Like the condition had advanced further. Very little hair left, a couple of straggly tufts on a head that seemed all mouth and teeth. Rake thin but striped with twisted cords of muscle. Clothed only in the remains of filth-caked dark trousers.
Absorbed as it was on eating, it crossed George’s mind that if he was going to move, now might be his best chance of escaping unnoticed.
He didn’t move though. Simply couldn’t. Was too scared to even breathe.
Don’t’ see me. Don’t see me. Please don’t look up. Just eat. Just eat poor little Spot and go. Go the other way. Away from me.
He had temporarily forgotten the blade in the bag resting against his haunch and if he had remembered he might have laughed. The thought of duelling with this beast, blade or no blade, was absurd. He might have survived the encounter in the house but out here in the open? Hand to hand combat with a monster like that?
Unrestricted and free of hindrance, this thing would destroy him. He’d have little more hope than the cat.
Another scream tore the air. George had no idea how close it was but the thing whipped its head round, jaw trailing remnants of the cat.
Stringy dribbling scraps.
Its gaze passed over George without pausing. Another creature suddenly appeared, racing past the first one in what George thought was the direction of the scream.
And then it was gone. George had blinked and the monster had disappeared, faster than he wanted to think about.
What was left of Spot steamed in the dirt. The partial remains of a pelt and other assorted organic lumps stewing in glutinous liquid.
The breath he was holding left him in a rush and George slumped against the gate.
He wanted to puke again, but was too shocked even for that. Wasn’t sure he could do this. Wasn’t sure that he could just keep going. Wasn’t sure he could survive.
Wasn’t sure why he was trying to survive or even if he really wanted to. So far, he’d nearly been killed in his own house and nearly been killed outside own his back gate. The church rooms may as well have been on the other side of the earth. Twenty minutes’ walk may as well have been Darwin Australia or the dark side of the moon. His chances of surviving that walk seemed not only slim, but right next door to non-existent.
He was twelve, tall for his age and a black belt in karate. Black belt because his dad wanted him to be able to look after himself and George had enjoyed it. And his big brother did it.
Given his youth, he was mature and had a well-rounded personality, both mom and dad said so. Intellectually intuitive and emotionally perceptive.
For all that, he was only twelve. Had only experienced twelve short years of sheltered existence.
Perhaps he was simply too naive to know how to give up. Or perhaps the lure of seeing his brother was too big to allow him that luxury. Whatever the reason, he shifted to his feet and got moving.
There was very little that could be described as positive in what he’d just witnessed. If there was, perhaps it was simply that it further hammered home the reality of what was happening. Made him even more cautious as he crouched again at the end of the alley and scanned the short distance of road that separated him from the new housing estate.
Satisfied that he couldn’t see anything dangerous, he scuttled across and ducked into one of the access roads that ran behind the houses on this estate. He was now in what amounted to a maze of interconnecting paths, alleyways between houses, service roads at the rear of residences, and the occasional normal road that ran in front of them. If he could safely navigate his way through it all, he’d be considerably closer to his destination.
George wanted to run hell for leather along the route he had planned in his mind. Just blast through it like he would a map on a racing game.
He had a fair idea that if chose to do that, he’d end up ripped to pieces.
So he moved with caution. Stopping and observing. Creeping and hiding. Moving as quickly as he dared and as quietly as he possibly could. By the time he neared the exit of the estate, he was sweating and weary. Nerves even more taut and frayed than when he’d started out.
It was the rumbling engine followed by the thunderous crash that spooked him. The sound suddenly grew out of nowhere and terminated in a booming crunch that seemed to be at his shoulder. Right there, looming over him.
It wasn’t, but it was close, even allowing for the amplification of sound in the weird disturbance punctuated stillness that had settled over the world.
Spooked him and, seeing no one in front of him, he bolted.
Just ran, alternating panicky backward glances with fearful forward checks.
That may have been why he effectively ran into one of the things as it crawl-lunged from behind a stationary car. He had just darted into an access road between the backs of two rows of residences, and was very close to the edge of the estate and the next leg of his journey.
Two or three more turns and he would have been on the open road again.
He was almost upon the creature before he even realised it was there. At the last second, he tried to hurdle it but it caught his trailing leg and he fell heavily on his side, skidding through tiny fragments of broken glass that littered the ground like spilled jewels.
George didn’t see any other monsters but he sensed unseen movement on the roads and alleys around him. Maybe anxiety paranoia but the feeling had the nasty tang of reality to it.
Monster people moving in response to whatever had crashed nearby. Drawn to the noise, hunters alert to signs of fresh prey. Whatever the truth of that, right then it was secondary to a more immediate threat.
He rolled to face the creature as it doggedly dragged itself towards him.
Had time to register that it was small, probably a child no bigger than he was. It was difficult to tell in its transformed state, but the grimy nightdress suggested a girl. It was wounded, something wrong with its legs and a pair of big-handled scissors buried to the hilt in its chest. Irrespective of the damage it had sustained, it was intent on him. Closing the small gap between them at an alarming rate, mouth agape and teeth bared.
George had no way of knowing but the travesty of humanity that intended eating him had, not so long ago, been an eighty-five year old grandmother. Joyce Mancini had collapsed early on in the crisis and only survived the transformation by a whisker. A small, frail woman at the edge of death when the illness overtook her, the mutation had literally breathed new life into her. She awoke with a hunger that was all consuming and in a body that was equipped to feed itself.
The need to hunt, to kill and eat, drove her through her own kitchen window, heedless of cuts that now bled very little. Just as the pain of wounds would also be ignored, relegated to minor league in the hierarchy of significance within her changed brain.
Her first opportunity to consume was presented by a fleeing neighbour, but he proved to be of the tougher variety of fare, the sort of prey that wasn’t paralysed by shock and was prepared to fight. Colin Smoot’s lovingly restored mark one Ford Escort hit her with such force that it shattered her newly mutated legs despite their increased resistance to injury. Unfortunately for Colin, the impact also propelled him through the windscreen, Colin had never been one for the ridiculous nonsense of seatbelts. Colin had also never been one for giving up, and he hauled himself, bleeding and stunned, back to his car by effort of will as much as anything else.
Sadly, by the time he’d gotten there, Joyce’s single-minded hunger ensured they would meet mutated to lacerated face. That Colin had the grit to overcome her, admittedly at the loss of his carpet fitter’s scissors, was a testament to his own single-minded devotion to staying alive. However, as all of the relatively few individuals who were immune to infection would discover, those that had collapsed and mutated were extremely difficult to kill outright. He drove away, leaving her for dead, when in truth she was far from it. Wounded, incapacitated to some extent, the new hunger still burned bright in the thing that had once been called Joyce Mancini.
When George encountered Joyce, she may have been grievously injured but she was far from finished.
The thing lunged before it got within range. Launching from cruel hands, it vaulted at him as he lay on the ground.
Descended with questing jaws extended wide.
Newly grown teeth sank into his shoulder, tearing fabric and tearing the flesh beneath. Digging into him and cutting.
He clutched the handles of the huge scissors that were buried in its chest and threw his weight over his head. Wet heat blossomed in his shoulder as its teeth were torn free and a sick, wounded hurt blossomed in his heart. The certainty of injury.
It had bitten him and he was both nauseated and coldly angry.
He was on his feet and the knife in his hand without thought. He had no idea or care that he’d slashed open the bag at his hip as he withdrew the blade.
The thing lunged again and he lost his balance as its momentum carried them both backwards. Claws scoring his arms he thrust the knife upwards, under its jaw and upwards.
Pushing the blade with all his strength, twisting his body and that of the creature and hurling it away. Letting go and throwing himself back to leave some distance between him and the thing.
Another jarred landing on little particles of hard glass, followed by a roll and stagger upright.
The creature lay on its back a few feet away. It writhed and twitched, its hands drumming lightly on the ground. A frantic tattoo of talons that slowly began to subside as it died.
George scanned front and back for more danger. Satisfied that there was nothing in his immediate vicinity, nothing instantly visible, he cautiously approached and looked down at the thing on the ground.
Its mouth fixed in a permanent snarl, he could see the handle underneath its chin and a section of the blade as it passed through its mouth and disappeared higher.
He knew he had to be quick now. No knowing if this would bring more of them.
There was a hotness in his shoulder where he’d been bitten. Blood seeping into his shirt and spreading. He cautiously plucked the shirt away from the wound and inspected it as best he could, head twisting awkwardly and eyes downcast. It didn’t seem to be too deep but from what he could see amidst the blood, it was ugly and livid. A dull ache had already started a monotonous throb in his neck and chest.
He knelt and grasped the handle of the Henkel kitchen knife with both hands. It was surprisingly hard to withdraw. He’d planted it deep, deeper than he would have thought himself capable of.
You’re getting big now Geodude. Bigger and stronger than you realise. Pretty soon you’ll be able to look after me.
He doubted he’d ever get chance to look after his dad now. Unless it was in the way that he’d looked after his mom and he didn’t want to dwell on that.
He wiped the blade on the thing’s tattered clothing and backed away, scared that it would get back up again.
It remained lying where it was.
What he’d done had killed it. More surely than the inches of steel being buried in its chest. He filed the observation away for future reference and made his way to where the estate ended and met the open road. Crouched there and surveyed the next stage of his journey.
George didn’t know it, but his body was already engaged in an immeasurably more momentous struggle than either of the two physical encounters he’d had with the creatures. Whilst his biology had proved to be one of the few resistant to the initial disease, the creature’s bite had injected him with a secondary infection. That secondary strain had similar symptoms and a similar end result to the devastating first wave of infection that had swept the globe.
Stooped at the side of a red brick wall, clutching a knife stained with the blood of a new era, unbeknownst to him, George’s body battled for its very existence.
The journey down to the village was torturous and protracted. Scurrying from one hiding place to another like a mouse. Time after time, he had to dart into gardens, hiding behind whatever was available.
At one point he was convinced that his luck had simply run out. He was on the long curving stretch of road that eventually would bring him to Oakhill village centre. When he heard an approaching car, he was torn between flagging it down and his promise to wait for Elliot at their agreed meeting place. Instinct, and a need to see his brother that he could almost taste, won out and he concealed himself behind a low, bricked garden wall, praying that no danger would materialise from the house at his back.
He knew about cars, loved their glossy magnificence, and the wheezing white van that veered into view wasn’t anything that he would ever have normally admired.
Right at that moment it seemed better than the highest spec downloadable content on Grand Theft Auto.
It was moving too slowly though.
Way to slow given the circumstances. Laboured progress that made him grit his teeth in frustration.
“God, move it. Some acceleration, some velocity,” he whispered.
He couldn’t gauge the exact speed but it was really slow. As he watched, a pack of runners emerged behind it.
First one or two and then more. Many more.
Even at a distance he could see that they were all mutated. Monstrous shrivelled running things. The van seemed to be maintaining the gap but it wasn’t pulling clear of them and that gap was tight.
Not sufficient for any delay, even the slightest pause. Anything that caused that van to travel much slower would see it surrounded in seconds.
Like father to the act, as the thought occurred to him, a figure appeared between George and the advancing vehicle.
A man.
Not changed, normal. Human.
Old and slow. Even slower than the van.
The only thing moving fast was the chasing pack. The old man waved and yelled at the van. Not words, just unintelligible cries for help. He went from the pavement halfway into the road, waving and crying. Figures began to appear from George’s left, in front of the van.
It wasn’t moving quickly enough. The van was simply moving too slowly. The old man ...the old man, oh, the old man was a not very pretty sitting duck.
Something blurred past George on his blind side and he suppressed a whimper of alarmed surprise.
Too many of them and all the speeds were wrong. Messed up. All sorts of messed up. Way beyond messed up in fact. Bollocksed as his dad would have said.
Dad might be one of them. The runners. He might be one of them.
The van swerved, attempting to dodge the old man.
In desperation, the man lunged and that desperate lunge sent him hurtling into the rear side of the van. Deflected and spinning in its wake.
The white van lumbered on. Ponderous but oddly implacable as it hit attackers and bounced over others. It rumbled past George, passing within twenty feet, streaming creatures like an improbably polarised magnet.
His heart pumping with fear and infection, George’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to the occupants, the tumult around him subsumed in his need for human contact. The driver was a bearded man, grim faced and stiff, hunched over the steering wheel. A passenger, another man, shoved back against his seat, hands clutching his head, covering his face.
The old man was left like debris in the road. He was overwhelmed in moments. He didn’t regain his feet after the impact. Only managed to get to his knees before being engulfed by the streak of snapping things that circled him. George watched, silent witness as they literally tore him apart.
He cowered behind the wall, his cheek pressed against rough brick as a wave of weakness washed over him. There was a large spider in the periphery of his vision. As a rule, the proximity of that spider would have sent him leaping back in irrational distaste. It seemed irrelevant now, its imagined threat granted context by the truly scary. On the other side of the wall there were genuine monsters.
For a little while, a hopeless resignation loomed so large, grew so big in his mind that he couldn’t think. That black cloud blotted out any possibl
e plan, any course of action however desperately improbable.
Whatever happened would happen. At that point he had nothing left.
If he was discovered so be it. He’d be discovered and whatever followed that would follow that, without any resistance from him.
When the van’s rumble faded and the road grew quiet around him, he was too exhausted to marvel that he still more or less in one piece.
In the end, he continued because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Without any great caution, he got up and started wearily walking. Bypassed the centre of the village and headed towards the old thirteenth century church. His destination a stone’s throw distant from that. A single story building, community rooms that were not surprisingly referred to as the church rooms.
His last ounces of self-preservation kicked in as he rounded the final bend in the main road and was confronted by a stretch swarming with activity.
He froze and retreated. Dashed into a courtyard and dropped behind a commercial waste bin. The area around the church, and in the park opposite to it, was infested with mutated creatures.
George had no way of knowing that a short time before his arrival, three of Oakhill’s surviving residents had staged their final battle in that very spot. Coincidence had brought them together and unfortunately it had also brought them to the attention of numerous creatures. Their courageous, but ultimately fruitless efforts to fight their way to safety, had drawn more and more of the predators that now reigned supreme on the streets of Oakhill.
What George had encountered was the slowly dispersing, never satisfied, pack that had gathered for the kill.
The concussion that ripped the air as he sat in the litter behind a wheeled municipal waste bin was possibly the biggest break that he had on what had, so far, been a fairly awful day.
The series of nearby explosions that boomed in the still summer air had the effect of attracting every creature within a mile radius. They moved en masse, the sound a lure that triggered a common response. Noise signalled activity and activity held the promise of prey.
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