped His hand about the world and muffled it and all its worth.

  Such a thing surely couldn’t be good.

  She wasn’t even sure if she should throw the bucket over.

  The sound…

  Carefully, she lowered the bucket and the mop onto the granite and pushed it into the corner of the balcony, feeling with utmost certainty that balancing the mop’s handle against the railing was all ridiculous.

  She should be throwing it over the edge.

  Bugs might be attracted to it.

  It was dark. There was no one around. If she did it just right…

  The scuffle of hasty footsteps filled her ears moments after she crouched down and reached for the bucket.

  While the instinct to run was overpowering, she froze and remained in place.

  Her eyes scanned what little she could see of the street below.

  She’d heard something out there in the darkness, directly below the dusky streetlamps.

  A figure stepped into view and inclined its head about the area before shuffling forward.

  She assumed it was
a person—had to be, because of the shape and matter—but realized as the silhouette stepped into view that it was not what it appeared to be. The man she saw before her was but a wreck of a person, his body torn and his face an abhorrent display of caricature. Exposed bone lay plain across the side of his jaw where it appeared a wicked object had attempted to shear his skull, and one leg was bent at an awkward angle—limiting, immensely, its mobility about the world.

  Beyond that, the sheer amount of blood that caked its clothes gave testament to what should have been a cruel and violent death. But here he was, standing in the streets, walking about as if nothing had happened.

  What little sound he made was sheer horror.

  The hollow wheezing, the short, startled bursts of breath…

  Frozen in place, Rose struggled to regain control of her body.

  She reached back to steady herself on the granite below.

  Her hand caught the bucket.

  The lid upended.

  The mop—acting pendulum to the vibrating action—slapped against the railing, then sent bloody water spilling across the granite.

  Liquid splashed onto the second-floor rafters with such force it sounded like rain was falling.

  The figure—who up until that moment had seemed all but unaware of the world—froze mid-step and snapped its head around with chilling clarity.

  Its eyes were centered on their building.

  The breath she’d been holding escaped her chest as the creature let out a cry.

  Rose half-ran, half-stumbled back into the apartment and slammed the glass door.

  “Rose?” Lyra asked from somewhere within the flat. “Is everything all right?”

  Rose fought to clasp the curtains together.

  Moments after she succeeded, she stumbled back into one of the couches and began to tremble.

  Footsteps from the hallway announced a presence.

  She spun.

  Lyra stood on the threshold. “Rose?” she asked.

  “They aren’t,” she said, gasping, struggling to form coherent words as another shrill cry sounded in the street. “They aren’t—”

  “They aren’t what?”

  She bowed over the armrest and shut her eyes as tightly as possible.

  You had to have been seeing things. That couldn’t have been real.

  They said that there was violence in the streets. It was entirely reasonable that someone could have been injured because of that. The gunshots, the car accidents, the immense explosions that indicated houses caught ablaze and then wreathed in destruction, or even gas lines exploding into fiery inferno—the world was hell out there. Anything could have happened. So for her to think that man was anything other than injured… that Spencer had been anything other than coked out of his mind…