by James King
And Matt was just thinking that when he stumbled and fell.
The corn received him in dry and prickly embrace, and he wallowed there for a moment, helpless, disorientated, almost waiting for death. A sudden voice screaming above all.
“Matt!”
And then hands were upon him, pulling him up, refusing to give him up for dead. He rose from the corn with barley pile in his hair and thistle burrs clinging to his clothes, and he and Becky stumbled forward. The combine was almost upon them now, less than a meter away, the smell of its oil and dust and ancient barley pungent in the air, its cutters a roar of deathly bloody judgement. They fled forward, adrenalin the world, almost seeming to take flight so fast was their progress, and at last they broke free of the corn, fled across the brief area of scrubland that lay between the field and the house, and then veered to the right, skirting the wall of the farmhouse in a desperate bid to locate some place of safety. The combine, meanwhile, enjoyed no such versatility, and it plunged onward, its cutters turning, biting and whirling, and crashed head-on into the side of the Devlin farmhouse.
The sound of the collision was titanic. Metal meeting brick at full speed, a crash that sounded like the laws of physics themselves roaring in outrage. The combine crashed to a shuddering, booming, metal bending halt, while the side of the farmhouse met it with a curving bow, bricks tumbling, glass shattering, the very roof seeming to sag, as if the house was ironically tipping its hat to this sudden and very unwelcome visitor. Both machine and building shuddered, seemed to reach some kind of compromise, and the world settled. The combine’s engine still turned over, offering deep and dismayed revs to the air, as though in anguished disbelief at its fate. The cutters still seemed to be turning too, miraculously enough, Matt could still hear them biting and chattering although, from this angle, he was unable to see them.
A sudden noise, small in the wake of destruction, but none the less significant.. The sound of desperate scrabbling within the farmhouse, just beyond the door, the sound of objects being moved, pulled away, then bolts being withdrawn. Then the door opened and Bryan appeared: his face pale and terrified, blood seeping down his forehead, his shirt and his beard paled with plaster dust - but he was still alive, and still holding his gun. He hefted the gun, and pointed it at them its muzzle a circle of destruction, ridiculously small after the huge terror of the combine and the zombies, but no less deadly. Perhaps more so.
“Bryan no!” Becky screamed, “we’re not them. We’re okay. Its Becky Chandler and Matt Dixon. We’re okay!”
Bryan kept the gun raised, its small eye still peering. Matt couldn’t blame the man. He must be terrified out of his mind. Hell, weren’t they all? But Matt just hoped that his last act in this world wouldn’t be to forgive Bryan Devlin for shooting him dead.
“Bryan...” said Becky calmly, “please... it’s us... we’re okay...”
“This is truly the Last Of Days...” said Bryan, and it looked like he was about to shoot them after all, when there came a loud sound of roaring and cracking, and huge section of brick thundered down from the wall, crashing onto a area of ground that was only some two meters from where Bryan Devlin stood. Bryan cringed away, startled, the gun tumbling from his grip. The lump of brick settled onto the ground, and the farmhouse creaked and groaned behind him, but held firm for now. Becky hurried forward, toward Bryan. For a moment, Matt thought she was going to pick the gun up, maybe point it at Bryan, give him some of his own medicine. Matt guessed that’s what he would have done. But instead, Becky went up to the frightened man and first put her hand on his arm, and then embraced him.
“It’s okay...” she said, “...it’s okay...” then she released him, stepped back from him, “we’re okay... see?”
Slowly, dazedly, Bryan nodded. Matt decided this was time to make his move, and stepped forward.
“Hey Bryan. We’re cool, see? But you know what – all things considered, I think it’s time we got the hell away from this old farm house. Just in case any other great big lumps of brick are going to fall on us...”
Bryan nodded again, then glanced around, “...gun... must have the gun...”
“It’s here,” said Becky, stooping down and retrieving the weapon from the dusty ground, “here, have it. I don’t want it. But for God’s sake just don’t use it to shoot us, okay?”
“Okay...” said Bryan. He took the weapon from Becky with hands that trembled ever so slightly. He carefully hefted the gun, as though this was the first time he’d ever handled it, and he was trying out its weight. “Okay...” he said again.
“Okay,” Matt agreed, “let’s get out of here then.”
Carefully, ever mindful that the zombies might have made it up to the farm house already, they made their way along the side of the house. The combine was still in situ, its engine still turning over and over sounding like a giant with whooping cough. There was another sound too coming from the front of the harvester – a moaning, snarling, howling sort of sound – and when they approached the front of the harvester, they saw what it was. Nigel. The impact had thrown him head-first off the control platform of the panel and straight down into the still whirling, slicing cutters. His body had been transformed into a horror of seething black blood, ruptured muscle and shattered bone, the cutters still chewing away at what remained, like some huge mechanical dog worrying at the remains of a rat. Nigel’s head was still intact – attached to the body by mangled vertebra and ruptured muscle – and it howled, snapping its jaws, its blank eyes rolling, straining away from the cutters as though it sought to escape them, and continue the pursuit.
“Oh God...” said Becky, “...God! Shoot it, Bryan. For pities sake, shoot it.”
Matt glanced around at Bryan and saw that he was shaking his head, the gun lowered.
“No...” said Bryan, “got to conserve ammo. Don’t have much left. Got to conserve what we have for the other Harbingers of the Apocalypse.”
Harbingers of the Apocalypse thought Matt, that’s a good one. I think I prefer zombies though. Less of a mouthful, so to speak.
Bryan turned, and they followed him around the edge of the harvester. There was the cornfield, spread out before them, ripe for a harvesting that would probably never come. And there, wallowing and stumbling their way through the corn were the zombies – or Harbingers of the Apocalypse, if you prefer. Matt counted about ten of them: blank of eye and drooling of jaw. The closest was only some ten meters away from them, and it didn’t take a tactical genius to see that they were going to have plenty big problems getting through them and away from the farmhouse. Or, at least, they would if they didn’t have a gun.
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth The Lord,” Bryan suddenly proclaimed. He raised the gun, took aim, and fired off two shots, and two of the zombie’s heads transformed into a black, shattered porridge. The figures stumbled, lurched, and then fell, the corn receiving their twitching remains. It looked like Bryan’s aim was improving. Not a moment too late – or too soon.
With the nearest dispatched, Bryan turned to them, a wild and triumphant look in his eyes. “I have smote the dealers of death with death!” he announced.
“Come on,” said Becky, “I really think that we seriously need to get the fuck away from here. I vote that we try getting back to the roadway. It’s going to be a hell of a lot easier travelling along tarmac than wading through corn.”
“Even though, last time we checked, the road was full of zombies?” Matt asked.
“Well, maybe we can find another road to get the hell away. Bryan – is there another gateway onto the road from here?”
Bryan, who had been sighting along his gun at one of the approaching zombies, now glanced around. It took a moment of deliberation on his part – though whether he was trying to decide what he’d been asked, or how to answer it, Matt wasn’t sure. Then at last Bryan nodded, and gestured in a direction that was vaguely to the rear of the farmhouse.
“Aye, there’s an old gate off down there. Dad used to use it t
o get tractors onto and off of the road whenever he needed to. It’ll be clogged with brambles and nettles now I suppose, but it’ll be there.”
Matt suddenly realised that that was the first sensible thing that he’d ever heard Bryan Devlin say – certainly within the last ten minutes, maybe during the entire – if admittedly brief – time that he’d ever been in his company. Perhaps seeing his house near destroyed by a runaway combine harvester driven by a zombie had shocked him into speech. Who knew?
“Okay,” Becky was saying, “let’s go and find this gate then. Get back down onto the road, and see what’s what. If we could get to your car, Matt, then that would be really good. Drive the fuck out of here, and at high speed – but let’s not get our hopes too high. Anyway, let’s go find some tarmac. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of wading through knee-high corn.”
Matt nodded, and all three of them beat a hasty retreat. Bryan paused briefly, hefting his gun, perhaps tempted to fire a few farewell shots off at the figures that were approaching through the corn – but in the end he didn’t. Save ammo for when they really needed it. It was a prudent move. Matt had the idea that they’d need it plenty before this show was over. And then they were running. Away from the crumbling farmhouse, away from groaning smoke-belching combine harvester, away from the shattered figure that still groped and snarled within the cutters vicious embrace. And away from the tottering, lurching figures that shambled like evil living scarecrows through the ripened July corn.
Eighteen
Before he entered room eighteen, Felix Morrell donned the warm arctic standard Gore-Tex coat. The coat was the same one that he had worn throughout most of the Antarctic expedition. It was a good one, the very top of the range, and was capable of keeping even the most severe cold at bay. He had certainly needed it during the Antarctic expedition. They had gone in mid March the start of the Antarctic autumn, the savage monster that is the Antarctic winter only just over the horizon. Oh yes, he had needed every last inch, every zip, and every last slender fibre of that coat during his time in Antarctica. And he needed it in Room Eighteen as well.
Felix made his way down the dingy corridor, at the end of which Room Eighteen brooded like some evil magic door in a fairy tale. Felix smiled at the simile. He liked that idea. An evil magic door, through which ogres and goblins, and trolls might crawl: things that would bite and feed and seek hot blood. Oh yes, a most appropriate simile indeed. He paused by the small closet that was set into the wall a few doors up from Room Eighteen. He opened the closet door – using a key that only he had – removed the Arctic coat, and shrugged it on over his jacket. It was a snug fit, like welcoming back an old friend: the same warmth, the same texture, the same weight. It hadn’t been washed since returning from Antarctica. It still had the bloodstains on it.
Felix zipped the coat up to his throat, and flipped the collar up so that it snugly embraced his neck. He thought about putting the hood up, but decided against it. He did, however, pull the large, similarly Gore-Tex gloves out of the coat pockets and pull them on. A prudent move - it would not be a good idea to touch anything in Room Eighteen with a naked hand. And not just because of the cold...
Suitably attired, Felix turned, and made his way at last up to Room Eighteen. There was nothing particularly special about the room itself. It was just an old storage room that had been used to house various specimens that the Raddex scientific department needed for their research. When Felix had moved his operations to the Raddex base, he had commandeered Room Eighteen, knowing that he would need a storage room for the various projects that he had planned. He had managed to convince Gudrie to give him exclusive access to the room. Gudrie had been reluctant at first, but had finally caved in to Felix’s demands.
The first thing that he had done, having gained ownership of the room, was to install a high-spec freezing unit. Even then, he had planned out the Antarctic expedition, and so had anticipated that he would have specimens that would require intense cold for preservation. He hadn’t known what he would find though. Oh no, not then, despite the rumours and legends that he’d heard. Despite the dreams he’s had. No indeed, he hadn’t known what he would find. And he hadn’t known that, in the end, the freezing unit would be entirely unnecessary.
He arrived at Room Eighteen, and inserted his key card into the slot. This was the only key card in the entire base for the room – in the entire world. There came a small, barely audible beep from the slot into which Felix had inserted the card, and then the dull but satisfying sound of the electronic locking system disengaging. With a small and perhaps tense smile, Felix pushed on through the door. He stepped into Room Eighteen, quickly bringing the door closed behind him. He heard the lock click back into position, securing the door. He reached across to the light switch next to the door and flicked a switch. A low, strange blue radiance appeared in the room, a light that had an oddly subterranean quality to it. Then he turned and faced the darkness beyond.
From the moment that he was in the room, Felix’s breath started to smoke outward before him, wafting pale clouds of vapour into the room. The coldness attacked him, pinching his ears, shocking the exposed flesh of his face, causing tiny ice crystals to form in the black hairs of his goatee beard. It was special this cold: intense, savage, predatory, and born of something far more powerful than a high-end freezing unit. Oh yes indeed. And now, that something was beginning to stir in the far corner of the room.
Slowly, with no small amount of trepidation, Felix began to walk across Room Eighteen. There was very little inside the room to absorb sound, so his footfalls echoed loudly. He winced slightly at each sound, as though it were somehow inappropriate or disrespectful, like laughter in a death chamber, or an act of sacrilege in a place of worship. And that notion was not far from the truth. Not really, not when you thought about it. He had no real idea what this thing was capable of, what were its likes and its dislikes. What would cause it to bestow great favours, and what would cause it to smite you down with hideous death. But one thing was certain – it was powerful beyond imagining.
Felix came to a halt at the far side of the room. His breath smoked, his flesh was a deathly blue, and his beard was frosted with ice, as though he had aged twenty years within the last few seconds. He gazed into the corner of the room. This corner was mostly in darkness, illuminated only partially by the low blue light. The light was a special radiance – it had become evident that it could only stand light of a very special quality. It had told Felix what this light was, what frequency was required to transmit it, and Felix had built a special bulb and transmission unit. Telling Felix about the light was one of the many things that it had told him since it had thawed. Since it had crawled into the corner and made its nest.
And now it crouched there in the corner of room eighteen. Felix had never seen its full form – the darkness and the strange blue light combined to conceal it. But what little of it that he could see made him think of some strange and crystalline spider made from ice, its legs – or were they tentacles, appendages – gathered close around it. It spider-like qualities were further reinforced by the nest that it had built. A web, a funnel, a kind of cocoon in which it crouched, the threads of the web spun seemingly from the finest ice, from captured, frozen air. The centre of the thing was dark, but from its centre there burned two pinpoints of purest silver: eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom and the evil of the abysses that brooded beyond the stars. And, by the radiance of these two hellish eyes, just below, fangs were visible, fangs that dripped perfect, transparent beads of the most exquisite poison.
Upon seeing Felix, it stirred, and its legs seethed around it.
Is it done....?
The voice was not actually heard. It did not consist of compacted air molecules, and was not registered by Felix Morrell’s ear drum. Rather, it was a kind of telepathic signal, a transmission, a frequency as rare as the weird blue light that blossomed from the overhead bulbs. Felix wasn’t even sure that heard the words within his mind
as saw them, sensed them, like nightmares that fractured a sick, uneasy sleep. And perhaps they weren’t even words, but images, sense impressions, a language so alien that the mind struggled to comprehend it contours. But comprehend it did, the meanings whispering within the lost chambers of Felix’s soul like words uttered by a dead man’s lips.
Is it done...?
“Yes,” he said, his voice loud and huge and stupid within Room Eighteen’s refined and frigid atmosphere, his breath ballooning from his lips like some hellish cartoon character’s crazy utterances, “yes, it’s all done. The virus was on the helicopter. The helicopter crashed. And now, even as we speak, the virus is spreading. Yes... it is done.”
Virus.... the voice intoned. It contained a kind of questioning humour.
A smile touched Felix’s lips, “yes, virus. That’s what we’re calling it anyway. Me, my father, Gudrie, the military. To them, it’s all just a virus that had been captured in a shard of ancient ice. They don’t know... about you... about your blood...”
Blood... the thing intoned. It seemed to relish the word. Then it said: they must never know... about me...
“Of course. I understand. And they won’t. No one else can get into this room. You will be kept a secret, just as you commanded. But...”
The thing didn’t say anything, but its eyes seemed to glow brighter silver, as though in curiosity.
“...But,” Felix went on, “...I’d like to understand. I’d like to know. About you. About what you are and where you came from. About your blood...”
For a long moment the thing said nothing, and Felix began to think that he had insulted it. He was about to say something further, to apologise perhaps – of all outcomes in this world he did not want to be this thing’s enemy – but at last it began to speak. Its words fell into Felix’s mind: as silver and cold and hideously revealing as a moonbeam falling through the window of a haunted house.
So long in the ice... it said, so long in the cold. I slept. We are things of fire. We are things of ice. It was the time of ice. Your planet after the long journey. The long, floating journey through the darkness. The coldness. Sleep. And in sleep dreams. I dreamed and some heard. Some died by their own hand. Some went insane in the nightmare. But you... you, at last, you came...
