Thanks dad. Thanks for not doing it.
For a being bit ...well ...lazy. Reticent?
His dad wasn’t lazy, not really, but he could be put off things pretty easily it seemed to George. And ...well, thanks mom for putting dad off the idea.
For being ...well, a bit moany and complainy if truth be told.
The loft hatch suddenly shifted, rocked upwards fractionally as something banged forcefully against it from below. Fear swamped George at that moment.
Flooded him.
The hatch lock wasn’t strong. Gosh, that lock wasn’t really much of a lock at all. Closer to a little catch than a proper lock. If it (she) kept that up, that lock would break.
Or if it got lucky and hit the button, the hatch would simply swing open, swing down on top of it.
He should have put something over the hatch. Something heavy to weight and block it. There was heaps of stuff up here, surely some of it would have been bulky enough to weight down the trapdoor. There hadn’t been time for that though.
The access hatch shuddered again as another blow struck it. It had to be jumping up at it, there was no other way to reach.
Did it know he was in here? Could it smell him? Was it clever enough to work it out?
George held his breath and held back tears.
More blows rained up against the door and on the ceiling area around it. His dad had boarded most of the floor up here. A patchwork of screw stitched wooden quilting. Chipboard and compressed fibre board.
Cheap shit Geo, not real wood. But it does the job.
There was a small section missing around the hatch frame, maybe a six inch gap where you had to be careful not to slip between the joists and put your foot through the ceiling. It was on his dad’s to do list.
George had heard him mention it.
That mythical ‘to do’ list was as long as your arm. Providing that you were a man with exceptionally long arms that was, according to George’s mom.
The list wouldn’t have anything added to or crossed off it any time soon, George thought. His dad was lying unconscious in the study. As he lay there, he’d started to change, to look different. Not like George’s dad at all.
He was mutating?
Yes, mutating. That was the word. Mutating into something more akin to a monster from a movie than George’s dad. The man who was strict and funny, generous and ...well, always there ...was going, going ...gone.
A hand burst through the gap in the boarding by the hatch. Punched through the ceiling plaster like it was so much dry, powdery paper.
Incredibly, George remained silent. Didn’t scream or whimper. Although if you could have seen clearly in the dimness, you would have witnessed his eyes grew to the size of those proverbial saucers. He did silently shuffle backwards a few inches on his bottom.
Not really a hand George thought.
No, not a hand, it was a claw that resembled a hand. It used to be a hand but it couldn’t be called a hand anymore.
It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, its owner dropping back to floor.
The claw crashed through the gap again, little chunks of plaster shooting upwards. Dust spiralled in the upspill of light from the room below. Oddly hypnotic, the dramatic illumination and tiny particulate motion. Mesmerising on another day.
Less mesmerising today.
More ...horrifying.
The thick talons on the hand had dug into the rafter next to the gap. Sunk sufficiently deep to hold on to the wood. The other hand (claw) pounded at the ceiling and hatch. That hand was invisible for now, but it was there as sure as Sunday evening held a shadow of sadness when there was school on Monday.
There was a gold ring on that anchoring hand.
That inhuman claw that had dug into the rafter was wearing a beautiful gold dress ring.
His mother wore wedding and engagement rings but they were on her left hand. The hand that was temporarily out of sight, brutally battering the ceiling. Never mind, he’d no doubt see it soon because she seemed very determined to get it up into the loft.
Her right hand, this one, wore this dazzling golden band that bore a blue semi-precious stone. George had always been fascinated by that ring. Remembered it with a strangely illogical love. The band was thick and curved and full. It hinted at substance and wealth.
The stone. The stone was simply...well, beautiful.
Yeah. Beautiful. Alright, beautiful was a girly word but it was ...right. The right word. That stone was beautiful to George’s eyes. It had depths that could entrance him.
His dad had dumped a selection of tools in the loft. Right next to the hatch. His dad had a habit of doing things like that. His reasoning, as he’d explained to George on several occasions, was that they would be there and ready when he next needed them. The loft was an ‘ongoing project’ and it made sense to leave the tools until the project was done. If his dad needed them in the interim, they were right there by the hatch where he could grab them without too much effort.
I tell you this stuff George because you have a logical mind and a genuine intelligence. Plus you’re practical and good with your hands ...like me.
Geo, you remind me of me when I was your age. And your uncle, you remind me of him as well. You have his gypsy charm and good looks.
His dad speaking, always with a smile that touched his eyes, made the skin around them crease and wrinkle like unironed linen cradling two sparkling blue gems. His dad’s blue eyes were like his mom’s blue stone. He could lose himself in both of them.
George began crying as he picked up the screwdriver. It was the straight one, not the ...the Phillips. Yeah, that was it, the Phillips. Although that had a pointy end, it wouldn’t be best for this. It didn’t have the sharpness. The straight ended one was better.
He grasped the screwdriver in a double fist and plunged it down into his mother’s hand, driving it through the flesh. Pinning it to the rafter. More by luck than judgement, the blade of the screwdriver was forced between a joist and a frame support that ran parallel, butting together to leave the smallest of gaps. A gap that the screwdriver found and penetrated.
It wasn’t his mother, he told himself. It used to be his mother but it had ...mutated. Yeah, that was the word.
Turned into something else. It still wore her ring but his mother was gone. This monster had replaced her.
There was a low screech from below. Hissing guttural sounds. The noise close and hot.
The screwdriver was beginning to work loose despite the pinned hand being at an angle that should have rendered it powerless, without leverage.
George carefully hefted the 20 oz claw hammer.
Claw ...hammer ...how...appropriate. Yep, that was the word, he thought distractedly.
Appropriate.
George kind of loved words. And numbers. They always went hand in hand to his way of thinking. One didn’t mean diddly-squat without the other. And that made two in anyone’s maths.
A pair. Like twins, or moms and dads ...we’re matching bookends, left and right. You can’t have one without the ...othaa!
Silver steel and black rubberised handle. Heavy in his hands. He knew it was 20 oz because he’d been told by his father.
Like most things, there’s an art to using a hammer properly. Using it efficiently.
His dad’s voice echoing in his head.
There’s a temptation to grab it close to the top, by the head of the hammer. That’s wrong. It may seem easier but it’s not an effective way to use the tool. If you hold the handle at the other end, you maximise the force of the swing, take full advantage of the weight of the head.
George concentrated on the screwdriver that was trapping the creature (his mother). The top of the screwdriver was flattened and scarred where it had been misused as chisel in the past. The flattening would help and he didn’t want to miss. That was the problem with using a hammer the correct way. A tendency to miss the target. He swung with as much force as he thought he could control and landed squarely
on the objective, pushing the screwdriver further through the hand, deeper into the wood of the rafter.
Did it again and then once more.
Pulled back, crying fully now.
Hey Geo, we’ve got a leaky faucet, a dodgy washer maybe. Don’t cry because it’s all gonna be okay. Whatever you think, it’s all gonna work out just fine. Trust me. Do I ever lie to you? No, so let’s plug that leak and belay the blubbering.
Tears dripping off his shiny little button nose.
He scrutinised the array of implements his dad had abandoned as the pounding on the hatch and ceiling increased.
Vibrations feeding up through his knees.
Chose the Stanley knife, studied the handle and slid the blade from the housing. He recalled being warned about this knife. Fascinating on first appearance but a sharply cruel piece of equipment.
Hitching sobs as he positioned himself nearer to the rattling door. Slashed at the wrist gripping the rafter and slashed again. Cutting deeper and deeper until he hit bone. There wasn’t as much blood as he’d expected. Some but not a great deal. Thick and almost bubbling. As if the wound was alive, instantly sealing itself.
He leaned back, snivelling and miserable.
Dropped the Stanley knife.
Couldn’t do more.
However bad it was, he couldn’t do more than this.
The attic hatch juddered, splintering and breaking around the lock. The hinges were the sort that stopped at the horizontal. They groaned, bending and breaking wood in protest as the creature forced its snapping head against the door. Wood fracturing as the hinges were slowly torn from their moorings.
George watched wide-eyed as the slavering head of the thing that used to be his mother inched into view.
It was hideous. Ferocious and inhuman.
For a brief moment, a cracked instant in time that could have been years, he looked into those eyes.
Tried to see something that belonged to him, tried to discern a flicker of recognition that might hint at love.
He took the Phillips screwdriver and stabbed it into the left eye of the beast. Drove it deep and true with a thrust that buried the blade into brain with an inch of steel to spare.
It ...she squealed as he did it. Tried to wriggle through the gap as she weakly hissed and gargled.
Death throes.
The beautiful blue and gold band, that mesmerising ring, gleamed dully in the diffuse ambience radiating from the room below.
Chapter 4.
Mr Monkton Announces his Arrival.
David Monkton’s practical Volkswagen Passat screamed through the school gates, clipping the right one and leaving a two feet long gouge down the side of the car. That ugly crease in the metal added to the dents and damage already marring the front of the vehicle.
The Passat, which had been carefully maintained for several years before that point, appeared to have taken part in a particularly tough destruction derby. All in all, a piece of rolling stock just about ready for the crusher. Something for mechanics to smile at in mock sympathy. Raise their eyebrows in carefully contained derision and shake their heads in amused dismissal.
David didn’t really register the relatively small collision. Of late he’d witnessed things that had pushed minor motoring incidents down his list of priorities. He was a long way past worrying about the mint condition of his sensibly reliable car. Was, as the popular vernacular put it, seeing those concerns recede in the rearview mirror. Along with a fair few other things that would have once been important to him.
Instead of following the winding tarmac roadway, David piloted the car across the grounds, bumping up the curb and churning grass in his wake. Slewing and sliding, spitting green tinged earth from the wheels, before screeching to a stop outside the main door.
David Monkton was the headmaster of Oakhill School and, as such, it was incumbent upon to him report this act of flagrant vandalism. Someone driving the way he was driving was not only causing damage to school property, but also demonstrating actions characteristic of an individual who was a danger to life and limb.
He smiled grimly as he thought of that. He’d be sure to report himself to a representative of the relevant authorities as soon as he could find the time in his busy schedule. Provide a detailed and complete account of his transgressions. Describe his miscreant appearance and the state of mind that he was exhibiting. Always assuming he could find a representative that God had spared from the affliction of the damned.
David stumbled out the vehicle nearly laughing and let himself into the school. He was hardly recognisable as the fellow who administered a faculty of fifteen hundred scholars and over seventy staff.
Sensible side parting gone from his hair which stuck up in spikes and twists.
Blood crusting on his dishevelled clothing.
A driven and somewhat manic expression dominating his features.
Needless to say, any staff or pupils seeing him at that point wouldn’t have been familiar with the style of driving either.
Or indeed been accustomed to the vulgar level of the car stereo pumping out a classical rock DVD at full volume. The disc was set on loop play.
The engine left running and the music booming from partially lowered windows would also have been a cause for consternation.
David had been playing the same music as he drove more sedately through the centre of Oakhill village. It was only a short distance from the school. The proverbial hop, skip and school-day jump in fact. And David had been giving proverbs and facts a fair amount of thought recently. Yes, a fair old depth of consideration.
As a result of the thunderous music and the leisurely approach to his school, he’d already drawn quite a number of followers.
Not necessarily followers that he valued in the way he would have valued a follower of the teachings of Christ. Nor followers in the sense of those new digital divinities such as fleecebook or twatter. For which he had no time.
No, these were followers of a completely different order.
A new and unholy order you could say. And David knew that he could say. He had the learning, the knowledge, and the experience to say.
They were a ragged group of snarling things that had not so long ago been infected and unconscious. People that he now understood had been rapidly mutating. People who had felt the touch of the beast and welcomed that touch. Taken it into their hearts and undergone the transformative power of the dark presence.
David’s raucous progress had identified him as a source of food. Which of course had been his intention. It was akin to him banging a dinner gong at a charitable function to announce the imminent arrival of the meal. It was equally as successful in getting the attention of the beasts that now wandered the streets of Oakhill as it would have been in getting that of a bunch of hungry hypocritical do-gooders, eager to get their money’s worth at a charity bash.
He intended to feed them. Oh yes, he would feed them their fill. He’d shovel the righteous wrath of the lord into their slavering ungodly jaws.
<><><>
David Monkton, respected educational professional and pillar of the community, had a plan.
Not much of a plan and an admittedly crazy one at that, but a plan nevertheless.
It had been fashioned on the heels of him murdering the spitting creature that had once been his wife and his readiness to do the same to the woman that was his lover.
God had spoken to him and told him what to do.
Chapter 5.
Adalia Runs Ragged.
Adalia Baker rounded the corner running hard and knowing that she had to find somewhere to rest and hold up soon. Either that, or she was finished.
Finished and dead.
Another plain and simple dead girl.
Seeing the woman up ahead, outside the Food Local store, loading plastic bags into the four wheel drive, was a surprise.
A surprise that gave her a glimmer of hope that she wasn’t expecting.
The woman, spotting her with a look o
f quiet alarm that would, even a few days ago, have pissed Adalia off as being typical middle class privilege bullshit, slammed the back door of the vehicle and ran around to the driver’s side.
Nice vehicle, new. Underneath the dents and damage and what looked a lot like blood. Adalia guessed at seventy or eighty K well spent.
“Hold on lady, I ain’t got it, I’m clean, I ain’t one of them,” Adalia shouted breathlessly as she glanced behind her to make sure the street was still clear.
The woman paused, holding the door, looking undecided, and Adalia increased her pace even though there was no increase left. Trying to close the distance before the woman changed her mind and just jumped in and drove away.
The equivocation didn’t last long, shifting her focus over Adalia’s shoulder, the woman climbed into the vehicle as she saw the pursuing figures materialise. The engine rumbled to life and she threw it into reverse and accelerated backwards and away, her eyes flicking between the scene before her and the rearview mirror.
“You fuckin’ bitch, you fuckin bitch”, Adalia whispered, slowing and beginning to cry, coming to a stop and bending at the waist. Hands grasping bent knees, chest heaving.
Wanting to find a little more energy, to come up with a way out, to conjure an answer.
But she was so tired, so really tired, used up and worn out.
“This is it girl. Party time again,” she muttered.
Not much belief, not much conviction. Game face all gone, dropped somewhere back there. Somewhere along the way.
She turned to confront the running things behind her.
Breathed through clenched teeth and dragged up reserves that she didn’t know she had.
“Come on then, come and get it. I’ll jump, but not where you expect.”
Didn’t have time or strength left to hear the sweet echo of her dead mother’s voice in her own words.
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