by Stuart Keane
A figure climbed onto the roof of a vehicle, five cars down on the left. Rose scratched her cheek. "What the—"
The figure arched its back, and an animalistic howl filled the air, the sound cacophonic and piercing, shrill. Rose cupped her ears, realising that her vehicle's exterior dampened the scream somewhat. Regardless, she winced, dumbstruck by the sudden noise.
A low vibration rattled through the car, from beneath, as if the road holding her in place was succumbing to a mild earthquake. As a couple of figures joined the one on the vehicle roof, she realised what was happening.
Footsteps.
Hundreds, possibly thousands.
What the hell can generate that type of sound?
More screams filled the air around her. Rose saw people dragged from their cars and attacked. The figures were head-butting their victims on contact, yanking them onto the motorway and viciously assaulting them. Rose noticed arterial spray, the crimson luminous in the arcs of a hundred headlights, and that’s when it occurred to her.
Not head-butting.
Biting.
Feasting.
These things are eating people.
Rose gulped.
Fuck this.
She flicked off her vehicle, a move that dampened the brightness within. The TomTom turned off. Her headlights diminished too, shrouding the vehicle in darkness.
I've never been so glad to have a secret compartment in my car.
Climbing into the backseat, Rose pulled the armrest down and slid the left seat aside, revealing a sizable cubbyhole, a compartment fitted to increase the size of her boot. She spun around and slid in feet first. As she disappeared into the hiding place, shadows danced off her windows as figures sprinted by, searching the stranded vehicles for potential victims.
Victims or prey?
Hiding away, Rose settled in, and begun to wait it out.
TWELVE
A mechanical whirring sound stifled the heavy silence, stirring Stephen into a semi-conscious state. The darkness had all but consumed him, become his whole world; he knew he was at the mercy of a stranger, a man with an agenda, someone with a stunted moral code. A psychopath? Potentially. A loon? Definitely.
All this for parking in someone's spot?
This isn't possible.
Mind you, that creature wasn't possible either.
Touché.
An overreaction though, right?
The darkness provided a makeshift solace, a brief interlude from the bizarre events of his day. The cold concrete floor had irritated him at first; it dug into his back and sides, and froze his exposed skin, but as his body warmth went to work—too slowly for his liking—he gradually found a comfortable resting place. Without interruption, he fell into a humble daze, the exhaustion of the day catching up to him.
However, it seemed the rest was now over.
Stark light prickled at his eyes, causing him to flinch and recoil. He covered his eyes with a shaky forearm as he realised the metal container, his temporary prison, was rising into the sky. Clambering to his feet, he wobbled as the image before him came into focus.
Stephen noticed several men standing in formation, some fat, others thin, some tall and several short. All eyes were currently on him. The men each brandished a firearm of some kind; Stephen recognised the hardware from his favourite video games. Rifles, machine guns, pistols, shotguns, one man even carried a rocket launcher. They dressed in camouflage too, greens and yellows and browns, a pattern he recognised as Multi-Terrain Pattern, or MTP for short. British Armed Forces attire, standard battlefield dress.
He swallowed, his constricting throat parched. As his eyes roamed across the opposition, the stranger from earlier stepped into view. The other men lowered their gaze to the floor. A uniform move. Stephen frowned, confused.
The stranger walked forward. "Are you ready to talk?"
Stephen nodded, defeated. "Yes."
About what, he didn't know.
Bide your time, see where it goes.
"Good. They always talk in the end. Everyone does."
Stephen tilted his head. Said nothing.
"So … why did you park in my spot?"
"I … I didn’t know it was … your spot. I didn’t see a reserved sign or anything."
"I see."
The man lunged forward and punched Stephen in the face. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, spluttering. Blood flecked his lips as he struggled to compose himself. "What…"
The stranger shook his head. "Wrong answer. Was his answer satisfactory, gentlemen?"
"No," the group of men chanted, in unison. The deep sound echoed around the building.
"I’ll ask again. Why did you park in my spot?"
"I … what … I didn’t…"
Another lunge. Another punch, this time to the other side of Stephen's face. Blood spattered the floor this time, the sound almost violent on the foreboding silence. The stranger held his fist and stood up. "Gentlemen?"
"His answer was not satisfactory," came the reply. Again, as one. A unit. A team.
"It certainly was not. My patience is wearing thin, Mr Stone. I brought you here in good faith. Please, don’t prove me wrong. I usually have good judgement on matters like this. Don’t make my decision an erroneous one."
Stephen spluttered, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, smearing the flesh with crimson. He stared at the other men, their lack of eye contact obvious and decisive. He withheld a small chuckle, the realisation dawning on him.
Of course.
They're terrified of him.
He yields power, uses it to get his way.
I'm going about this all wrong.
Stephen stood up and breathed out. "I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have parked in your spot. It was a huge error on my part. Please, accept my apology."
Silence.
No one spoke.
Until the stranger smiled.
He patted Stephen on the shoulder. "Well. There might be hope for you yet."
Stephen breathed a sigh of relief, unsure of what to say.
"Unfortunately, there's only room for one thinking man in this group."
The stranger pulled a gun from his waistband and shot Stephen in the calf. The limb exploded, spraying blood and shredded muscle outwards. Stephen yelped and collapsed to the ground, his body contorting in white-hot agony. He felt the blood rushing to the wound, his veins pulsing on his neck. A mild headache began to brew at the base of his skull.
He looked at his mutilated leg; noticed the ragged hole on both sides. The skin hung off in huge bloody flaps and scraped at the rough ground. The bone shone from the left side, the enamel pink with blood. He hissed through his teeth, fighting the searing pain. Spittle dribbled down his chin.
The stranger knelt down beside him. "They always talk in the end. Unfortunately, they rarely succeed in passing the test. Most of my captives are blithering idiots; their only concerns are their families or friends, or their beloved children, all things that make men weak in the face of adversity. You, on the other hand, you … well, you're a different breed."
"What do … what do you … want?"
"I want you."
"Huh?" Stephen began to shiver.
"I lied about the thinking thing. To be honest," he began, leaning in close. His voice became a whisper, "It’ll be nice to have another brain around the place. These nincompoops are nothing but the finest cannon fodder. Great bodyguards when you need them, but I have to do all the thinking. It can take a toll on a man of my talents, let me tell you."
"Why … why did you shoot me?"
The stranger held his pistol before him, eyeing the weapon with unbridled lust. Stephen had seen that look before, had fallen victim to the wandering gaze before. He suspected most hot-blooded men did, at some point in their lives. It brought about marriages and divorces, affairs and one-night stands, bar fights and lawsuits.
For him, it introduced him to Holly.
And, some years later, Thea.
Stephen howled
as the man pushed the barrel of the gun into his wound. He felt the metal scraping against the bone, screeching like chalk on a blackboard. Tears streamed from his eyes and dripped off his chin. Relief washed over him as the stranger removed it. Blood oozed from the weapon, dripping to the ground.
"I shot you to make a point. I'm glad to another thinker in this group, as mentioned before; it would take the strain off me. What I cannot have is a man walking in here and claiming his share of the spoils just because he impressed me. We can have more than one thinker, but we can only have one boss. That's me, okay?"
Stephen nodded.
"And for that to happen, well, you need to adapt to a potential change … well; I think a wheelchair will suffice. No one will give a second glance to the cripple while you have a handsome leader beside you. That's me too."
Stephen nodded. "Okay."
"We'll patch you up." He walked over to the crowd and placed his arm around an elderly man. "It just so happens that Peter here is a successful vet. He patched up my beloved husky on multiple occasions. His work is exquisite. Let's just say that my gun has a way of hunting when I least expect it. Owning a pet has its downfalls."
"You can’t get away with this … I mean … how … these men are your…" Stephen trailed off, the pain too much. He felt his eyes sagging and his skin chilling. A groan escaped his lips, the sound deep and guttural.
The stranger looked at him. A sneer crossed his face. "You really don’t know, do you?"
Stephen yelped and rolled to the side. The injured leg smacked the ground, emitting a scream from its owner. He didn’t reply as his damp eyes found his torturer.
"There is no society anymore. The world is coming to an end."
"No … no…"
"Yes. There is no law, and rules are no longer applicable. You could say the world has fallen to an apocalypse, but it's just so damn clichéd. Whatever has happened has spawned these creatures, they remind me of zombies, but with a smattering of logic. They think for themselves, can mimic basic human interactions."
Stephen gulped. The creature. Thea.
The utter silence when he emerged from the inlet pipe.
It all made sense.
"Fortunately, I had means at my disposal. I have money, wealth, a way of influencing people close to me. I hired my mother's personal chef, my vet, my doctor, my accountant—although I think he might prove useless in this new world—and I hired my bodyguards. I didn’t pay them in money; I paid them with their survival. They earn their living, and I let them live. They help me survive and I return the favour. Simple. I don’t know how long those things have been out there but in here, this warehouse facility, we are king."
Stephen dipped his chin, his movements drunken.
"Why am I explaining this to you? You can’t hear me, and I'm wasting my time. Peter, get Mr Stone to your surgery. Patch him up and put him in a cell."
The thin, elderly man stepped forward. "Yes, sir."
"And Peter?"
"Yes?"
"If he dies, you go into the grave with him, okay? I'll bury him on top of you with his arse in your face, you got that?"
Peter nodded, his agreement instant. "I'll … I won't let you down."
"I know."
Stephen lapsed in and out of consciousness, his focus shot. The stranger smiled and leaned in. "Mr Stone, my name is Xander. It's been a pleasure meeting you, but I feel our friendship has only just started. We have so much to catch up on."
*****
"What you're doing is a grave mistake," Melanie Bartram uttered, her words weak. Despite her reluctance to give in to her captor, deep down, she knew it was a useless endeavour. Appealing to the better nature of a psychopath was a skill that few possessed, a feat where many had failed. A psychopath with a sex addiction, though?
The implications were horrendous.
Melanie shivered, and forced the thought from her mind.
Besides, she had other things to worry about.
Beyond her office door awaited those horrible things, an impossibility of nature, a being that went against every medical practice and discovery she'd read or learned about. Her whole world and its sanctum was a sham, a joke; the entire foundation had crumbled in a matter of hours.
Therefore, if she could get past the psychopath who blocked her way, the monsters would get to her in a heartbeat. She didn’t like the odds; she was stuck between a psychopathic rock and a flesh-eating hard place.
She chuckled, disbelief coherent in her outburst.
"What's so funny?"
Melanie looked at David, her brief joy fading. "Nothing. It's dawning on me that my entire occupation is a joke."
"I told you this. Don’t tell me you're coming around?"
Melanie sighed, caressing her injured nose with her fingertips. "Yes, the irony being that you have nothing to do with it."
"Oh?"
"This is about those things out there. They defy everything I believe in; my whole belief system has become nothing but pure speculation and creative bollocks."
"I don’t get any credit at all?"
"No," Melanie sneered. "Why would you?"
"I told you your profession was rubbish. Now, it's a proven fact."
"Yes, because of those monsters out there. I'd rather take the fact that science has been proven completely wrong over your wobbly word. No offence."
"Well … that's just rude."
"Life is harsh, deal with it."
"Is that your professional opinion, doctor?"
Melanie sighed, but remained silent.
David glanced around the room. "Don’t you just love this?"
"Not really."
"You're just joshing. People love being in my company."
"Your victims told you this, did they?"
"They don’t need to."
Melanie shook her head. "Unbelievable."
David smiled. "Thank you."
Melanie turned her head in disgust. Her eyes flicked to the window, studied the frame and the aging wallpaper around it. She glanced at the plant pot in the corner, the leaves beautiful and relaxing. An idea began to materialise. A fragment of hope surged into her bloodstream.
Maybe…
"Look at me, Melanie."
She ignored the request, distracted by her new thoughts.
"Look at me," he hissed.
Reluctant, she turned her head and stared at David. Legs crossed, he was revelling in her misery, perched in her chair like a king on his throne. His fingers drummed on his kneecaps, his leering stare aimed in her direction. She knew he was looking for a teasing glimpse of her cleavage, or her thighs, both of which remained hidden in her current position. Her eyes found his, recognised the visual cues. A trickle of revulsion dripped down her spine. The evil in those orbs gleamed and danced.
"That's better," he said. "Why do you hate me so?"
"Where do I start?"
"It's my hatred of the female species, isn't it?"
"More your treatment of them, to be precise. Amongst other things."
"You see, a lot of the women, my previous victims, said this. I would usually chat with them beforehand. For me, the climax in the event isn't the sex part, no; it’s the part where the woman becomes one with me, through both the intimacy and the candid conversation. The latter happens on either side of the sex, like polite conversational bookends. No woman likes a fling where the guy pays no attention. No wham bam, thank you, goodbye. Pillow talk is crucial."
"You think you connect with these women? Please."
"You'd be surprised. Woman always say no, but they always change their mind in the end. They always do, you can see it in their tear-soaked eyes as I thrust inside them; I see their hope diminishing as the inevitable happens. They say no, but they succumb to their basic need. They give in, and hardly any of them fight back."
"No means no. Forcing them into it doesn’t change their mind, and using primitive fear as a weapon doesn’t change a thing, either. You're coercing these women, t
rapping them in an unavoidable nightmare that no woman should ever live through. That's not intimacy, it's torture, emotional blackmail, borderline slavery. You're not a lover, you're a fucking monster."
"My, my, doctor. It seems you disagree with my methods."
"What was your first clue?"
"I don’t expect you to understand. Yet, you're conversing with me, creating a superb bookend before the … main event."
"This isn't a conversation. A conversation involves two people discussing a topic of mutual interest, where both parties have a modicum of respect for one another. This?" Melanie said, shifting her rump. "This is nothing but sick propaganda. You believe in your methods for whatever reason, but that doesn’t make it right."
David chuckled. "This is a conversation. Just because you think otherwise, it doesn’t make it so."
"Think what you want," she replied. "You can talk all you want, and imagine getting your hands on me until the crows come home. The fact is, you're missing the bigger picture," Melanie said, her mind slipping into gear.
She had him where she wanted him.
Just a little further, she thought.
David chuckled. "Imagine? You really are deluded for someone who has nowhere to go."
"Which is exactly my point. You have this delusion of making me your thirty-first victim—and I would rather die than let that happen, and think what you want, I will fight back—but whatever happens, you have to leave this office. In the aftermath of today, you can’t stay here. There's no food or water. And I'm guessing you haven't thought that far ahead."
David leaned forward and opened his mouth, but paused. The question hit home.
Melanie nodded. "I'm right, aren't I?"
David pursed his lips and sat back. "For me, it's all about the kill."
"Bullshit. It's about your ego. You have to be superior to everyone else, I saw that the second you sat on my sofa. Fair enough, I didn’t know you were a killer, but you had that look about you, as if the sexual harassment suit was an affront on your very being, as if it was beneath you. It all started to make sense when you revealed your true nature. A kill is never enough, you always crave more. If you had control, you would have stopped long ago."
"You're very smart."
