Should Have Killed The Kid

by Frederick Hamilton, R.

  Dave picked his way through and turned into a short corridor that ran parallel to the former ‘open plan office’. The smell hit immediately, coating his throat and sinuses but he pressed on. There was something about not using the correct facilities that struck Dave as admitting defeat. Although, looking at the piles and puddles that had appeared in the corridor since the previous morning, it was clear that others didn’t share his fortitude.

  The cleaning crews that the army had originally assigned had quickly died out; another sign, in Dave’s opinion, that the end was nearing. If the military no longer cared about keeping things clean, it was clear they were losing hope. Lately the rumour-mill had it that desertion was up from a trickle to a hemorrhage. That seemed ridiculous to Dave. Where the fuck would they go?

  Dave passed the door with a silhouette of a lady and then pushed through the one with the man. The smell doubled in intensity as the door creaked open and Dave gagged, pausing to fortify himself before he stepped in.

  There was grunting coming from one of the stalls as he squelched across the floor. Another couple of early risers, he thought. He ignored them as he reached the urinal much as he ignored the floating layer of scum on the half filled bowl. As he unzipped and fished his penis from his jeans he wondered exactly what the female of the two grunts was bartering for.

  Must be something big to be doing it in here, he thought as he remembered John Franks from his previous cubicle. The rat faced man with his masterplan: the hoarded stock of tampons and pads he kept stuffed in the pillow he carried around with him all day.

  ‘It’s the biggest hit to their pride,’ he was fond of telling Dave, who he’d decided to take under his wing and reveal all his trade secrets to. ‘You’d be amazed at what the girlies will be willing to do if the flow is a-coming and they don’t have a stock of these puppies on hand.’ Then his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Anal, oral. I’ve had the works I tell you.’ That slimy grin perforating his face. ‘These bitches will even let you fucking piss on them. All because of these.’

  John Franks was one of the reasons Dave hadn’t kicked up a fuss when he’d been reshuffled in the cubicle lottery – a term coined by his fellow inhabitants for the seemingly random shuffling of people the soldiers occasionally indulged in. Sure he had to deal with Brendan Toohey now but even the threat of physical violence was preferable to John’s smug gloating and blow by blow recounting of his latest conquests.

  His bladder took a little while to get started while he tried not to listen to the grunting. When it did finally kick in, he unleashed little more than a thin, syrupy trickle. The water ration had been cut again last week to barely half a bottle a day. Dave was no doctor but he was pretty sure that wasn’t enough to live on for very long. The rumour–mill had an opinion on that too. Further cuts were apparently in the offing. A sign of how quickly things had spread; how hasty the army’s response had needed to be. Clearly there hadn’t been time to hoard adequate supplies. Three months into their self-imposed siege and already things were getting desperately short.

  The grunting from the cubicle started to be interspersed with splashing and choking. Dave felt his gorge rising as he zipped up and made his way to the row of sinks for his morning bath. Another benefit of rising early: you got first use of the sinkful of water the army allowed for “general hygiene”. Come later in the day and… well, Dave knew why most people preferred not bathing at all.

  He stripped off his t-shirt and cupped his hands in the cool water. The sensation made him want to plunge in face first and drink for all he was worth but he knew that'd be a mistake. The faint odour of disinfectant rising from the basin didn't really do justice to how potently chemical it actually tasted.

  The water felt good on his skin as he scrubbed but even the simple pleasure was ruined as he heard the cubicle door swing open and his eyes darted to the mirror of their own accord.

  The man exiting was adjusting the pants of his rumpled suit and froze as he saw Dave’s naked back. There was brief eye contact in the reflective glass then the man cleared his throat, reached into his pocket and lobbed a couple of sugar sachets into the open door then quickly strode away.

  When he heard the whimpering left in the man’s wake, Dave felt strangely dizzy and swayed forward, clasping the sides of the basin to keep himself upright as he squeezed his eyes shut.

  It didn’t help. All he was treated to was Monty’s blazing eyes looming from the darkness; the ghostly echo of his words: old debt needs older magic. Paid in blood…

  Dave felt the urge to vomit and just knew what would be waiting when he opened his eyes. He wasn’t disappointed.

  Even though he still wasn't fully convinced this incarnation of Monty wasn't just a figment of his imagination, the man looked so life-like standing just behind his right shoulder.

  ‘Hello Monty,’ he murmured before splashing some water over his face. He knew it was pointless but he couldn’t help himself from hoping the man would be gone when he was done.

  No such luck.

  He was still standing behind his right shoulder, the battered and frayed suit Dave had first seen him in swapped for a prison uniform. It seemed years not months since Monty had given Dave the choice. The same lunatic gleam still showed in his eyes although, in the intervening months, Dave had come to understand it more. The man had borne responsibility. Far more than any person should have to. Every night in his dreams, Dave heard his gibbering.

  Too many years now. It’s too much. Too muchtoomuchtoomuch. I can’t do another. Nononono. You saw. You do it.

  ‘What can I do for you this morning, Monty?’ Dave injected as much faux enthusiasm as he could muster into his voice even though he knew anyone who overheard would think he was completely bonkers. Not that they'd care much. There were more than one or two wandering around, babbling to themselves now. Unlike during the first week when Monty made his original appearance, leaning casually against the cubicle wall.

  Dave had descended on Monty then... A barrage of questions, accusations and threats had spewed from his lips. It had taken him an embarrassing amount of time to notice the stares he was getting. Most quizzical, a few terrified. He’d scanned the crowd and shut up pretty quickly. When he’d turned back, of course, Monty had been gone.

  It was really quite amazing how well Dave had adjusted to the new arrival .Especially once it became apparent that his appearance wasn’t going to be a one off. Dave just accepted it as an inevitable by product of everything he was forcing down. Simply thought, eh, I’ve snapped and went about his day.

  Although on subsequent visits Monty had stressed that his appearances weren’t mental illness, Dave still wasn’t completely convinced. The tale Monty spun of long distance projection did little to win him over but that said, he couldn't discount it completely either. He'd seen too much in the last few months to write off what Monty was telling him as complete bollocks.

  At least now, judging by the weeping coming from the cubicle, he didn’t have to worry about bothering anyone with his chattering.

  Monty was still staring at him solemnly in the reflection. With how pathetic he looked, it struck Dave as bizarre that he could have ever found the old man terrifying. The scar across the back of his skull was always a good reminder though and as they maintained their stare, Dave’s fingers snaked through his hair and ran along it. It helped to remind him that the pathetic husk of a man was a mass-murderer; of children, no less. And that the gaunt frame belied a psychotic’s strength. The image of the shattered window as the man leapt through, wielding the hunk of wood replayed in Dave’s mind and he couldn’t help flinching.

  To clear it, Dave coughed and repeated himself.

  ‘Monty, what do you want?’

  For a second Dave thought this was going to be one of their silent encounters. There’d been a few of them so far. When Monty would just stand, staring balefully at him. The accusation in his eyes: this is all your fault. Then the second passed and Monty’s mouth opened, t
he surprisingly effeminate lisp uttering the words Dave had known were coming all along.

  ‘You know what I want. You know what you have to do. We've been over this several times now.’

  Dave felt his grip on the basin tightening.

  ‘Go away now, Monty,’ he whispered through clenched teeth as he felt anger coming. He tried not to focus on where a lot of the anger stemmed from: the fact that he knew deep down that the apparition was right.

  ‘I can’t do that. You know it has to be done. The mistake needs to be fixed and you're the only one who can do it. I can’t keep appearing like this. It takes a lot of skill, a lot of strength and I am running out of blood here. You need to do it and you need to do it soon.’

  ‘It was not my fault,' Dave hissed. 'Fuck you, Monty. You had no right... no right to make me choose. Don’t try and spin it now to make it all my fault. If I remember correctly, it was you that “couldn’t do it anymore”. Huh? That’s right, isn’t it? You were standing there sobbing like a fucking baby.’

  Although it made Dave feel infinitely better, his little rant appeared to have absolutely no effect on Monty. The reflection merely blinked a few times then continued in his even tone, lisping, ‘I’ve already explained this to you. I can’t get up there. I’m cut off here, Dave, and there's not exactly a vast amount of kids floating around the prison believe it or not. If I could fix this, I would. Believe me. I can’t. So you have to do it.’

  Dave’s triumph deflated and instead he felt tired. Very, very tired.

  ‘And I never said this was your fault, did I? No, I’m pretty sure the only person blaming you is yourself.’

  ‘Fine, Monty, I’ll think about it, huh…’ Dave muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping against hope that when he reopened them, the child-killer would be gone and he could go back to willfully ignoring the situation.

  ‘It’s gone a bit beyond thinking about it. The longer this goes on, the less chance we can fix it. There’s only a small enough chance as it is. You’ve piss-farted around enough. You need to make a decision. Those things aren't going to wait forever.'

  Dave felt his anger surging back. His hands cramped from his tight grip on the basin. He was beginning to wonder just how corporeal Monty was at the moment. Whether a punch could connect or if his fist would just sale right on through. He was thinking the latter but it was still tempting, even with the ramifications of last time he’d punched the man high in his mind.

  ‘So many people are dead already. Think of how many more will die.’

  That decided it for him. Dave’s eyes sprang open, his fist clenched and his shoulder braced for the blow. But of course Monty was gone and he was left with nothing but his own ragged reflection glaring back at him. A nightmarish visage of patchy beard and pale, drawn skin. Most alarming though were the sunken eyes. Dave wasn’t sure when it had happened but they’d begun to take on the glittering, haunted quality he’d always associated with Monty’s.

  Gatekeeper eyes, Monty called them. Eyes that know the truth and are capable of doing what needs to be done.

  Dave turned away from his reflection in disgust and headed for the bathroom door for the next part of his morning ritual: the rooftop. And although he was trying to make the six cigarettes he had left in the rumpled pack last he suspected by the end of the visit he'd be down to five.

  He tried to avoid looking in the cubicle on his way out but caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. A quick image of a lady, huddled in the corner, underpants around her ankles, blood snaking down her thighs; her hair and face wet and streaked in slimy ropes of shit and piss. The handful of sachets cupped protectively to her stomach.

  As he exited the toilets, Dave had to force back the urge to vomit and it wasn’t just because of the stench.

  2.

  It was a hard climb up the thirty-two floors to the roof. The landings of the fire stairwell had become ad-hoc storage facilities for the various floors and Dave had to clamber over various mounds of office furniture to make it to the top. He thought it was well worth the effort though. Although the soldiers were quite relaxed about the ridiculous no smoking inside rule they’d tried to enforce in the first month, it wasn’t them that Dave was worried about. It was his fellow refugees. Along with tampons and booze, smokes were now at a premium and so far, Dave had managed to keep his little stockpile a well hidden secret.

  He shuddered to think what some of the others in the cubicle would do to get their hands on even his paltry supply. Fortunately the stairwell was deserted. Although Dave could vaguely hear sounds of stirring beyond the fire doors he wasn’t too worried. There was rarely any movement between the floors as it was, let alone this early in the morning. Strange really as the soldiers hadn’t forbidden it, but it seemed most people preferred to sit hunched in their cubicles either trying to rule with their fists or merely waiting for their next meal. He didn’t understand it but just took it as a sign that most people had given up.

  As soon as he pushed through the door to the roof, Dave breathed in deep; more a reflex than anything else. With the smoke plume that had settled over the city, fresh air was a thing of the past.

  Every lungful he drew in tasted of burning and decay. Who needs cigarettes, he thought a little bitterly as he scanned around the rooftop.

  Half was taken with storage: more computers and desks and two large photocopiers. The rest of the space held a smattering of swivel chairs, each empty and coated with a light dusting of ash.

  Dave scanned for the posted sentries. They certainly weren’t at their post. There was only a lone rifle mounted to the concrete edge of the building and an abandoned pair of binoculars there. He finally spotted the soldiers half-hidden by the mound of office viscera. They were locked in a deep embrace, mouths mashed together as the puddle of camo gear next to them grew and grew.

  Not wanting to intrude, Dave headed for the opposite end of the building. He lit up his smoke and dragged back deep while he stared at the faint red haze of the sun that barely penetrated the smoke plume.

  Yesterday, most of the city from Latrobe Street across had been burning. As he neared the rail, Dave wondered if it'd be worse today. He didn’t really want to look but, just like most mornings, he had to.

  It was difficult to see through the smoke and the glare of the spotlights but the fires did look closer – encroaching towards the little black dots that littered Bourke Street. Dave knew only too well what they were. Bourke Street was where the last couple of convoys the army had tried to bring in had been ambushed. The shadows had been on them before they’d even had time to react. Although it hadn’t been the first time he’d seen them in action, it was certainly the biggest slaughter Dave had seen.

  The red that ran across the street had been clearly visible even from the skyscraper a block over. Now it had darkened over time until it was indistinguishable from the tar it covered.

  The view was no better in other directions.

  To the south, the docklands were gone, now. All the exclusive, soaring blocks of apartments had been reduced to shadow-swamped ruins. The only structure still standing was the Harbour Town complex of shops. The failed hub that prior to the invasion had recorded losses in the billions. It had been supposed to stand in the shadow of the Southern Star Wheel until the idiot piece of construction that itself had cost 100 million had promptly broken down. When the shadows had swamped the city, it had already been torn down after standing immobile for close to two years, leaving the Shopping Complex to wither and die. It was another example of the shadow’s bizarre selective destruction. Why destroy everything surrounding it but leave that one set of buildings still standing? Many theories had been passed around the cubicles but only one had sort of rang true to Dave.

  A reminder of our folly, a bespectacled man in a crumpled shirt stained with old blood had whispered. Something about that idea had chilled Dave to the core. The shadows weren’t just content to destroy. They had to twist the knife as well.

  He shivered as
he drew back the brackish smoke from his stale cigarette. It was eerie to see the shadows at rest when you knew what they contained; knew that it was only whim that stopped them storming through the relatively intact Southern Cross Station and cutting a path of destruction up Collins Street.

  Dave pivoted and looked north instead. Again, smoke and flames as far as the eye could see. There were still a few tall buildings standing over toward Museum Street but apart from that it was mainly rubble. The shadows everywhere. Indistinguishable from the natural ones at this distance. No, you needed to be close to tell them apart. To pick out the oily, slightly roiling characteristics of the invaders.

  As he sucked down another lungful, Dave felt like weeping; he knew it was the same everywhere now. The last news broadcasts had showed that the shadows had invaded every state – both the territories as well – moving with a speed that had been impossible to match. He still vividly remembered the last image broadcast before the televisions had dropped out for good. A fuzzy picture of shadows sprawled out across the Nullarbor Desert; like some perpetual twilight had fallen. The convoy of cars stalled and surrounded.

  In the first panicked days it had been suggested that WA might be a safe haven; that the mighty desert would slow the shadow’s advance. But it quickly became obvious that terrain didn’t bother the invaders one bit; that nothing would hold them back. Another image that had stayed with Dave was the one from the refugee boats, fleeing to Tasmania; filmed over the railing, it showed the shadows keeping pace beside the boat, oozing along like oil slicks on top of the water.

  And after official communications had ended, word had only grown. Listening to the grapevine, you’d get the impression people just wanted to make sure they covered all bases so that whichever way you looked at it, mankind was fucked. Depending on what day it was, either the invasion had spread across the world or if that was argued against, then that very same world was gearing up to wipe Australia off the map. A barrage of nuclear strikes to stop the advance before it could reach their shores.