Hungry Hearts

by Gary McMahon

  She fucked him right there, under the thick blankets, with everyone ignoring the sounds they made in the musty darkness. Daryl allowed her to control it all, watching from afar, inspecting how she pushed him inside and rode him, her mouth open, eyes closed; the way she no doubt imagined that he was someone else – someone better – as she bucked against him and brought herself to a shuddering climax. Daryl had little to do with the act. It was all about Claire, her need, her desperation. He could have been a tree stump, or a fence post.

  He rolled away from her, his cock still sticky. He wiped himself on the blanket and stared up at the ceiling. Someone laughed nearby, and when he glanced over at the bar, the drinker was watching, always watching, and he raised his glass in another of his mysterious silent toasts.

  Give her one for me.

  Daryl did not even know what that meant.

  If this was what it took to be a man, to be human, then he did not want to know. He was better off remaining free of emotions, staying away from social and sexual intercourse, and killing those he felt drawn to. This girl, this cheap barroom slut, was nothing compared to Sally. She might possess a slight passing resemblance, but that was where it ended. Sally would never act this way. She was pure and graceful; even dead, she was better than this filth he’d rutted with on a low bench among strangers.

  His mission was firm in his mind now; at least he could thank Claire for that. The initial repulsion he’d felt gave way to something akin to pity. He felt sorry that she was forced to live this way, and that she had never been given a direction in life. Bar to bar, stranger to stranger, she had been passed along like a shared cigarette. She had no idea what she was worth, yet in his eyes she was truly worthless.

  Daryl watched her as she snored beside him. He snaked his arm around her neck, feeling her warmth. She snuggled up against him, turning her body slightly and raising one leg to slide it across his belly. He lay on his back and thanked her for showing him the true face of human relations, the grubby reality that skulked beneath the surface glitter he’d seen in films and on television.

  Better to be a killer than a lover, he thought. At least killers wake up alone in the morning.

  A solitary firework detonated far away, on the other side of the city, as if punctuating the thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THEY STOOD LOOKING at the Nissan, each waiting for one of the others to speak. Tabby still held the two men’s hands; she was the glue between them. Rick watched the dead man stumble out of the bushes, amazed that such a decayed corpse was still capable of motion. Bones showed through rents in clothing and flesh, and the hairless skull moved jerkily on the wasted muscles of the withered neck, as if it were a shoddy computer animation.

  “It’s a shambler,” said Rohmer, taking a step towards the doors.

  “What’s that?” Rick stared at the man, thinking he’d probably lost his mind.

  “Haven’t you noticed there are different types? This one’s a shambler. It’s probably been dead for ages, and clawed its way out of the grave.”

  The barely mobile corpse continued its slow advance, shuffling in jittery half-steps towards the petrol pumps, and the jeep where Sally was still knocked out on morphine. She would be due another dose very soon, and Rick would rather not leave it until she began to stir.

  “There are also two other main groups, or types.” Rohmer was warming to his theme. “Runners are the freshly dead. They can move fast, almost as fast as us, but they are uncoordinated and easily confused.”

  Rick was impressed with the man’s powers of observation. He’d noticed these things too, but had not given much thought to what they actually signified.

  “Then,” continued Rohmer, “we have the partials. These are the ones who return with some kind of brain damage. Either they’ve taken a knock to the skull, and the brain matter has suffered serious trauma, or they have actually had part of their brain destroyed. They move slowly, if at all, and act like severely retarded mental patients, the kind you see in old stills and movie reels from Victorian asylums. They remind me of lobotomy victims, all weak and clumsy and incapable of autonomous motion.”

  Rick glanced at Tabby, but the girl was occupied tying her shoelace. She’d apparently heard her granddad’s theories before. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

  Rohmer turned and looked into his eyes, not smiling; not now. “It wasn’t by choice. I’ve see a lot of these things over the last twenty-four hours, and if you watch closely enough certain behavioural patterns become apparent.”

  Rick swallowed; his throat was dry. He uncapped a bottle of water and took a sip. “What are you... what were you, before all this happened. You know, back in the real world.” And wasn’t that exactly how it felt? Like they’d left their own world behind and entered another realm, one filled with the dead?

  “Oh, I used to be a lab technician, but I’ve always had an interest in anthropology. I read a lot, you know. Well, I used to read a lot. Hopefully I can do so again.”

  Rick didn’t have an adequate response, so he left it at that. He glanced back over at the shambler, which had not got far. Its left leg was twisted around so that the foot faced almost backwards, and its right arm was not much more than bare bone.

  Slowly, he opened the left hand door with his foot. Then he raised the Glock and waited until the thing gained a few more feet. The shot took off the top of its head, sending up a cloud of dried-out decayed matter. The shambler began to weave on the spot, like a comedy drunk in an old film, and then simply tipped backwards, hitting the floor with a barely audible whump.

  “Shall we?” Rick used his body to open the other door, and stepped aside for the others to follow him out of the building. The fireworks had stopped a little while ago and the sky was dark and silent. A few birds had returned to the trees, but their song was cautious, as if they were testing the air before committing fully to the nightly chorus. “The Farne Islands, you say?”

  Rohmer smiled uneasily, as if he still wasn’t quite sure he should be doing so. “Yes. It’s a bird sanctuary. The island we need is more of a land mass. It doesn’t even have a name.”

  “Okay,” said Rick, leading the way back to the jeep. “Let’s get going.” Tabby once again took his hand. For a moment, he felt like crying. Reality quivered at the edges, threatening to tear away and give him a glimpse of things as they really were, but then his gaze fell upon Sally, propped up in the front seat, and those edges repaired, the illusion holding. He squeezed the girl’s hand, and they all made for the jeep.

  Rick opened the back door and helped the girl inside, nodding at Rohmer, who glanced at Sally. “My wife,” he said. “I’ll have to give her more painkiller soon.”

  He eased behind the wheel and started the engine. He gave one last look around the service station, and then pulled away, the rear wheels spitting up loose stones in a tiny round of applause.

  “Which way?” He kept his eyes on the road, conscious that if there was one dead person wandering around there could easily be more. From what he’d seen, they tended not to act in groups, yet seemed to mass together out of some vestige of racial instinct.

  “Down to the canal,” said Rohmer, from the back. His voice had changed, becoming slightly anxious. “I’ll direct you, but we’re going to a little place called Crow’s Beak Corner. That’s where my barge is tethered.”

  They continued for a while in silence, then Rohmer began to call out “left” or “right here.” Rick concentrated on the road, his attention occasionally drawn by Sally, who stirred very little in the seat next to him. Once she moaned softly, but she didn’t call out again.

  “Here. Take this gravel road. It’s a bit bumpy, but the vehicle should be able to handle it.” Rohmer’s hand rested on Rick’s shoulder, and gave it a little squeeze.

  Rick took the vehicle off the road, under some straggly trees, and followed the path the old man had indicated. The road itself was an unmade track, covered with loose grave
l that became dirt after a few hundred yards. It led downwards, to the canal, and when they emerged from the undergrowth Rick’s breath was taken away by the sight of the moonlight on black water.

  He pulled up beside a short concrete jetty. The edges had long ago crumbled into the canal, exposing rusted steel reinforcement bars, but Rohmer’s barge was exactly where he’d promised it would be.

  “There she is. The Queen Anne. Named after my wife, God rest her soul.” Rohmer’s voice cracked on the last few words, as if it still caused him pain to speak of her. “It looks quiet. No one ever uses this place – they go to the better sites further along the water. But we always liked it here, under the trees, in the shade...”

  “Okay,” said Rick, trying to bring the man out of the past and into the potentially dangerous present. “You go and sort out the barge, and I’ll dose up Sally with some more morphine.”

  “Is she all right? Your wife. She seems bad.” Tabby’s concern touched him more than he thought possible. He turned and faced the girl in the darkness of the car, hoping that she could at least see his smile.

  “She’ll be fine, thank you. Just needs some medicine. She’s not quite given up yet.” He blinked back tears, his eyes burning. His hand rested on the seat back. He wished someone – anyone – would hold it.

  “Are you sure about this?” Rohmer leaned forward out of the shadows now gathered on the back seat like uninvited passengers. His face was rigid, his bug-eyes hard. “She doesn’t seem too well.”

  Rick sighed. Everything felt so heavy – the weight of his responsibility to Sally, the expectations of these people, the night itself. “I promise you,” he said. “If it comes to that, I’ll do her myself. I have plenty of ammunition, and I’m not about to allow anything to put you and Tabby in danger.” The lies tripped off his tongue, smooth as honey, cold as ice. He felt nothing but justified in his actions. She was his wife, and he loved her. Everything else was just dressing; ultimately pointless.

  “Here,” he said, handing Rohmer the second Glock, the one he’d picked up back at the apartment. “Just in case.”

  The old man stared at the gun before taking it.

  “Just point it and squeeze the trigger.” Rick nodded.

  The old man held the gun away from his body, as if he were afraid of everything it represented. Then, glancing at Tabby, he slipped his fingers around the butt of the gun and swallowed hard.

  Rick watched the old man and his granddaughter as they climbed slowly out of the car. He kept his window down, the barrel of his pistol pointed out into the darkness. The moon had emerged from behind the wispy clouds, and it lit their way, but anything could be hiding in the trees and the shadows.

  Once the two of them were untying the boat from its moorings, and when he was sure that Rohmer was ready with the gun, he took the morphine from a pocket in his rucksack. He administered the dose once again through her eyeball. Even if he ruined her eyes, she would have no further use for them. What did it matter if she were blind and dead or just dead? As far as he was concerned, it mattered not one bit.

  Sally’s hands flapped in her lap, bandaged birds shifting in their uneasy dreams. He held them, clasping both, and waited for her to quieten down. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve found somewhere to take you – a place where we might be able to make you better.”

  I know.

  He stared at her covered face, imaging how it had looked before any of this happened. The more time moved on the less he could remember the finer details.

  Just promise that you’ll always love me.

  He shut his eyes, lowered his head. For the briefest moment, there in the darkness of the car, he felt that he would never be able to raise it again. The weight of the world was pressing down on the back of his skull, threatening to break it.

  Then, after what seemed like a thousand years contained within the blink of an eye, he opened his eyes and looked up and out of the open side window. The old man and the girl were standing there, watching him. Rohmer’s hand was resting on Tabby’s head, his fingers curled over her scalp. They both looked sad, tired, and afraid. Rohmer held the gun loosely in his free hand. He kept his fingers well away from the trigger.

  “Tabby, come and help me unload the stuff. Your granddad can keep watch while we load the boat.” He widened his eyes, asking a question.

  Rohmer nodded and took his hand away from the child’s tousle-haired head.

  The water chortled as they worked, amused in its own mysterious way. Birds moved in the trees, but remained relatively silent: just the occasional chirp of song, the sudden flapping of wings. The canal was wide where Rohmer kept his barge, and the water was deep. Rick saw the black glint of a fish turning in the water, but only heard the splash it made a split-second later.

  Nature, it seemed, went on, even when the men who had tried to master it were suffering. The world kept turning, the tides came and went, all the creatures of the night continued their usual rituals, if a little more subdued than usual.

  Only man was changed; the rest of the animals simply watched on, possibly even amused by the failings of the bipeds who had always sought to master them.

  Once the guns, ammunition and other supplies were firmly tied into the barge and covered by tarpaulins, Rohmer climbed aboard and started the small engine. It was initially too loud for such a low-key craft, but Rick soon became accustomed to its throaty growls.

  “All aboard who’s coming aboard,” said Rohmer, a feeble attempt at a joke that nonetheless had Rick laughing.

  Rick returned to the car and picked up Sally’s unresponsive body, hauling her across his shoulder. He carried her back to the jetty and placed her gently into the craft, wedging her in so that she would not slip or fall overboard.

  Tabby watched in silence, her tiny pale face a bright spot in the darkness, the question mark on her cheek seeming to demand an answer to all the questions in the world. Rohmer stared at the canal, his focus on the dark waters that might just lead them out of this, keeping them safe from the madness occurring along the shore.

  The engine guttered; thick, acrid smoke poured from somewhere at the back of the craft. Rick held on to the sides of the barge, feeling as if he was sitting too high above the surface of the water. When the barge began to move, slowly, with no sense of panic or haste, he felt a little calmer. The more distance he put between Sally and dry land, the better he felt. The little Nissan moved away from them, twisting slowly on an unseen axis as they made for the middle of the river.

  “She may be slow,” said Rohmer from his perch at the head of the barge. “But she’s reliable. Never let me down yet!” He almost sounded happy. If it were not for the knowledge of his wife’s cold, dead hand resting not far from his own, Rick might have closed his eyes and pretended that they were on a relaxing boating holiday, and Rohmer was the captain of the craft. But the illusion would not hold: bloody reality crept in from the edges, turning everything red.

  Have some rest. We’ll be safe out on the water.

  He turned to face her. She sat near him, her head turned as if she were looking out at the canal. The bandages looked too bright under the eager moon, and he wished that none of this had ever happened – then he wished that this moment would never end.

  “We need to head for the Selby area,” said Rohmer, raising his voice to compete with the sound of the engine. “We can hole up for a while in a cottage I have there before setting off again on the roads to Northumberland. I have transport there, and plenty of supplies. It’s been my little bolthole for years now.”

  When Rick turned back to face the front of the barge, Tabby was watching him. Her face was unreadable, and the smile she finally offered was stunted, a thing not quite fully formed.

  Rick wasn’t sure how long he could keep up this charade, but when the truth broke he hoped that he would not have to hurt these people. Especially the girl. Maybe he could make her see that this wasn’t wrong, that he was acting out of love. He thought that she might be young enough a
nd innocent enough to appreciate the sentiment.

  The water rolled out beneath them, a black carpet leading to the promise of salvation... or a rippling, blackened tongue leading down into an infernal throat. Either way, they were safe for the time being.

  Something flopped heavily in the water. Rick couldn’t bring himself to look and identify what it was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  DARYL DIDN’T TRUST the lone drinker.

  The man was still awake while everyone else slept – or tried to grab some sleep – and had, by now, consumed so much alcohol that his head was tipping slowly forward towards the damp length of wooden bar top. He kept mumbling: incoherent words, snappy little phrases that meant nothing to anyone but him. They could have been the words to his favourite song, the names of his wife and dog: anything.

  Claire was snoring lightly at Daryl’s side, lying flat on her back with her mouth open wide. Her breath smelled of slightly degraded eggs.

  “In the boxes,” she muttered, tossing her head on the cushion. “I put ’em in the boxes.”

  Daryl had no idea what she was babbling about. He leaned in close so that his face was directly over hers, blocking his nasal passages so that he didn’t catch a whiff of her breath, and carefully dribbled a long line of saliva out of his mouth. The thick string of spit dropped slowly, stretching, and finally broke, hitting her cheek just below the left eye before it oozed down and across her temple.

  “Bull’s-eye,” he whispered, grinning. A child’s game, but it was something to do. He remembered being pinned down years before in the school toilets at break time and having the same thing done to him... and with worse substances than spit. Much worse.

  The thick drapes and wooden shutters at the windows kept the interior of the pub dark. Sleeping people were simply twisted shapes scattered in all that blackness, some grouped together and others yet further apart.