by Wood, Kolin
“That man is evil,” the woman said, stacking the plates and clutching them into her stomach. “If your friend has found his way in there, then he’s most likely evil now too.”
Juliana felt her hackles rise up. “Who—?”
“Still, if it’s all the same to you,” Tanner interrupted, again. “We’d like to go and see the place. Make a few inquiries.”
Juliana closed her mouth and squeezed her eyebrows together into a dipped brow. It was the second time that he had cut her off. She continued to stare, but Tanner would not make eye contact with her.
The woman’s face softened. She stepped backward, away from the table and turned to face up the street. “If you carry on up this street,” she said. “Just keep on going until you come to the old supermarket building. It’s big. You can’t miss it. But don’t, whatever you do, go inside or you mightn’t come back out again. Place is infested.” As she spoke, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, showing dirty, broken fingernails. “In front of that building, you turn right and just carry on up that road, keep walking for about another ten minutes and you’ll come by the old parkland. It’s over there, on the other side.”
This time it was Juliana who beat Tanner to the punch. “How will we know which building it is?”
This time, the woman let out a small, unconvincing and rather nervous laugh. “Oh, trust me, deary. When you get there, you’ll know.” And without adding anything more, she gave Tanner a small smile and hurried away into the dark confines of her modest shop.
Frowning, Tanner turned to look at Juliana. “Tactful,” he said.
Juliana rolled her eyes. “Stop being so fucking diplomatic all the time, Tanner. We needed to know. She knew.”
He looked away.
“Still, I do wonder what she meant when she said, ‘You’ll know’?”
Tanner shook his head. “I have no idea. But I take it that we are gonna find out soon enough.”
***
The big supermarket lay oddly out of context with the surrounding architecture. Huge, grey panels covered the sides, and the front canopy was supported by half a dozen thick, corroded steel pillars. It swamped the space between the shops and houses like some alien spaceship had landed, crushing anything unfortunate enough to be beneath it. A hint of solar panels blinked from the closest edge of the roof, where dozens of birds sat in uniform rows, watching on.
Tanner and Juliana stopped a safe distance away and surveyed it suspiciously. They each carried a rifle, having decided to lock the pistol and ammo in the barrow room, in the event that one of them should need to go back for it.
“What do you think is so bad that she had to warn us away?” Juliana said, unconvinced by the danger.
Tanner raised his hand to shield his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun. “Who knows? Could be something, could be nothing. No point in us tempting fate though, is there?” He stepped down from the pavement and turned right, in the direction that the woman had told him to go.
Juliana stayed put for a further minute, scanning the broken windows for any sign of life. But nothing moved. Inside looked as quiet as the grave. Convinced that the building and anything within it was dead, she stepped down from the cracked pavement.
“She said it’s somewhere on this street, farther up,” Tanner said. “Best be ready.” And with that, he raised the rifle up in front of his body.
Having only one arm, Tanner was unable to hold it properly. The twelve bore, with its burst spray and double barrels meant, however, that he would only have to be semi-accurate in order to deal a decent amount of damage.
Her own weapon, a smart-looking, black, Remington hunting rifle, would provide ample cover should the need arise to pick off a target from a distance. Copying Tanner, she lifted the gun up to her chest.
They marched on, Juliana very aware of the decrease in population. Where the centre had given a glimpse of a possible future, the part of the city that they now walked in held the same dark and morose undertones as the New Capital: buildings smashed and plundered, many raised to the ground. Even the smell of the place—rotting wood and fire smoke— reminded her of her old home, and she consciously pushed the ghosts aside.
The farther they walked, the heavier the mood became. It felt as though they were on the set of a horror movie, two unsuspecting victims walking towards the scene of something terrible. Perspiration and dirt had begun to cause friction and make movement uncomfortable. Looking over at Tanner, it was clear to see that the journey was taking its toll on him also. His grey temples had darkened with sweat and his breathing had become laboured. With every step, his upper body seemed to stiffen, and Juliana wondered if his shoulder was playing him up. He’d never tell her though.
“There,” he said, stopping suddenly.
Juliana glanced up.
Ahead of them, at the bottom of a slight incline, a large and flat, overgrown stretch of parkland opened up, filling the space between the crush of buildings. Beyond the park, clearly visible over a thick line of trees and occupying a footprint almost as large as that of the supermarket building, a huge, skeletal structure stretched up forty or fifty storeys into the sky.
“I reckon that must be it,” Tanner said.
Juliana wiped the sweat from her face and rested her hand on her hip. Roads stretched away from them in both directions, circumnavigating the huge, open space. She estimated that, to follow one, it would add several miles to their journey. A canopy of trees along the edge hinted at the bank of cooling shadow beneath.
“Shall we cut through?” she asked, keen to save some steps and welcome some shade.
Tanner shrugged, panting. “Might be worth a poke around. The buildings here don’t look like they are going to offer up much.” He glanced behind at an empty shell with no windows or doors. “Through, it is; will make for a change of scenery, at the very least.”
Chapter 15
Doyle ran at full speed in the direction of the door. His muscles burned under hot skin. A writhing mass of bodies struggled to funnel through the opening, and he slammed into them with a slap of flesh and a yell of frustration.
Rage drove him now. Flashes of his old self blazed and popped somewhere deep inside, constantly changing like photos on a digital frame, the images fading with every passing second.
His entire body screamed at him from within, charged for release. He felt insanely strong—superhuman even, his muscles taut and strained to the point of tearing.
Only one thing drove him now: the need to feed. It consumed every part of him. The thought of his teeth popping soft flesh left an insatiable hunger like nothing he had ever known.
Whereas before he had been locked in a room with nothing but shadows and darkness, his eyes were now suddenly alight and completely in tune with his surroundings, able to pick out even the smallest details. The other bodies around him seethed and shoved, pushing forward with the same urgency, desperate to escape… to run… to hunt.
Snarling, bloody faces bore feverish snapping teeth. Blood sprayed his arms as some of them turned on each other, their own rages unchecked in the wake of such communal madness.
Something leapt up and landed on him. A set of sharp teeth clamped down on the end of his nose, cleaving it off with one bite. But Doyle did not scream. He barely felt it. Flushed with adrenaline and charged with anger, he simply reached out and pushed his thumbs into the gory, red eye sockets of his attacker, relishing the pop as the eyeballs exploded. He pushed and squeezed until his fingers touched bone and then released the now-dead weight under the heavy trample of the feet around him. For a split second, he was overcome by a desire to fall to his knees and bite into the man’s flesh, to rip out his throat, but the urge was only fleeting. Even with the need to eat flooding through him like a heavy dose of amphetamine, something about the man felt wrong; his body was spoiled and unappetizing. Doyle put a bloody finger in his mouth and the taste made his body heave.
Ribs crunched and cracked under his foot as he stepped in
to the soft stomach cavity of the man, but Doyle did not once look down. Instead, he pushed harder, tearing those of smaller stature than him aside, swinging savagely with fists and feet.
He was soon through the door. Before him, the sharp edges of a steep, stone staircase loomed. Doyle powered up the steps, forcing those beside him to fall off the edge and land with a crunch into the increasing pile of twitching bodies at its base.
Another door and he felt the weight around him lessen. Free of the crush, he sprinted across the vast open space with huge, bounding strides, only aware of his mistake as a sharp beam of light stabbed him in the face like a sword. Skidding to a stop on the loose concrete floor, he threw up his hands and howled. A white canvas of burning fire scorched his eyes. Every time he tried to open them, the pain was so bad that he would scream again. Suddenly realising that he was blind, he fell scared to the floor and tried to cover his head with his arms but the effect was the same. All around him, great howls and screams of pain filled the air.
“Here, brothers!” the loud and deep voice boomed from somewhere close by. “This way.”
At the sound of the voice, Doyle spun, his teeth bared like a dog as his hunger and desire to rip something to pieces returned. A phlegmy scream escaped his lungs. He ran with his eyes closed, hunched over, his mouth open. The bloody stump of his nose twitched in eagerness at the chance of a feed. A few more strides and then the pain in his eyes diminished suddenly, as darkness washed over him in a cooling wave. More bodies followed him into the dark relief where they stood huddled together, panting, unable and unwilling to turn back in the direction of the light.
His anger tempered, Doyle opened his eyes. It was as if the sunlight had acted as a doping agent or temporary antidote to the madness. The desire to feed was still overwhelming, but the painful realisation that daylight rendered him nearly redundant had pulled the last available reasoning from the depths of his rabid brain.
All around him, the air lay heavy with the thick, coppery taint of blood. A door slammed closed behind. Darkness once again held majesty, the tight room hot and filled with the sound of heavy, rasping breaths. But for now at least, the rage in Doyle had subsided. The taste of his finger still held rancid in his mouth, keeping his blood lust in check. The others around him held nothing but more of the same tainted flesh.
Doyle threw back his head. His lips retreated from his teeth as he scrunched up what remained of his nose. Clotted blood and torn flesh clung to shredded cartilage. Every muscle in his body felt tight and hot, wired to explode. To run and find food; that was what he wanted to do.
Run and eat.
Run and eat.
Run and eat.
Reaching up, he grabbed handfuls of hair and wrapped his fingers in it until they hurt. He pulled clumps free, sucking great breaths in through his teeth while relishing the burning sensation on his scalp. The pain made him feel alive. The pain was now his life.
From somewhere outside, a muffled voice shouted, “Soon, brothers, you will all be free.”
But Doyle no longer recognised the meaning of the words. They had become mere sounds, sounds a prey might make.
As one, the others around him began to make clicking noises with their throats, chattering like warring monkeys, interspersed with the odd pitchy scream, and Doyle joined in, yanking free more hair and banging his hands against his face and chest in uncontrolled, spasms of movement.
And in that very moment, Doyle, as anybody had known him, died.
Chapter 16
Inside, the foyer of the building was dark and badly lit. The strong stench of vomit forced John to cover his nose and breathe through his mouth in order to lessen the chance of being sick himself. A dirty red carpet led him up several steps into a gaudily decorated room. The space was empty of furniture save for the chipped and worn, wooden reception desk. No pictures adorned the walls. A board bearing what John assumed to be the various room prices hung from a nail, and a small, brass dome was the only item on the top.
Curious, John approached the desk. The carpet, thin and patchy in places, stuck to his feet. On top of the small brass dome sat a tiny button, and he pressed it cautiously. The loud ringing noise caused him to jump backward. From beyond a doorway on the other side of the desk, John heard a shuffling noise.
The door opened and an old man appeared. A delicate shock of white hair stuck out from under the frayed rim of his flat cap, and his worn blazer had been patched over with materials of many different colours. He moved slowly, almost bent double, and John was quick to notice the large, disfiguring hump on his back.
“Yes?” the old man said, in an age-worn, croaky voice. “Can I help you?”
Skin folds hung slack on the man’s face. Large black rings decorated the wrinkled skin under his eyes. But, as far as John could tell, he wasn’t sick.
“I’m looking for somebody,” John said, in a louder voice than normal. “A friend of mine, I’m hoping that he…”
The sound of retching cut through the room, silencing John mid-sentence. It continued for a minute, increasing in fever until the person responsible was howling in pain like a wounded dog.
Dismissively, the old man waved a claw-like hand in the direction of the front door. “Ahh, don’t be worryin’ about him,” he said. “We been hit by a bout of food poisoning is all, half the bloody town has it from what I’ve heard. Nasty business, sure, but he’ll be cleaning that mess up soon as he’s better; you mark my words!”
John stood silent for a few moments, unsure how to proceed. Telling the man would make no difference. It was highly likely that he would never make it out of the city anyway. His best chance of survival would be to barricade himself in and hope—no, pray to whatever god was watching—that the wrath of the farm did not find its way into the Refuge. John guessed that they would all find out soon enough.
“It’s my friend. I was wondering if he took a room here sometime in the last few weeks.”
The old man raised the front of his cap and scratched the top of his head. “You want a room, you say?”
A sickly funk floated in from outside and wafted under his nose. Annoyed, John leaned forward and placed both hands on the counter. “No, I’m looking for—”
The door behind the old man opened and a young woman appeared. She was pretty; perhaps ten years older than John with long, straight, blonde hair scraped back off of her head and tied in a high ponytail. She carried with her a harassed look, and in one hand she held a long, evil-looking knife. Shocked at her sudden appearance, John stepped backward.
“It’s okay, Dad,” the woman said in a tired voice. “I got this.” Gently, she took the old man by the shoulders and steered him back through the door. The same, subtle candlelight which John had seen from outside, flickered inside the room beyond. She turned and looked at John. “Yes? Can I help you?”
John swallowed and stepped back to the desk.
“I was wondering if you could help me… I was looking for my…”
“John?”
The sound of his own name cut his words from his lips.
“Is that you?”
John stepped away again, confused. He watched as her eyes flittered up to his forehead to take in his birthmark and then brimmed with tears. He continued to stare, words completely failing him. The longer he looked the more he thought that there was indeed something familiar about her face.
Before he knew what was happening, the girl dropped the knife, strode around the side of the desk, and pulled him into a strong embrace. “Oh, John! You’re okay! I wanted to come and find you, but to be honest, I didn’t have the slightest clue where to look!”
The soft wool of her sweater smelt like wood ash and meat. John could only stand there, as rigid as a post, his body not responding to the hug. His mind whirred as he tried to put together the pieces of what was happening to him.
Could it really be her? Could it really be the girl that Ryan had met all those years before and since sacrificed everything for? And if so,
where was he?
They stood like that for a while. The soft shake of her body accompanied the wetness of her tears on his neck as she wept.
Eventually, they pulled apart.
“Ryan?” he asked, searching her face as a familiar sick feeling flooded his stomach. “Where is he?”
He knew the answer even before she opened her mouth to reply. Grief and sorrow stood clearly etched in her tired features. Tears continued to drip steadily from the bottom of her chin.
“He… He’s gone. I’m so sorry, John.” She reached out and put a cold hand against his flushed cheek.
The sick feeling in John’s stomach intensified until it felt like the very pit of his guts had twisted themselves into a tight knot. Sadness and anger entwined to produce a vortex of emotion that he could not control or digest. His whole body began to shake. Gone? Gone where? He twisted his head, shrugging away her hand as he stepped a few more paces backward, unwilling to believe what he was hearing.
“What do you mean he’s gone? What have you done with him?”
He could no longer feel his legs and it felt as though his torso was gliding on the air. His arms rose on autopilot to grip at his hair and pull on it painfully.
“I’m sorry, John. The last thing he spoke to me about was you.”
Her eyes, so full of sorrow searched his compassionately. But it was too late. All of the rage that he felt inside suddenly boiled over the top to blacken his eyes and obscure his reasoning. With no control left, he stepped in and gripped her by the throat using one strong and calloused hand.
“What have you done to him? Tell me!”
The woman reached up to grab at his wrist but she was no match for John’s strength. He was young and fit, in the prime of his youth, and carved solid from years of toil on the land. She pulled at it, desperately trying to free herself. John felt her nails rake the soft flesh of his arms but his adrenaline masked the pain. His ears ached as he gritted his teeth. “TELL ME!” He pushed his thumb into the soft flesh under her jaw.
