Parker: The Story of an Apocalypse Survivor: COMPLETE SERIES

by Ben Stevens

  There was a narrow alleyway running along one side of the house. Parker walked along it. An open gate at the end led into the now jungle-like back garden. A white plastic table with chairs set out on the patio by the back of the house.

  A tree house nearby...

  ...The parents drinking coffee, reading the papers, enjoying a sunny Sunday morning, as their child or children played in the tree house, perhaps with friends, shrieks of laughter disturbing the stillness of this perfect rosy morning...

  ...Parker blinked, and again this back garden was overgrown and deserted. A backdoor with two long glass panels. Parker could see into the large kitchen. He tried the door handle but it was locked. So he used the butt of his gun to smash one glass panel, before inserting his hand and turning the key placed in the lock inside. Security, he thought, could have been markedly improved for this place. Then again, it looked to have been a distinctly ‘low-crime’ neighborhood. The sort of place where everyone was on first-name terms with the local police officer.

  Parker pulled his hand back out, and turning the handle then opened the door and took a cautious step inside.

  A musty smell, but no trace of that slightly sickly-sweet odor which would have warned Parker that at least one thing was in the vicinity.

  At least, the smell did that usually.

  The kitchen was large, and had an attractive pine floor. Everything was very neat; no trace of the chaos Parker had found in some of the other homes he’d broken into.

  He walked across the kitchen and out into the spacious hallway. It ran all the way to the front door, various rooms leading off from it. A carpeted staircase on one side. Parker intended to go back into the kitchen and root through the cupboards for something to eat – but first he’d quickly just check the rest of the house.

  The downstairs’ rooms were all neatly furnished and well-ordered. Some children’s toys in one, beside a wide-screen TV. Jackets hanging on hooks by the front door; a photo of two adults and a young girl standing between them, the trio grinning on a beach somewhere.

  Parker walked noiselessly upstairs and the musty smell got stronger. Musty and... something else he couldn’t quite define. It was making him a little nervous, somehow.

  A bathroom, in which Parker quickly urinated... The girl’s bedroom, painted pink... A study with a computer and shelves lined with hundreds of books. A framed photo on the computer desk showing the same man in the beach photo smiling and holding up a copy of a hardback book. Parker assumed he’d been an author; checked the name.

  ‘Peter Wilson’ – it meant nothing to him. Neither did the book’s actual title – Firefight. But then again, Parker had never been a huge fan of reading fiction (which looked to be what Peter Wilson had made a good living at doing – Parker saw now that a number of books on one shelf bore the man’s name). Parker had always preferred more practical books; techniques for improving his fishing, and such.

  The room at the end of the landing had its door closed. The strange, musty smell increasing as Parker approached it. For some reason, his hand went to the inside jacket pocket in which he kept his gun. (Every jacket he found had to have such a pocket, else Parker rejected it.) He tried to push the door open with his foot but realized that he’d have to turn the handle first. This he did with his free hand.

  The door opened into a room in which the curtains had been drawn across the window. Thus it was gloomy inside, although the morning was bright with sunshine.

  For a moment, Parker struggled to make out what was lying in the large double bed just ahead of him. Then he wiped his left hand across his eyes, as though trying to erase the sight of the two decomposed adults and the young girl cuddled between them, the duvet drawn up to their waists. Empty plastic jars of pills on the dressing table beside the bed; a nearly empty bottle of whiskey.

  And an envelope. Parker picked it up and left the still room of death, softly closing the door behind him, as though out of respect.

  He stood in the landing and opened the envelope. There was a piece of paper inside, folded in half.

  Parker pulled it out, unfolded it and read –

  I should like to leave some record of what happened to my family and me, if by some remote chance our bodies are one day ever discovered. My name is Peter Wilson. I am an author and this is the last thing I shall ever write. I am with my wife Cynthia and our five-year-old daughter Sarah.

  On the television the President has just given a speech which ended with the words ‘And may God have mercy on us all’. This will be the last program to be broadcast. Now the television, just like the radio, is merely static. I understand that the President is being taken ‘somewhere safe’ – one assumes an underground bunker, together with various other VIPs and a protecting team consisting of the military elite (this is beginning to sound rather like the plot of one of my own books) – but I believe the virus will find him there.

  It is finding everyone.

  For some days now my family and I have been sheltering inside our house. I do not own a gun and I do not know how I can protect my family, if one of these marauding mobs breaks in. I know what they would do then, although I cannot bring myself to write it. The best thing I can do is to spray the red ‘X’ on the front door, to act as a deterrent, although until now we haven’t been suffering from the virus.

  Of course, there is also the risk of those nightmarish creatures which those who ‘survive’ the plague become. If some of those were to break into my home...

  From outside continue to come the noises of mayhem. Sirens, shouting and screaming. And inside the room where you found three bodies, my daughter has started to cough and say that she feels unwell. The virus has found us. But we will cheat it of three victims, at least. We will die before it has the chance to make my beloved Sarah any sicker, or transfer itself to my wife and me, so that we die horribly with our internal organs haemorrhaging and our skin splitting like tissue paper... And then perhaps also ‘come back’ as those creatures which shuffle about, attack the living and cannot be destroyed except for with a shot (or some other sort of severe trauma) to the head...

  It is time to die. But my wife, daughter and I will die together, in peace. My wife is a medical professional and knows exactly what quantity of tablets are required to send the three of us off to a never-ending sleep. In fact, I believe my wife has known this day would come for some time now. How else to explain the quantity, and type, of tablets she has suddenly produced?

  Well, my wife and daughter have just taken their ‘share’, and now it is my turn. Whoever you are who has found our bodies – I hope you did not receive too much of a shock. For what it’s worth, I offer you my apologies.

  Goodbye,

  Peter Wilson.

  Parker was almost surprised to realize that two thick tears were running down his cheeks. He wiped them away, and then gave a solitary sob. He supposed that however much shit you had to endure – sometimes on a near-daily basis – there were some things you just couldn’t harden to. Maybe that was in fact a good sign; that he still had some sense of decency – a morality which prevented him from becoming some sort of animal.

  Like a member of one those roaming gangs which he had, so far, managed to avoid. If the hogs got hold of you, your one hope was that they recognized a ‘kindred spirit’ in you. Someone who also enjoyed a rough life, commonly consisting of extreme violence. But more often than not the hogs just raped their female captives to death, and then tortured the male captives hideously until they too expired. Parker had come across their mutilated bodies before, the eyes pecked out by birds.

  Yet another sight that sometimes reoccurred in his darkest moments, when what he’d experienced and what he saw all around him made Parker suspect that all humanity really was dead, and so perhaps he should just use his gun on himself...

  This depressive state always passed, eventually. But while it lasted, it sure was tough going – mentally-speaking.

  Parker had broken into this house in order to find s
ome food, but now he found that he didn’t have the slightest appetite. Hardly surprising, really. He just wanted to get back outside, and walk some more. He’d find something to eat later, even though right now he was feeling a little light-headed with hunger. But he found that this at least helped keep his mind sharp, and his wits about him.

  Parker started walking downstairs, intending to leave this house the same way in which he’d entered.

  Which was when he suddenly heard a child cry.

  The door was set beneath the staircase. Parker guessed he’d pull it open to find another set of stairs leading down to a cellar or basement. Which was where the cry was coming from. High, keening. Not a child’s cry, exactly – more like a...

  Parker’s blood froze.

  That was it. It was the cry of a baby.

  A baby? Down there in the basement...?

  It came again.

  Goddamn it – there was a baby down there!

  Parker wrenched open the door. Revealing a narrow staircase, quickly disappearing into pitch darkness. Parker pulled off his rucksack and produced a torch. He’d got the essential items he needed to carry with him down to a fine art by now. Should have done after two years or so of this insane hobo lifestyle.

  He flicked on the torch’s switch and started to descend the stairs. That cry came again, only...

  Parker was no expert. He was an only child, and Carrie and he had never been able to conceive, so he didn’t know a great deal about children or babies, but...

  This cry sounded like it came from a baby, and yet...

  There was something too high-pitched about it... It was almost a squeal. But what on Earth could be making such a plaintive noise?

  After only a few stairs Parker would have been in total darkness, had it not been for the fact that he was carrying a torch. It had a narrow ray of light, lighting up a small circle of vision wherever it was directed. Parker had it trained upon the stairs he’d yet to tread upon, so to lessen the chances of him tripping over and breaking his neck.

  Then he was in the basement. A flat concrete floor. A steady drip, drip of water coming from somewhere to the right of him. And then the squeal, again. Somewhere to his left. Parker trained the torch around, fear for some reason starting to prick along his spine.

  ...The light picked out a large washing machine, some piled plastic ‘Store-it!’ boxes. Other junk, of the type you’d expect to find stuffed down in the basement of a large house...

  Parker took some steps forward, trying to determine exactly where that cry – no, that squeal – was coming from. It seemed to reverberate around the entire left side of this large basement.

  And then Parker found its source. A small rat – a baby rat? – lying on its side beside some long-forgotten surfboarding gear. It squealed again as Parker kept the torchlight trained upon it. A horrible sound, now – no longer plaintive or whatever the correct word was. Parker was seized with the desire to grind the loathsome vermin that was emitting this disturbing noise to death beneath his shoe.

  A scrabbling noise came from a short distance away. There by the foot of the stairs. Parker flashed the light away from the baby rat. Towards the source of this new noise.

  The light picked out two other rats. Much larger than the baby rat. Neither one of these adult rats seemed remotely afraid of this light suddenly trained upon them. One actually rose up on its hind-legs and hissed at Parker.

  ‘Shit,’ said Parker in a low voice, his free hand going for the gun in his jacket pocket. He felt his testicles tightening. Once he’d fallen asleep in what he’d assumed was a ‘secure’ room, only to suddenly awaken to find a hunger-crazed rat just a few feet away from him, about to lunge at his face. Parker had emitted an entirely instinctive yell, which had succeeded in scaring the starving animal away...

  Parker didn’t think such an action would work on this occasion. These rats seemed well-fed, and distinctly unafraid. Gray fur, long tails. Long, sharp front teeth exposed when one had hissed.

  What the hell had these rats been eating recently?

  ...More ‘scrabbling’ noises, coming from Parker’s right. He flashed the torch and there were three more rats, of the same size as the two others he’d just illuminated.

  And no longer had under scrutiny. He flashed the torch back and saw that these rats were creeping forwards, towards him. Their fur bristling. Tails twitching. Parker whipped the light towards the three – no, now there were five – other rats and they were also advancing forwards. Parker thought he saw the muscles of the hind legs of a couple of the rodents bunching, as though they were preparing to leap...

  Parker pulled out his gun. But where to train the torch? He whipped the light back and forth. Two rats had become four. Five were now seven. Nine rats in total (ignoring the baby rat that was no longer bleating); and then Parker inadvertently lit up part of the basement wall that had a hole in it and through which was currently emerging the plump body of another gray-furred rat.

  He fired his gun at it, the sound shattering the near-silence broken only by the scrabbling noises and half-deafening Parker. He sensed rather than saw something leap through the darkness towards him; and then there was a blinding pain in his left bicep – the same place where the thing had bitten him the previous day.

  Emitting what was almost a scream, Parker staggered backwards, in his pain and shock dropping his torch and also almost his gun. He then gave another shrill cry as more long and sharp teeth bit into his ankle.

  He had to ignore that for the time being. Because there was a heavy weight pulling on his left arm, and a sickening pain that made him want to puke up. He put his gun hand to his left bicep and felt the furry mass clinging to his arm. Then more bites on both ankles, and then the back of his right calf. He sagged to his knees, and gave a hoarse sob as he felt another large rat immediately start to run up his back.

  God help me he thought as the tears began to flow. I’m being eaten alive by rats.

  Fight.

  The single word came from some distant part of Parker’s brain, almost in admonishment for the fact that he was now on his knees crying, seemingly resigned to a horrific death down here in this pitch-black basement.

  Parker reached behind him with his left hand and grabbed the rat that he realized had been about to bite into the back of his neck. Then forcing himself to stand back up – more rats clinging to his body now – he threw the squirming vermin as hard as he could against one wall. He could hear its bones break, and the sharp cry of pain it gave.

  He then grabbed at the rat biting into his right thigh. Gave another near-scream as he pulled it away, the rat in the process taking away some of his flesh in its teeth. He dropped the rat to the ground and quickly brought down his right foot hard upon it. More cracking noises.

  Lying where he’d dropped it, the torch was shining its narrow ray of light away from him. Frequently, it picked out a dark shape running past. Parker fired his gun again – he could hardly see anything to take aim at, but knew that the noise would briefly startle the rats – and then with his free hand he leaned down to pick up the torch.

  It was thick. Quite heavy. Parker brought it into play, clubbing at the rats clinging to his lower legs. They started to drop off, backs and skulls crushed. Another flash of pain on his right forearm; Parker forced himself to hold the limb upright, and then smashed the torch into where the sharp pain was coming from. Immediately the pain stopped and the awful dragging weight was gone.

  Parker shone his torch over at the stairs. Shapes running across the floor. Parker briefly took aim and then fired twice. Knew for certain he’d hit one rat. That was it; he was out of ammo. Needed to get to the several boxes of bullets he was carrying in his rucksack. But hardly any chance to do that right now. His only hope to reach that staircase and get the hell out of this basement.

  He again smashed at his legs with his torch, hitting the furry vermin who sought to eat him. Like a nightmare something landed on his left shoulder and he felt its warm brea
th in his ear. Instinctively he brought up his gun hand and used his empty weapon to knock the creature off. He flashed the torch upon it as it hit the ground, and kicked it as hard as he could. It went flying, but when it hit the ground again Parker saw that it was not really hurt. Still, it retreated against one wall, clearly now wary of its intended prey.

  The stairs – get to the stairs.

  All other thoughts were now secondary to this overriding instruction necessary for Parker’s survival. His legs were bitten and bleeding – like several other parts of his body – but still he was able to move. He shone the torch ahead of him, vermin darting across that beam of light, and moved with quick footsteps towards the stairs.

  He mounted the first one, then the second. Pain that was not even so sharp anymore coming from his left calf. Gun again used as a club, the rat falling away. The door under the stairs was open, sunlight shining through... With a sob Parker made it to the top stair and then fell out into the bright hallway.

  He wanted to lie there but that would have been insanity. In a moment he was up and facing the doorway. He pulled off his rucksack and with shaking fingers grabbed a box of bullets and began reloading his gun, his gaze never leaving that rectangular-shaped entrance to that basement of death.

  But nothing came up. Shaking, Parker oh-so-cautiously shuffled on bleeding legs towards the doorway, trying not to make any sound. He took a deep breath, and then flashed his head around and looked down the stairs.

  A few rats were squatted on the stair that was exactly where the lightness from above met the darkness from below. Their beady eyes stared up at Parker, who swallowed thickly. Looking at the size of them, he wondered how the hell he’d even managed to get out of that basement.