by Gary McMahon
get out. get out of the room. lock her in. lock yourself in a cupboard.
Sally held her breath, waiting for the girl’s response. She didn’t even know her name.
needz me. makng thiz like crying noiz. moaning.
think shez thirsty. or hungry.
“No. Don’t!” Sally typed quickly, trying to focus her energy through the keyboard, along the wireless connection, and out towards the girl. She needed help, but none was coming. None was ever coming.
don’t go to her. run away. run run run run
The dialogue was over. The girl did not respond.
Sally waited, waited, her heart pressing hard against the bones of her chest, threatening to tear a hole in her breast. She could hardly breathe; this was all too much to handle. Just a girl – a young girl and her dead mother. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right. None of this should be happening.
Tears came, with a force that actually stopped her breath, but they were not cathartic. They hurt, burning like a mild acid on her cheeks. Sally’s head dropped, her gaze at last leaving the laptop screen. She closed her eyes, wishing that it would all go away, that Rick would arrive and everything would return to normal.
When she looked again at the laptop, the resolution was fading, the screen light dimming. A message popped up in the bottom right hand corner.
Disconnected.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Sally turned to look through the kitchen archway, peering into the swirling darkness and wondering who it could be. Rick. Of course, it had to be Rick. He’d heard her messages and been allowed to return home. She suddenly felt lightheaded, like a love-struck teenager. It was an odd reaction under the circumstances, and the feeling took her by surprise. She’d expected relief, perhaps even a muted form of joy, but not this strange sense of wanton excitement.
Rick knocked again, six times; their secret code, instilled in her as a safety measure for when he was working the late shift. Even when he had his keys, he always knocked first just to let her know it was him.
“I’m coming,” she called, struggling to her feet as she pushed the chair away from the dining table. The legs screeched on the hardwood floor. The laptop slid across the tabletop, forgotten for now. She could try to re-establish the connection later, once she and Rick had made the apartment secure.
Rushing along the hallway, she attempted to reign in her emotions. What if it wasn’t Rick at the door? Surely he would have responded to her call, putting her at ease with soothing words or a snatch of gentle banter. She approached the door and pressed the palm of one hand against the grainy texture of its surface. The door felt cold to her touch.
“Hello?”
No answer. If it was Rick out there, he must be hurt; otherwise he would be calling her name, telling her to open up.
“Hello. Who’s there?”
A short pause, followed by a low, smooth voice: “My name is Daryl. I live downstairs – the next floor down. My wife is hurt and no one else will answer their door. Please… please, I need help. The phone line is dead. I’m afraid.”
Yes, she reasoned, the phone lines were all down. She’d seen and heard nothing of the other neighbours, assuming they’d all simply gone to ground inside their own homes. This man sounded plausible; he needed help, and because Sally had been unable to rescue the girl she’d communicated with earlier, she felt the need to lend a hand here.
“Daryl? Are you hurt? Do you know what’s going on?” She pressed her cheek against the door, listening intently to his voice, looking for a flaw in his story. Rick had always taught her to be careful, be sure of herself before trusting anyone.
“No, I’m fine. Just a little shaken. My wife collapsed. I don’t know why. I called for an ambulance earlier, but the call was cut off. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on out there… but it’s bad. Really bad.”
The final two words convinced her of his authenticity. His voice had cracked, as if the fear was overwhelming. It must have taken a lot of courage to even step outside of his apartment to go in search of aid. She wondered if she would be up to such a feat if the same thing had happened to her – if she needed to find help because Rick was ill or even (God forbid) dead.
“Okay, Daryl. Please step back from the door, and I’ll open up. I want to see you first, in the security spy hole.” She moved to the left and put her eye to the tiny glass peephole set in the middle of the door. A short, harried-looking figure stood on the other side, glancing nervously along the landing. He was shorter than Sally by what she guessed was at least a few inches, and his build was slight – even puny. As she studied his smooth bespectacled face, she realised that he did indeed look vaguely familiar. She must have seen him around the building, perhaps had even spoken to him in the lift on her way to work.
“That’s fine, Daryl. I can see you. I’ve seen you before.”
The man smiled.
“I’m going to open the door now. Get ready to step inside so I can get it shut again as quickly as possible. I don’t want to take any unnecessary risks.”
He smiled again. Sally realised that he must be experiencing intense relief that someone had responded to his plea for help. He must be terrified, and worried that his wife might die and… and become one of them: the things roaming around out there, in the night, grabbing hold of whatever warm flesh they could find.
Feeling slightly more in control now that she was doing something positive, Sally pulled opened the door and stepped to the side, allowing the man to squeeze past her and enter the apartment. He was a good two inches shorter than her – that must make him something like five foot five. His hair was uncombed and out of condition and he had a mild buzz of razor rash down one side of his throat. Her first impression had almost been correct: he was thin, but not scrawny. Beneath his jacket and shirt she sensed he would be fit and toned. His legs, however, were skinny – particularly the calves – like those of a child.
“Thank you, Sally,” he said, moving along the passageway and into the main living area. His feet trod softly; he made very little sound as he walked.
“How do you know my name?” Sally did not follow him into the apartment. She stood by the door, one hand on her thigh and the other held loose, ready to open the door again if she needed to leave in a hurry.
Daryl grinned. “Sorry. I think one of the other tenants told me. I remember when you and your partner – is it Richard – were married. Saw the wedding cars parked outside.”
“Rick,” she said, shuffling forward, slightly more at ease. “His name’s Rick. He’s a policeman.” She didn’t really know why she’d added this information, but it made her feel better that Daryl knew what her husband did for a living. “Armed Response.”
Daryl nodded. It was a slow, almost cautious movement. “Yes, I know. I’ve seen him around. Even spoke to him a few times, down in the lobby.”
Sally entered the living room, keeping to the edges of the space. She was unsure of this man but had no concrete reason to distrust his motives. He’d come here for help; surely that made him safe. “Where was it you said you lived? Which apartment?”
“Number three. Ground floor.” He was examining a photo frame that contained a picture taken on their wedding day. A grey limo. Rick lounging on the bonnet in his rented suit and she clad in a second-hand wedding dress she’d bought from eBay. Trees stood in the background, soaked by the rain that had never stopped that day and went on well into the following week. A typical summer wedding.
“I thought you said you lived on the floor directly underneath. You did say that, didn’t you?” She wracked her brain to remember if he had indeed claimed to live directly beneath her place, but couldn’t quite grasp his words.
“No,” he said, taking off his rucksack. It was new. He’d even left the price tag dangling from one of the zippers. “I just said that I lived downstairs. Didn’t stipulate a floor.”
Sally suddenly realised that Daryl had carefully worked his way around the room and now stoo
d between her and the exit. He was taking off his coat. His glasses had steamed up, so he removed them and began to rub them on his sweater. The sweater was like something an unfashionable teenager might wear – some cheap knock-off from a shabby market stall.
“Well. Well, well, well.” He laid the jacket across the back of a chair, stroked it with the flat of his hand. His rucksack was resting at his feet, a tame dog; it was still sealed but easily within reach. “I’ve waited a long time for this, Sally. You wouldn’t even believe how long I’ve wanted to meet you.” He put back on his glasses, smiling coyly.
Then she understood. This pathetic little man obviously had the hots for her. He’d spied on her from his apartment, wishing that he could orchestrate a meeting, and tonight had finally summoned the nerve to come calling. The opportunist little bastard. “What about your wife?” she said, glaring at him. “I thought she was hurt?”
“No. Not hurt.”
She imagined Daryl’s spouse sitting on her own downstairs, probably under the impression he’d gone to find out what was going on, when in reality he was stalking one of the neighbours.
“Not hurt. To be honest, she doesn’t even exist. I made her up. I don’t have a wife... just a... just a Mother.” His empty smile was lopsided, like a morbid scar. It transformed him from a sad little wanker into something far more dangerous and worthy of a lot more caution.
“I... I don’t understand. Which apartment do you live in?” The answer was already there, somewhere deep inside her brain, but still she felt that she must ask the question.
He took a step closer. Just the one: a short, nimble movement that took her utterly by surprise with its elegance. “Don’t be silly. I don’t even live in this building. I’ve come quite a way to meet you, Sally Nutman. Further than you could ever imagine.” He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and then opened his eyes again, staring right at her. Through the thick lenses of his glasses, those eyes looked huge and desolate, gaping holes in his vicious skull.
Daryl moved forward again, exercising an impressive economy of movement. He was like a dancer, displacing the air before him rather than actually flexing his body through it. Shock waves shimmered across the room, unseen but felt by them both – a soft draft on the skin of the arms, a disturbance in the atmosphere.
“Don’t come any closer...” Her words trailed off, useless.
“Do you even understand how redundant that plea is? Or was it meant as a threat? He bent down from the waist and picked up his rucksack. Unzipping the main pocket, he took out a bundle of rags and discarded the bag. Unfolding the bundle, he first produced a knife. There where other things in there too, but Sally could not see beyond the long serrated blade, the blinking stainless steel smile.
“Oh, God.”
“God?” Daryl slashed the blade through the air, practicing. “I don’t believe in God. Certainly not Mother’s God – and not after the things I’ve seen tonight. Do you even know what’s going on out there, beyond the walls of your fucking ivory tower? The dead are walking about, refusing to lie down. They are no longer at rest.”
Sally’s gaze flicked around the room, looking for a weapon. Anything would do, but sadly there was nothing that she could use against him, not even a heavy ornament. She had never been a fan of having such things cluttering up the surfaces; she preferred prints on the walls, books and photographs on the shelves. Right now, under the current circumstances, she was beginning to regret her taste in furnishings.
Even the books she owned were lightweight; the thought of throwing a Ben Elton or a Jackie Collins paperback at his head provoked in her a desperate form of laughter that felt absurdly inappropriate.
“Oh, perfect.” Daryl was grinning now, but still there was nothing beneath the expression – no depth, no real emotion: no humanity. “I’ve just thought of something. I can’t believe that it’s only just occurred to me. If the dead are getting up and walking, there’s a fair chance that you might rise and attack whoever finds your body. When I’m done with you, of course. After I’ve finished.”
He swayed like a cobra, music she could not hear ululating in his ears. His lips were open; there were twin white dabs of spit at the sides of his mouth. The skin of his cheeks flushed red, as if he was embarrassed. Or aroused.
Sally prayed for a miracle. She wished that Rick would arrive back home, tired and drained from the night’s exertions, but still able to save her. Save her from the pain and degradation this abomination of a man must surely have been planning to put her through for such a long time.
As Daryl danced towards her, a silver flash in his hand and dark deeds in his heart, the last thing Sally thought of was her wedding day, and Rick’s beautiful face dropping from the sky to engulf her own, lips parted, eyes on fire, teeth as white and as filled with promise as the years she’d always thought would stretch ahead of them.
The night opened before her like a series of gigantic black doorways; the apartment vanished, consumed by limitless darkness. A dull roaring sound filled the universe, and in every nook and cranny, every ditch and hidey-hole, each ancient, forgotten corner of the country, nameless and faceless creatures began to feed...
CHAPTER ELEVEN
...SUNDERLAND, A SMALL terraced cottage. A middle-aged woman named Beth Hardy readies herself for bed. Heavy winter nightdress, thick knee-length socks, a hot mug of cocoa. Climbing into bed, she hears a sound outside her bedroom window. It is late. She suffers from terrible insomnia. Who can be out and about at this hour?
Beth puts her cup down on the cluttered bedside cabinet, beside a James Patterson novel. She slips out from beneath the duvet and crosses the room to the window. Her late husband’s watch, key ring and old-fashioned hair brushes rest upon the top of the dresser, a small shrine to the only man she has ever loved.
Smiling sadly, an ache in her chest, she leans across the dresser and opens the curtains.
The face she sees looking in at her is at once familiar and totally alien. It looks like her late husband, has the same salt-and-pepper hair, squat American nose (he was born in Texas; his family crossed the pond to England when he was eleven), sad, almost mournful grey eyes, grizzled beard on his blunt chin, but surely it cannot be Norm? The man has been dead for nearly a year, after his heart failed during a midnight visit to the lavatory.
The Norm-thing shifts an inch to the left, the movement enough to break the spell and allow Beth to acknowledge the signs of decay. His cheeks have fallen into his face, those sombre eyes are dried out and sightless, the nose she once loved has been partially eaten away. The salt-and-pepper hair looks more like dust-and-cobwebs.
Beth knows that she should scream; can feel the response building in her throat, travelling up from her gut. But she does not make a sound. Instead she walks through into the living room, and stands before the front door. She listens, her ears alert to the shuffling sound as the Norm-thing traces a familiar route to the doorstep.
For years, her friends had warned her of his gallivanting ways, his dirty stop-out nature, but in the end, like clockwork, he always returned to her bed. No matter which whore he had on the go behind her back, she was always the one he came back to, cap in hand, dick in pants, an apology on his clever tongue.
Beth pauses before opening the door, and then flings it open to greet her dead husband. The Norm-thing, hung in rags and stinking of grave dirt, leans in for one last kiss...
...BIRMINGHAM, A RUN-DOWN sink estate. Danny Blake stands on a street corner, needing a fix. He doesn’t care what he ends up with; he just wants something to ease the tension, remove the sights and sounds of the shit hitting the fan. He knows that it isn’t exactly safe here, on this lonely corner, but none of his usual contacts can be reached.
He needs to find someone quickly; anyone with a deal to be made.
Becka moaned and griped when he took the food money, but the baby could always suck her tit if it got too hungry. Sure, it was a bit old for that, but when needs must...
A sound startle
s him. Shuffling footsteps. A can being kicked into the gutter. None of the lights in this grimy street are working; darkness sits heavy across his shoulders like a football scarf, his nerve endings are on fire. He wishes he had enough for crack, but Becka has already been to the shops this week and spent some of the cash. The fucking bitch: always squandering his dole money, using it for shite that means nothing to him. She doesn’t even care about his habit. All she wants is his cock twice a week, his fist once a month, and his hard cash whenever he manages to grub enough together to buy the brat a new pair of shoes.
Fuck them. Fuck them both. Shit is going on that he doesn’t understand. Back at the house, the baby hasn’t moved for over an hour, and all Becka seems to want to do is cry. He heard gunshots earlier, and screams. The mates he rang on his mobile all told him to stay inside and wait for things to cool down.
Fuck them, too. He needs a fix, so a fix is what he is going to have.
Just then a figure weaves around the corner, clutching its head. It’s Ally, the dickhead from Sully Street who always has something in his pocket.
He takes a step towards the dealer, raising a hand in greeting. The stumbling figure bounces off the wall, cracking his elbow against the brickwork but not even flinching.
Danny takes an involuntary step back, away from the stinking bastard – God, he smells like dogshit, like a fucking open sewer.
You got anything, like?
His words fall flat; the dealer isn’t playing. He twirls in a slow circle, still grabbing at the side of his head. Danny sees that there’s blood there, in his hair: it’s all matted, like burned candy floss. There’s something seriously wrong with the daft cunt.
Shit.
No fix, unless he can take it by force. The tosser must be legless, or stoned on his own gear. Maybe the goings-on tonight have been too much for him, too.
