Disintegration a-5

by David Moody

  “Weights are all right, though, aren’t they?” he said. Jas looked up and nodded. He’d been wiping the dust off a screen attached to the front of some kind of rowing machine.

  “Weights are fine,” he replied. “I used to do a lot of weight training. I can show you a few exercises that’ll help.”

  “I don’t want to end up looking like a bloody bodybuilder,” Harte immediately protested. “All the muscle turns to fat as soon as you stop training, doesn’t it?”

  Jas grinned.

  “You’ve got to get the muscle first, mate!” He laughed. “You got any idea how much they had to eat to get like that? And there’s the bulking up foods and the steroids and—”

  “I get the picture.”

  “We only need to do enough to keep ourselves in shape—just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  Jas shrugged his shoulders. “You know the score. If it’s not the bodies, then there are a few people in here who look like they’re ready to kick off.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Webb.”

  “Oh, him,” Harte said. “Don’t need much strength to keep him in check. Kid’s a bloody idiot. You shout at him loud enough and you can see his lips start to quiver. I tell you, mate, when I was in teaching I came across hundreds of kids like Webb. They’re all talk and no action. He’s no threat.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “And how sure’s that?”

  Harte didn’t answer. Instead he started looking at another piece of training equipment. It looked more like a medieval torture device than anything that might actually have been designed to do some good.

  “What’s this do?” he asked. Jas didn’t answer.

  “Just watch yourself around Webb,” Jas warned, his voice low and deadly serious. “I’ve seen him in action and I don’t like it. I’ve watched him when he thinks no one’s been looking. I’ve seen him do some things—”

  “Like what?”

  Jas, now much closer, wouldn’t be drawn. He continued past Harte and stood at the edge of the pool, looking into the murky water. They’d need to drain the pool, he decided. The glass doors, roof and walls made the place like a greenhouse.

  “Doesn’t matter now,” he eventually replied, forcing himself to think about Webb again. “Just be careful, that’s all. He’s got himself a new friend now. We need to make sure he doesn’t get carried away and start showing off.”

  “That kid Sean seems okay. He seems pretty sensible.”

  “He’s like a coiled spring,” Jas said. “Poor sod’s been trapped in here with a bunch of old bastards who are scared of their own shadows. By the look of the dust in here he hasn’t been using the gym to let off steam, so he’s going to be full of frigging teenage angst and hormones. I tell you, he’ll be itching for a chance to get out of here and see some action to prove he’s a man.”

  “Looks like a strip of piss to me,” Harte grunted. “I can’t see him fighting his way out of a bloody paper bag.”

  “Keep your eye on the quiet ones.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I mean it. Just don’t let him get carried away. If you see him getting out of control, jump on him hard. If he starts looking up to Webb and seeing him as a role model, then we’re going to have all kinds of problems to—”

  Jas stopped talking, interrupted by a sudden crashing noise.

  “What the hell was that?” Harte asked anxiously. Jas disappeared back out through the nearest door and ran along the corridor. Howard’s dog pelted toward them from the opposite direction. The animal stopped beneath the window of the small office where Martin’s pet corpse was kept. She looked up and snarled but didn’t make a sound. Howard himself followed breathlessly at a distance. Jas peered through the glass. He could see the Swimmer scrambling about on the floor, slowly picking herself back up.

  “Problem?” Howard asked.

  “Stupid thing fell over,” Jas answered. “Looks like it knocked itself into a locker.”

  “Was that all it was?” Harte asked, his heart pounding. He looked over Jas’s shoulder. In the dappled light from the skylight he could see a metal locker lying on the ground that hadn’t been there yesterday, but he couldn’t see the corpse.

  “She hates that bloody thing, don’t you, girl,” Howard said, leaning down and ruffling his dog’s fur. The dog didn’t move. “She gets all defensive when it starts making noise.”

  “You sure that was all it was?” Harte asked again, his whispered voice barely audible. “Where is it?”

  “Over there,” Jas replied, pointing toward a corner of the room. Harte squinted into the gloom but couldn’t see anything. Then, just for a fraction of a second, he caught sight of an arm swinging clumsily behind a metal storage rack. “It probably heard us while we were by the pool. Fucking thing’s hiding now!”

  Feeling slightly braver, he took a step closer and pressed his face against the window. He could clearly see the outline of the side of the corpse now that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the light. For a moment he thought it was looking back at him.

  “None of us like having that thing around,” Howard mumbled. “I think Martin’s getting too attached to it. I just tolerate it ’cause I know that when this one’s rotted down to nothing and it can’t get up again, it’ll be safe to go back outside.”

  “How can you tell what condition it’s in if it spends all its time hiding in the dark?” Harte asked. “Maybe we should force it out into the open so we can see exactly what it’s up to.”

  “What do you want it to do?” Jas sighed. “A bloody tap-dance routine?”

  “Stupid fucking thing,” Harte said. He lifted his fist and hammered on the thick safety glass. “Come out where we can see you, you stupid fucking thing!”

  “Give it a rest,” Howard said. “Keep the noise down.”

  Harte ignored him and carried on hammering.

  “Harte,” Jas said angrily, “cut it out.”

  “Not until it comes out. No good having a pet you can’t see, is there?”

  The corpse suddenly lurched forward. It threw itself across the room, slamming into the window, the impact and recoil sending it tripping back into the shadows again. Harte jumped back across the corridor with surprise.

  “Christ,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to appear calm and unfazed. The creature in the office dragged itself back toward the window and stared out, its dull eyes constantly moving from face to face.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Martin asked, rushing toward the noise like an overprotective parent. He pushed his way closer to the glass. Jas noticed that the trapped corpse almost appeared to relax when it saw him. It immediately backed off and returned to the shadows. Had it recognized Martin, or had he just imagined it?

  “We’re not doing anything,” Harte replied, sounding like a guilty child who’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

  “Leave her alone,” Martin said, seething with anger and turning on the other men. “She’s important. The day she finally drops is the day we’re free to go outside again. We need her. We’ve managed perfectly well here so far and we don’t need cretins like you coming along and screwing it all up. Understand?”

  Harte didn’t say anything. Martin didn’t give him a chance to. Before Harte could open his mouth he’d turned his back and stormed away along the corridor.

  33

  “You must have got rid of one of them?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Christ, it’s been almost two months and you haven’t even fought one? You haven’t got your hands dirty once?”

  “No, I told you. Look, I’m not proud of it. I wish I could have been out there instead of being stuck in here, but you’ve seen what they’re like. You’ve seen what I’m up against. This lot are scared of their own shadows.”

  “It does you good to get rid of a few of them from time to time. Me and Stokes used to call it therapy.”


  “Therapy?”

  “Good for the mind and good for the body. You should try it.”

  “Maybe I will…”

  “Come on, then.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Why not? You scared?”

  “No, it’s just that I don’t think we should—”

  “Come on, you fucking wimp.”

  * * *

  Webb and Sean sprinted down the twisting track which led away from the front of the hotel, glancing anxiously over their shoulders to make sure they hadn’t been seen. It would be easier if they could get away without the others knowing—they’d just ask stupid, pointless questions and try to stop them. They wouldn’t understand. Webb knew what he was doing. This was important. Sean was surely going to have to fight eventually. Better that he got used to it now than when it really mattered. More to the point, if it came to the crunch he didn’t want to find himself fighting side by side with an amateur.

  “Slow down,” Sean moaned, “I’ve got a stitch.” He was nervous and hot and was struggling with the sudden exertion after weeks of sitting around doing very little. Webb had also insisted he put on as many layers of clothing as he could find and he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Webb grinned at him without any sympathy.

  “Not chickening out on me, are you?”

  “No, it’s just that—”

  “Come on!” he shouted, still running toward the coach which blocked the end of the road. “Get a move on!”

  Sean watched as Webb athletically pulled himself up the side of the coach using the wing mirror, then scrambled over the roof and lowered himself down the other side. With considerably more effort and less success he followed, clambering clumsily over the vehicle then half-jumping, half-falling to stand next to Webb in the middle of the desolate road junction where the survivors had fought yesterday. The carnage was incredible. He’d never seen anything like it. The carpet of blood and gore and dismembered remains which covered the ground was grotesque and yet he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He’d seen some sights since everyone had fallen and died weeks back, but nothing like this. Sean also found himself watching Webb, who casually kicked his way through the mayhem, using his nail-skewered baseball bat weapon to sweep decaying guts and smashed bones out of the way. The violence he had imagined beyond the hotel walls suddenly felt uncomfortably close and real.

  “Okay then,” Webb announced, his voice cocksure and overly confident. “Let’s get started.”

  Sean tried to say something but then realized that he couldn’t. His mouth was dry with nerves and all he could do was watch as Webb looked around and then jogged across to the far side of the junction. He climbed up onto the roof of the cab of another truck, knelt down and watched the dead on the other side as they immediately swarmed toward him. Using his spiked baseball bat like a bizarre fishing rod, he hooked the back of one of the nearest corpses and dragged it up out of the crowd. Its emaciated weight was negligible and lifting it was easy. He stood up and paused momentarily to steady himself as it threatened to slip and squirm off the nails which had pierced its skin and become wedged between the bones of its neck and shoulder. Webb yanked the cadaver a little higher until its swaying feet were hanging above the heads of the other corpses, then flipped it over and threw it down onto the other side of the truck. It landed unceremoniously in the road close to where Sean was standing and immediately began to drag itself up onto its feet. He backed away nervously.

  “Don’t be so fucking useless,” Webb said as he jumped back down and speared the back of the creature again. “There’s nothing to worry about. One of them on its own won’t hurt you.”

  Sean took a single tentative step toward the hideous remains of the man which writhed angrily on the end of Webb’s bat. He was transfixed by its grotesque appearance. Could this thing have ever been human? The discolored skin on its face was ripped, blistered, and pockmarked. Blood, pus, and all manner of other seepages had matted the patchy beard which covered its chin and the curled, dark hair drooping over its forehead. Its mouth hung open, its jaw moving up and down constantly, giving the impression that the damn thing was chewing or mumbling or both. As he neared the corpse it lifted its arms and began to lash them through the air, trying to reach out for him but held in check by Webb.

  “Are you sure about this?” Sean asked, starting to move back again.

  “Completely,” Webb replied. He twisted the bat around, wrenching it free from the creature’s sinewy flesh. Suddenly finding itself able to move without restriction again, the body lunged forward with surprising speed, almost immediately colliding with Sean, who was desperately slow to react. As the obnoxious creature crashed into him he lifted his arms and shoved it away, feeling his gloved hands sink into its rotten flesh. Unbalanced, it tripped over its own clumsy feet and fell to the ground again, twisting around mid-fall and slamming face-first into the tarmac. Sean felt an unexpected rush of power, immediately silencing his earlier nerves.

  “Fuck…” he mumbled as the grotesque figure began to pick itself up again.

  “See?” Webb said. “Just like I told you. They’re useless. Nothing to worry about.”

  The cadaver stood upright. Its movements were unsteady and it tipped awkwardly to the right, allowing the remains of its bowels to slip through a gaping hole in its abdomen and land on the tarmac with a nauseating splatter and splash. Sean put his hand over his mouth and gagged. He closed his eyes and desperately tried not to vomit.

  “Can’t do this,” he said, his mouth watering, about to throw up.

  “Yes, you can,” Webb immediately told him. “Thing is, mate, you ain’t got any choice.”

  “What?” he mumbled uselessly, still looking at the glistening puddle of decayed guts in the middle of the road. Webb didn’t say anything else, he just threw his bloodied baseball bat along the ground toward the other man, then ran over to the far side of the junction, putting maximum distance between himself and the advancing corpse.

  “Next time you face one of these,” he shouted to Sean, “you might be on your own. You might not have anyone else to bail you out. You might have to get rid of it before it gets rid of you.”

  “But I … I don’t know what to do,” he stammered. “I don’t know if I can—”

  “You just hit it,” Webb yelled, getting annoyed. “Just hit the fucking thing as hard as you can and if it gets up you hit it again. Keep hitting it till it stops moving.”

  The body slipped in its own entrails and stumbled. Sean jumped back but then stopped, Webb’s words ringing in his head. What if he was right? What if he did find himself face-to-face with one of these things out in the open? Digging deep, he swallowed hard, then ran forward and shoved the cadaver away. It managed to keep its balance—just—then began moving back toward him. His confidence increasing, he shoved it back once more. Then again. Then again. The foul-smelling, maggot-ridden, rapidly decomposing aberration in front of him wouldn’t give up. Each time he touched it, the physical gulf between him and the corpse became more apparent.

  “That’s it,” Webb shouted in encouragement. “Keep going!”

  Another brutal shove sent the corpse slamming back into the side of one of the trucks which blocked the junction exits. Feeling more confident, Sean stood his ground as it bounced back and came toward him. This time he thrust it back much harder, suddenly reveling in the unexpected satisfaction of the one-sided fight. After weeks of being held back and stifled he could understand why Webb thought of this as therapy. Problem was, what did he do next?

  “What now?” he asked, feeling nervous again.

  “Finish it,” Webb replied.

  “How?”

  “The bat.”

  He looked over his shoulder. The baseball bat was on the ground a short distance behind him. Giving the body a final hard shove to keep it at bay, he picked up the bat, then turned back around to face his dead opponent. The weapon felt comfortable in his hands, reassuringly natural. As the cadaver began to stagger
forward again he swung the bat around. Almost two months of pent-up anger, pain, frustration, fear, and grief added to the strength of his attack. He felt the bat slice through the air, heard it whistle as it flew past his ear, then felt it smash into the body, lifting it clean off its feet. An unexpected shock ran through his arms as the end of the bat drove straight through the dead man and thudded into the side of the truck, nails sinking into metal. He dropped his hands. The weapon remained stuck in the truck door.

  “Fuck me,” Webb said, getting closer again. “Good shot, mate.”

  Panting, Sean looked up and admired his handiwork. The remains of the bearded man were pinned to the truck, the bat having pierced its throat, almost flattening it. He looked down and saw that the force of his attack had been such that the creature’s feet were swinging inches off the floor. With a a satisfied grunt, he pulled the bat free and the bloody carcass dropped to the ground.

  “How you feeling now?” Webb asked.

  “Get me another.”

  34

  Bloodied and exhausted, Webb and Sean returned to the hotel hours later to find the rest of the group gathered in the Steelbrooke Suite—a large, bright conference room with floor to ceiling length windows along two sides, located toward the rear right-hand corner of the hotel complex, overlooking the grounds and the boundary fence. The two men stashed their soiled clothing in an empty bedroom before joining the others, hoping to hide the evidence of their excursion like naughty schoolchildren. They needn’t have bothered. Hardly anyone looked up when they arrived.

  “Where’ve you been?” Harte asked, only slightly interested.

  “Exercising,” Webb replied before Sean could say anything which might incriminate them. He walked toward the back of the room where Hollis, Lorna, Martin, and Gordon sat looking at a map of the area. He stopped first at another table, upon which a pile of food had been left. He helped himself to a bar of chocolate, threw one across the room to Sean, then began cramming food into his mouth.

  “Take it easy,” Martin complained as Webb almost immediately picked up a second bar and unwrapped it as he walked toward the others.