by Ben Stevens
How were they so big? And the crying emitted by the baby rat, which (initially at least) had sounded so childlike? Had that been emitted so to attract Parker down into that cellar, where he could be attacked and –
Devoured.
Parker hoped not. The last thing he needed, he thought through a murky sense of shock, was to have to start pitting his wits against large and super-intelligent rodents.
But then – in this world you could be attacked by things, a flock of starving pigeons and an enraged gorilla escaped from a zoo however many months ago all within the space of one hour.
And that was without factoring in the danger presented by some of the other ‘survivors’ of this virus...
His bitten, bleeding legs were hurting fiercely. His left bicep – gnawed yesterday and again today – felt as though it was on fire. He had to find somewhere to patch himself up – who knew what diseases the rats could communicate via their bites – and, again, needed a new wardrobe
But first it was certainly time to get out of this house. Forcing himself to stand up, limping slightly, Parker closed the door leading to the basement before heading back into the kitchen, and then letting himself out into the overgrown garden.
He went back along the alleyway at the side of the house, and was again in what had once been a well-to-do road. Still only mid-morning, yet Parker felt beside himself with exhaustion. So hard to keep alert out here in the open – and yet seeking sanctuary within a house he’d just been attacked by rats...
Nowhere was safe. Nowhere at all. He could never afford to drop his guard even for a moment. And that was possibly the worst thing of all.
Tramping along several other roads, Parker then found himself beside a row of shops and what had once been a restaurant-cum-bar. In keeping with this area, it looked like this place had been quite upmarket; through the smashed windows Parker saw a piano, though like most of the tables and chairs this had been upended by looters.
Next to this restaurant was a chemist’s. It too had had its windows smashed, and some shelves remained on the sidewalk in front of it. Still, Parker might get lucky. What he was looking for had hardly been top of the average looter’s list of desired possessions, after all.
Taking a last look up and down the deserted street, almost expecting to see a pack of furry vermin scurrying towards him but in fact seeing nothing more than the usual deserted landscape, Parker tried pushing the shop door open. It gave; he wouldn’t need to climb through any smashed windows today.
Inside everything lay in total disorder. Stepping over the scattered produce, Parker quickly checked the layout of the small shop and the area which lay out back, ensuring that he was alone. Through the doorway that was behind the counter there was a small kitchen area, and a bathroom. A door with a key on the inside led out to a tiny backyard with a cracked concrete patio and rotting wooden pallets stacked in one corner.
Parker shut the door again, and locked it.
He went back out into the shop area and found a full bottle of surgical spirit lying on the floor. Price-label still on it. Carrying this, his face firm and set, Parker went back out into the kitchen area and tried the tap. Again, he was in luck. He put the plug in the sink and the brown-tinged water filled it almost halfway before suddenly stopping.
Didn’t matter. Parker had enough. He put his fully-loaded pistol on the worktop beside the sink before starting to remove his sweaty, blood-stained clothing. Just the appearance of the bites made him wince; never mind the dull, nagging pain. And this pain was about to get worse. Still, Parker had to get his wounds cleaned – more than this, he had to disinfect them.
He opened a cupboard under the sink and found some piled dishcloths. Also a few cans of chilli-beans. Fine, he’d be using the can opener he always carried to open one of these up just as soon as he was done attending to his rat-bites.
He sloshed surgical spirit generously on one dishcloth and then got to work rubbing his wounds clean. He cried out in pain as the spirit seemed to set his torn flesh on fire; but he knew that this fire was killing whatever diseases those rats could communicate via their bites.
The wound to his left bicep was the worst – that place where he’d first been bitten by a thing, and then by a rat. It didn’t hurt so much now as it just felt stiff – really hard to move. He soaked another dishcloth in surgical spirit before wrapping it around the badly-bitten area, attempting to tie the dishcloth together at each end with his left hand. It was the best Parker could do at a makeshift bandage.
Then he washed his face and hands in the cool water. There was a mirror above the sink and for a few moments Parker stared at his reflection.
There was nothing much to say. Same old face; same old Parker. Same old shit just on a different day. He’d been attacked by rats and he might have been killed and eaten but he hadn’t. He’d fought his way out of that basement so now it was time he just got dressed again and had something to eat.
His blood-stained trousers and shirt went back on, and sat slumped in one corner of the kitchen he opened up the beans and ate them straight from the tin with a fork. Unheated chilli beans tasted like the finest caviar right now. Not that Parker had ever had caviar, but he’d heard it was pretty good...
He was beyond exhaustion, he realized as the half-finished can dropped from his hand. The door to the kitchen was closed and he had the gun right there by his side. He had to sleep, right now. All of his reserves of energy had been entirely used up these past twenty-four hours or so.
But even as his eyes closed, his ears kept listening. No matter how tired he was, any strange noises at once brought him back to full wakefulness, his fingers clawing for his gun.
Parker never fully switched off.
Ever...
...Parker and Carrie watched the sombre news’ broadcast that evening. Several African countries had quickly descended into bloody rioting and lawlessness. The virus had already killed hundreds of thousands (including all of the foreign relief team who’d entered the Tanzanian village where the virus had first been discovered); and there were garbled reports concerning the fact that some of the dead were apparently returning to life, and attacking those still living.
‘...You want our viewers to believe that some of those who die return as – what, exactly? Some kind of zombie? Ridiculous!’ the male news’ anchor was saying angrily to the scientist he was interviewing, via satellite link-up, in Kenya.
‘I know it sounds absurd,’ replied the scientist in a strained voice, exhaustion clearly showing on his face, ‘but I’ve seen it happen, with my own eyes. This may sound perverse, but I wish I had video footage to show you as proof. But it happens so suddenly... I was attacked just the other day, by someone who I had confirmed had no detectable heartbeat and who was already showing obvious signs of decay!
‘I managed to get away, but one of my team... Look, this... this virus is like nothing we’ve ever encountered before – it kills most of its victims, and transforms others into these shambling... things.’
‘But some people are immune to this virus, right?’ demanded the newscaster, as though trying to find some source of hope.
‘Only very, very occasionally,’ returned the scientist sadly. ‘Maybe – one in every five or even ten thousand people...’
‘One in ten thousand people?’ repeated the newscaster loudly, his face beginning to redden. He appeared not to have heard the word ‘five’. ‘Only one in ten thousand people will not die from this virus, or become one of these – things. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Borders have been closed; my team and I remain here but we are fighting a losing battle,’ returned the scientist. ‘We are Kenyans anyway – where else would we go? But here there is just... horror. To an extent you cannot possibly begin to imagine.
‘So for your own sake, just pray that this virus does not cross any oceans, and so does not enter your own country. Because soon, very soon, all of Africa will be a very... sparsely... inhabited place...’
&
nbsp; The scientist’s face disappeared from one half of the screen, and the camera focused in on the sweaty, irritable, and clearly frightened newscaster.
‘Well, we have no real way of actually confirming the truth of what we’ve just heard, but – ’
‘Idiot,’ said Parker, his voice sounding strangely distant. ‘That Kenyan scientist or doctor is trying to give us a warning, and already we think that we know best.’
‘John,’ said Carrie quietly, ‘what happens if it comes here? This virus, I mean?’
Parker stared for a moment at the jabbering face on the TV, but didn’t take in a word being said. His mind instead tried to consider the outcome of the eventuality suggested by Carrie – but just hit a blank wall of incomprehension.
‘We’ve already closed our borders to anyone coming from an African country,’ said Parker then. ‘For which we’ve attracted a storm of criticism from those other countries who’ve still got some sort of ‘restricted entry’ procedures.
‘But...’
‘But what?’
‘People want to get in, they’ll still find a way. They always do. And it said on the news that symptoms of this virus can sometimes take almost two weeks to appear...’
‘John...’ breathed Carrie, her eyes widening as she stared at him.
And then they both heard the newscaster’s sudden, trembling announcement –
‘This just in – France has reported that the virus has broken out within Paris. There are also unconfirmed reports of mass sickness occurring within England’s London Heathrow Airport. Further details to follow...’
‘John...’
‘Goodnight, Carrie’ said Parker, standing up from the sofa. ‘I’m going to bed...’
Parker awoke with a start.
Where the hell was he?
He remembered and concentrated on slowing his breathing and calming his thoughts. He’d recently been attacked by both things and rats and – what? He’d thought he’d find some respite from the horror of everything in sleep?
He got slowly up, back aching from having been slumped against the wall in this kitchen. He needed to find somewhere he could take a good rest, for a couple of days – luxury apartments situated high up were his favorite places. He’d look out for such an apartment block when he left this chemist’s.
Again, he opened the backdoor leading out to the tiny yard. Position of the sun told him it was early evening. About six o’clock. He’d been asleep for a good few hours. He closed the backdoor and walked out into the shop and towards the door that led out onto the sidewalk.
Outside, he adjusted his rucksack and was about to start walking when he froze. There was a mechanical squealing, a rumble of engines, coming from the direction in which he’d walked earlier. And it was becoming ever-louder.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, knowing exactly what was coming. Torture and – eventually – death, if he didn’t conceal himself somewhere real quick. He now heard the smashing of glass and coarse laughter. Loud rock music blasting from one vehicle’s stereo system. The hogs were checking out the shops, seeing if there was anything left inside worth looting and causing even more destruction to property if the opportunity presented itself.
His balls tightening, Parker walked quickly to the corner. There was an open door set along the side of one building, a dusty concrete staircase inside. Parker guessed it led up to the apartments situated above what had been the last shop along this once-salubrious street – a florist’s.
The squeal of machinery and the rumbling of engines very loud now. Parker didn’t need to look to know that a bulldozer or something of the sort was at the very front of the line of vehicles. Such a heavy-duty machine was frequently required to shove the rusting cars and such that had been abandoned many months before out of the way, thus allowing for all the other vehicles that had been ‘requisitioned’ by the hogs – cars, motorbikes, trucks and so on – to proceed.
There was gunfire. A hoarse shout –
‘Got the bitch!’
Parker’s blood went cold. Then he remembered – there was a women’s boutique situated almost directly opposite the chemist’s, a number of mannequins still somehow stood behind its already smashed windows. The hogs were firing at these, realized Parker. If they couldn’t get real humans to practice their shooting on...
‘See what’s round here!’ yelled a voice that was almost directly outside the open door through which Parker had entered, now crouched down on the first flight of concrete stairs which could easily be seen from the street. He realized that he’d hesitated too long – should have got up to the first or second floor landing and so fully out of sight.
He moved, now – but it was too late.
‘Hey!’ yelled the voice after him. ‘Hey – you!’
Then, to the other hogs –
‘Hey – we got ourselves a rabbit! Just shot up the staircase in here!’
There was whooping and laughing. It chased Parker up to the first and then the second floor landing. He got his gun out from his jacket pocket, and took several deep breaths. His hands were shaking so badly he doubted whether he’d be able to take proper aim – if he had to start shooting.
But to get drawn into any sort of firefight (a word he’d learnt earlier today) would be a very bad idea. Hogs were always well-armed, and most of them had known how to use their shotguns, machineguns and the sort even before the virus had allowed them to begin embarking on their nationwide spree of looting, rape, torture and murder.
Like he had with the things back at the hospital, Parker vowed now to shoot himself in the head before he allowed himself to be caught. But the hogs were smart; they knew people would rather commit suicide than be captured. So they shot to wound; to incapacitate their victim so that they were rendered incapable even of taking their own life. And then they got to them – and the hell they were capable of inflicting really got going...
Parker got up to the fourth floor landing, and then the fifth. Two doors on each landing, musty sunlight coming through a sliding, frosted glass window. Up the final staircase and there was the service hatch to the flat roof.
Ten or so feet above Parker. And no ladder.
No, wait – there was a door set into one wall. Not the same type of door, with a letterbox, numbers and such, that the apartments had on the floors below. It was thinner, plain. Inside, guessed Parker, were brooms, spare lighting strips, mops and buckets and – a ladder?
There was also a lock on the door. Securing the sliding bolt.
‘Fuck,’ said Parker. He could hear the hogs coming up the stairs below. But they were exercising caution – not coming up too quickly. Clearly, they suspected that the ‘rabbit’ was armed.
‘Hey!’ shouted a voice then. ‘You up there, baby? We only want to play...’
More harsh laughter. Whispering. Parker was going to have to shoot the lock. What the hell. They already knew he was here. He was hardly giving away his position.
He took aim and fired. Hands miraculously no longer shaking. The lock broke and fell to the floor. That, at least, was encouraging.
‘Ho ho ho!’ cried the voice from down below. ‘We got ourselves a hero! You wanna play, little man? Let’s play!’
‘Yeah, let’s...’ muttered Parker, who’d opened the door to find the desired stepladder placed just inside the store-cupboard. That was even more encouraging than the lock blowing off with his first shot.
No time to waste. He dragged the stepladder out and opened it up below the service hatch. He put one foot on the bottom rung and then almost fell backwards as a shotgun roared and blew out a section of the plaster and brick belonging to the wall of the staircase below him.
‘Aw yeah!’ cried one of the hogs, then making several ‘whooping’ noises. Undoubtedly high on alcohol or marijuana, as they always were. It almost amazed Parker that the virus had spared (speaking very approximately, and as it had ultimately proved) one in every five thousand people; and yet still these animals of men – the ‘ones in five
thousand’ (a figure which included Parker) – had managed to so quickly find each other and congregate together in the weeks and months that followed the breakdown of society and ultimately the world. Parker had no way of knowing exactly how many of these ‘hog-gangs’ were out there – but there were certainly a fair few.
Parker reached the top of the ladder and pushed the hatch upwards. It was hinged on one side and fell open, exposing a sky slowly turning purple.
Parker still had his gun in his hand; he took aim and fired at the first hog to show himself at the foot of the staircase leading up to the top floor. But this hog was not going to be shot so easily; he instantly spun back behind cover, the two bullets fired by Parker harmlessly smacking instead into the plaster.
‘Woah yeah!’ shouted the hog who Parker had just missed. ‘We gonna have some fun with you, boy!’
But while that man was busy shouting, Parker reached up and began pulling himself onto the roof. His left arm hurt like hell from the bites received from the thing and one of those rats, but gritting his teeth he ignored it. He sought to snag the top of the stepladder with his foot, also, so that he could pull it upwards.
But then he felt someone pull one of its legs sharply downwards, and he instantly threw himself wholly onto the roof and then rolled away sideways as the shotgun opened up again. It peppered the space he’d been occupying just a split-second before.
Parker was on the roof. Rusting water-tanks, ladders poking over the top of low walls and other flat roofs leading away. He crawled on his belly back towards the opened hatch, and fired his gun twice down into the space below before rolling away again. The instant retort of the shotgun informed him that he hadn’t hit anyone. He’d enough ammunition, but theoretically speaking he could spend weeks lying up here and still –
Something made him look sideways and then he was rolling and firing. The hog on the roof next to this one – only a space of two or so feet between the two buildings – cackled as he threw himself behind a water tank. At the moment Parker had noticed him, looked as though he’d been taking real careful aim to cripple Parker some way, so that the other hog could get up on the roof and take Parker captive.
