by Lauren Algeo
He started on my mind first, making me relive memories of Karen. Ones that I’ve always kept so carefully buried yet he dug them up easily. Her walking down the aisle towards me on our wedding day. Her bright smile. Seeing her beautiful face made me ache for her. Then he started on my worst nightmares. Karen lying in the hospital bed near the end, her frail body and sunken eyes. The days before she died. I knew I was broken. I couldn’t stop the tears and I had no idea how to get the Grand out. I’d given up.
Georgie hadn’t. Through my painful torture, I suddenly saw her shoot into my field of vision. She was running directly towards the bedroom window. The realisation struck me with so much force I couldn’t breathe. I tried to shout for her to stop but it was too late. The Grand released his hold on my mind to go after hers and she crashed through the glass with him fully inside her head. There was a sickening thud from below as I reached the window. I tried to look down but Celiah shoved me aside.
Everything was hazy through my shock. The Grand slumped to the floor and a high-pitched buzz began to emit from his body. It resonated around my mind and the other hikers shrieked in agony. It was clearly louder to them and they all collapsed, tearing at their heads. I can’t describe how painful it was. My head felt like it was being squeezed to the point of explosion and I was sure my teeth were going to fall out. My eyes and nose were streaming with tears, snot and blood, and my left eardrum burst. It was excruciating. I was sure I was dying.
When it stopped a moment later, I thought I had died. Yet my heart was still hammering in my chest and my ears were ringing loudly. I checked the hikers with shaking fingers and they were all dead. I dragged myself to the Grand last and confirmed that he was no longer breathing. I stabbed him in the heart with Georgie’s flick knife, just to be certain.
Then I went down to find her. I knew that if the hikers were dead, she was too but a small part of me was still clinging to the hope that she wasn’t. That somehow she’d survived the fall. Each step was agony. As soon as I saw her crumpled body on the gravel I knew she was gone. There was glass everywhere and she was facing away from me. I bent down to her and saw the awful wound on the right side of her head. She was gone.
I’m not sure how long I stayed there, cradling her body and sobbing. Telling her how sorry I was. At some point I whispered that her dad would have been proud of her, words that she couldn’t hear but I still hoped would be some comfort. When it got light I took her body to a quiet spot in the Dales and buried her. It was near some picturesque trees and very peaceful. I think she would have liked it.
I hadn’t wanted to leave her there but I couldn’t bring her body back to London. There would be police and questions. They might find the Grand’s house and all the bodies in it. I had to bury her there.
So now you know what Georgie did. That she sacrificed herself in order to kill the Grand and in turn the rest of the hikers. She’s saved god-knows how many lives but no one will ever know. Only I’ll remember… and now you will too, I guess. Georgie saved us all.
15th January 2012
I’m a shell of the man I once was. Broken, damaged, useless. For the last two weeks I haven’t been able to sleep or eat or move. All I do is drink. I sit in the armchair and down shot after shot of Jack Daniels, going over every moment of the last few months in my mind. No amount of blaming myself helps. My mind tortures me relentlessly.
I want to die. Just close my eyes and silence the world forever. There’s too much pain here and I can’t take it any longer. I can’t kill myself though, that would be too easy. The coward’s way out. I deserve to live in this hell. It’s my punishment for failing Georgie. I must live through every agonising day that I’m supposed to. That’s what I have to do.
Maybe the universe will take pity on me and I’ll die soon. I’m halfway there anyway. I caught sight of my reflection in the bathroom earlier and barely recognised myself. The lack of real food has made me emaciated. My skin is pallid and my eyes have sunken into my skull. I haven’t shaved for weeks or cut my hair, and my eyes are bloodshot from a lack of sleep. A living corpse.
I haven’t even changed since that night. I’ve stripped off my jumper (which was covered in Georgie’s blood), but I’m still in the same dirt covered jeans and t-shirt. There’s no energy for showering. I will keep the smell of death.
The flat is a state. I had a fit of rage when I got back here a couple of weeks ago. There’s furniture everywhere: upturned chairs, books thrown against the wall, kitchen appliances ripped from their sockets. I don’t care. It’s not like anyone is here to see it.
Maybe they’ll find my body in here in a few weeks time, when the smell gets too much and finally alerts the neighbours. They’ll shake their heads and feel sorry for me – dying alone in such a shithole. They’ll never know the real truth. They’ll forever be blind. I feel sorry for them.
17th January 2012
It’s not over yet. The very words make bile rise in my throat. This living hell isn’t over. There are still hikers in America. Georgie died for nothing. What a cruel, twisted, fucking joke.
Last night was the first decent sleep I’ve had since it happened. For once there were no nightmares and I got some proper rest. I woke up feeling refreshed, with a new energy. I can’t waste my life and let Georgie’s death be in vain. I had a scalding shower and even went into the bedroom to change. I’d been avoiding it because it still smells of Georgie and her stuff is everywhere, but I was brave this time.
I went through the flat, tidying up the mess I’d made, and poured myself a coffee instead of a shot of JD. Then I made the mistake of turning on the laptop. I just wanted to check the news to make sure there was no more activity, what I got was far worse. Sometime over Christmas, Georgie had set up the email account on the laptop and sent a message to the boy from the blogs, Striker25. She’d told him about our experiences, that we call them hikers, and our success with the meningitis virus. She said we were going to try rabies next and would keep him posted.
I’d been intending to leave some instructions for other people on the forums, as a sort of legacy, but in the confusion of the last few days before the Grand’s house, I’d completely forgotten. It was typical of Georgie to have remembered. The boy’s reply sent my stomach plummeting to the ground. He was ecstatic that other people knew about these things too and were trying to stop them. He said Philadelphia was still rife with hiker activity. The message had been sent eight days ago – over a week after we’d killed the Grand. There should be no hikers.
I’m so angry I want to break down in tears. Trash the flat again and return to the bottom of a bottle. Live my days in denial. How is it possible?
I’m still gearing myself up to reply to him. Where do I start? I really want to believe that he’s got it wrong and the killings he’s talking about have just been committed by normal people. I know in my heavy heart that he’s not. Somehow killing the Grand didn’t kill them all. Maybe it’s a proximity thing and the death sound didn’t travel across the Atlantic?
Regardless, I know what I have to do. Georgie wouldn’t hesitate. If there are still hikers in America then it’s my duty to go over there and end this for good. I owe it to her to try. I can’t let her death have been for nothing. So I’m going to reply to this Striker25 and I’m going to sort myself a flight. For Georgie.
21st January 2012
I’m finally about to get on a flight out of here. There was so much I’d forgotten to do. I guess spur of the moment action isn’t always the best way. I’ve been holed up in a hotel waiting for a visa. In my haste, I hadn’t even thought about America’s strict access rules.
I’d put the flat in order and packed my rucksack the very afternoon I’d decided to leave. When I was making Georgie’s/my old bed, I found a photograph under the pillow. It’s of a young Georgie, in a sunny garden, with her arms around her parents. She’s got her natural brown hair in a ponytail and is wearing a white t-shirt and pink shorts. She looks happy. I’ve put it in my wallet, along
side the photo of my wedding day.
I left the flat without another glance back and got the train to Heathrow. I was planning to book a flight when I got there, you know, wait on stand by for an available seat. It was only as I got closer that I remembered about visas. You can’t just fly to America now, with no return flight or planned duration of stay. I don’t know how long it will take me to deal with the hikers over there but I’ve only got 90 days. It was too short notice for me to apply for a full visa so I had to opt for the Visa Waiver Programme. It took 72 hours for them to accept and process it, and that’s all I get: 90 days. I’ll have to travel around quickly.
At least the wait gave me enough time to wrap up all the other loose ends. I’ve put my finances in order from the airport hotel. I’ve transferred most of my savings into one accessible account and exchanged a large chunk for dollars. To be honest, there’s not as much money left as I’d hoped. I’ve been steadily eating into it over the last few years and I hadn’t factored in paying for another person when Georgie joined me. I mean there’s a good few thousand left, and the flat is owned outright so I’m not exactly hard up, but a trip like this is going to cost a small fortune. There are the flights, travelling around, accommodation, food and drink. I’ll have to stay in cheap motels for a couple of months and eat fast food.
I’ve had several cups of coffee this morning and it’s not helping to settle the nerves in my stomach. This whole trip is too overwhelming. What if I can’t find the remaining hikers? What if I don’t manage to get hold of anything to kill them with? I’m going to be meeting up with Striker25 when I’ve settled there. Whose real name is Mitchell Baines, by the way. He’s a twenty-five year old kid and I’m not sure how much help he’s going to be. At least he knows the city and will be able to act as a sort of tour guide, even if he can’t actually hear the hikers to track them.
Right, it’s nearly 10.30am. Time to head to Philadelphia International airport.
28th January 2012
I’ve been here for nearly a week and I still haven’t got a clue what’s going on over here. Philadelphia is a labyrinth and everything is unfamiliar to me.
I’ve been staying in a motel outside the city centre and catching subways everywhere. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve taken the wrong one. I don’t think my brain is functioning properly at the moment and being a tourist in a strange city isn’t helping. I actually feel homesick for my small, familiar flat.
Getting a grasp on the hiker activity is proving just as difficult as the geography. News is different over here. There seems to be tons more killings that could be attributed to hikers and I’m having to filter them down. Everything is far more sensationalist. I don’t know which TV stations to trust and which websites aren’t stretching the truth – you know, like the Daily Mail always makes everything seem so much more dramatic. I feel out of my depth. Hell, it took me a day to even sort out mobile broadband and free Wi-Fi on the laptop. I didn’t even have the right charger with me.
It’s then geography that’s tripping me up again. I don’t know any of the areas the reporters mention on the news and I have to waste time looking them up to see how far they are. I’ve got no local knowledge – some of these places could be known trouble hotspots and I’m reading too much into the crimes there. This is where Mitchell is going to come in.
I’m finally going to meet up with him today. I wanted to do it yesterday but he couldn’t get off work. He said he works in a store but I don’t know which one yet. We’re meeting at 12pm at a restaurant near 15th Street station. Midtown is a place I’ve managed to locate so that’s why I’ve chosen there. We’re going to have some lunch and chat.
I’m not particularly looking forward to it although I seriously need some help. Mitchell doesn’t seem very receptive in the emails we’ve exchanged so far but it’s hard to judge from a few typed messages. It’s the fact that he’s a new person that I’m most anxious about. I opened myself up to let Georgie in and I’m not ready to do that with anyone else yet. This guy knows nothing about me and my life; about Karen, where I live, what I’ve been through, the impact Georgie had on me. How much loss I’ve had to deal with in a short space of time. The thought of talking about all that sends panic crawling though my body, tightening every muscle and making it hard to breathe.
I had something done a couple of days ago… my first tattoo. A little token so I will always remember exactly what Georgie did for us. It sounds like a mid-life crisis, getting a tattoo at forty-two years old. This is nothing like that. I’ve had a small, scriptive ‘G’ inked onto the inside of my left wrist. It’s as close to Georgie’s as I could draw from memory. I need it there to remind me what I’m doing this for. It stung like a bastard on the thin skin of my wrist but it was nothing compared to the stab of pain in my heart when I looked at the finished product.
Is it possible for someone to drown in grief? That’s how I feel these days – as if my head’s under water and there’s no way for me to reach the surface. The pain with Karen is older and an integral part of me. It flows through my veins and is entwined in my vessels, and I’m familiar with it. The devastation at Georgie’s loss is fresher and harder to subdue. It was a shock and I haven’t come to terms with it yet. One day it will be part of me too but right now it’s too raw. I haven’t had any time to heal only there is no time. I’m on a strict deadline.
I’ve still got a bandage over the tattoo and I find myself subconsciously stroking it. Georgie would have said that I was insane to get it, especially a design as feminine as hers, but I’d like to think that deep down she would have been flattered. Pleased that she will be remembered forever for something so brave and selfless. God, I hope Mitchell doesn’t ask too many questions today. I might break down.
The clock on the motel side table is ticking round to lunchtime. I should really get a move on yet I just can’t motivate myself. I need to find the energy to do this. There are hikers over here that need to be killed. Somewhere. One thing is for certain, I haven’t actually heard one since I got here. They must be hiding. Ready or not, here I come.
29th January 2012
Well, yesterday was a disaster. Mitch, as he prefers to be called, is ignorant, naïve, and he simply doesn’t listen. Yet somehow I’ve agreed to work with him for a few days. How do I get myself into these situations?
We had lunch and went for a drink in an Irish pub. He was half an hour late to the restaurant and I was leaving when he finally burst in. His appearance didn’t fill me with confidence: low-sitting, baggy jeans, t-shirt with bright slogan, grimy trainers, a shaved head and gold earring. He looked like a teenager rather than the twenty-five year old man he is. His manner was over-the-top and it was hard to catch every word with his strong Philly accent. The ‘o’s are overly pronounced, so ‘how’ sounds more like ‘heowuh’ to me.
Apparently he’s been telling all his ‘friends’ on the forums about me and he’s happy to have someone in town that knows what he’s talking about. I tried to tell him that the people on those sites are weirdoes and conspiracy theorists; they don’t have a clue what’s going on in the real world. He accepted the fact that I call them hikers rather than his ‘mind-snatchers’ but that was as far as he agreed with me.
He thinks they add new memories to people too and give them gifts. He gave the example of a woman who woke up from a coma and could suddenly play the piano to an exceptional standard. That’s all bullshit of course but I tried to bite my tongue. He doesn’t know the first thing about what hikers are really capable of – their depravity and evil. The Grand wanted me and Georgie to cut each other up for god’s sake. They are pure sadists and enjoy taking things away from people, why the hell would they give them trivial skills? Mitch clearly believes it though and no lack of evidence is going to persuade him.
He asked about Georgie and the Grand’s house while we were eating lunch and my sandwich stuck in my throat. Hearing her name from a stranger’s mouth was tough. He’d never met her, never spo
ken to her apart from one email, it didn’t seem right for him to bring her up. I brushed the topic aside and told him that it was a conversation for another day.
I tried to ask him about his life but all I got was that he lives with his mum and younger brother, somewhere near Nicetown. I know he has a short temper though. I wanted to be honest and told him that I wasn’t sure if we could work together yet. Completely understandable considering I don’t know the kid and he’ll be going into this completely blind, but he exploded. He slammed his fist on the table and yelled about hikers killing his friend. That I should at least give him a chance to help.
That’s what swayed me really, the fact that his friend had been killed in that car collision and he had a right to want justice for him. In some ways he reminded me of Georgie, with that outburst and his strong will, but in other ways he couldn’t be more different. She always listened for a start, and agreed with my theories. I’m sure Mitch will learn once he sees first-hand what hikers are really capable of. I’m going to meet him at his place this morning.
It’s a bit too early right now. I had one of my nightmares again and have been researching on the sofa for the last hour. It was a bad one. There were black eyes everywhere and horrible, rasping laughter. A woman’s figure racing past me and I couldn’t stop her. She had Georgie’s red hair this time but some nights it’s Karen’s brown colour. It doesn’t take a psychology degree to work out that I’m haunted by the two women who meant the most to me, and who I couldn’t save.
