What was it?
What was that funny smell?
Moonlight shone through lace curtains as Heavy Matrix machines hummed overhead, green chemicals glittering long toxic trails in the darkness.
Something smells bad, she thought.
And Ben muttered restlessly in his sleep.
II
SATURDAY MORNING
Disorientation. All fours. Running. Crawling. A babe again. Incapable of speech. A need, a bright needle need piercing flesh his mind his soul his brain ...
Ben’s eyes flickered open. Dawn light eased through net curtains and Ben stretched, yawning - and suddenly halted, mid-yawn. His hand had touched something. On the mattress. Soft. Like a wobbly sponge.
Wide eyes travelled slowly down the bed, drawn by invisible wires. A hole. In the mattress. Ringed with a crust of orange.
His heart caught in his throat.
Ben moved closer.
The snot had eaten through the springs.
"Bugger," he muttered, and threw a wary glance towards his wife. What would she say? What would she do? Ben took a deep breath, calming fluttering nerves. Mary was a rational, modern day, switched-on kinda wife. She’d handle it. Probably drive him to the hospital! Certainly help him. Help him overcome this terrible affliction...
"Snot?" she screamed, her face a bright demon of sweat and contorting flesh. "What do you fucking mean its fucking snot?" Ben ducked the heavy book which bounced from the wall leaving a dent in Mild Oyster. He scampered into the living room, naked, his penis swinging limp and lifeless, a pale worm in the early morning bacon smog. Mary followed him, a hunter, a predator, fired with primal rage at the disgust and set to eat her Mate.
There was a crash, and Ben sprinted around the coffee table with Mary in close pursuit, then back out into the hall with a knife embedding in the wood behind him. It quivered, the plasti-handle humming softly.
Ben tripped and sprawled.
Ralph, the Persian cat, stared up in mild bemusement.
"How can snot possibly eat through a mattress?" hissed Mary, her face more calm now, her breasts rising and falling as she leant against the doorframe.
Thank God she hasn’t got the stamina, thought Ben.
Or I’d be a dead Ben!
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, pleading. Her face softened – and – yes, she would have melted into his arms if the Unthinkable hadn’t happened –
A sudden massive wave of nausea swamped him, more violent than before, it surged through Ben’s body and he convulsed, feeling a huge bulbous sneeze welling within him like a wave crashing against a dam, a storm rushing towards the cliffs, a tsunami rising to engulf an archipelago –
Snot spewed from his nostrils, thick and warm and orange, it ejected, a glistening shroud, to envelop a suddenly mewling, thrashing, yowling Ralph the Persian mog in a hot bright sticky embrace...
Mary screamed, hands to face, standard hysteria.
Ben bucked and convulsed on his hands and knees, spewing and gurging, until the last droplets of snot fell across the now bubbling cat which hissed and writhed weakly under orange goo before sighing, and becoming one, and sinking and merging with the melted carpet and floor.
"Ralph!" screamed Mary, "Oh Ralph! ". A knife was in her fist.
Ben was weak, and his head came up, face drawn and grey, eyes resigned.
Death was here.
In the heart of his own sweet dear wife.
"I’m sorry," he tried to say, but his tongue was a stick fused to his teeth. Mary loomed with knife bright in shaking hands, and then she was gone, the door clattering wide open, bright light falling on Ben as he lay, shivering, naked and snot-splashed on the floor.
Long minutes passed.
"I – need – a – doctor," he managed, and his foot lashed out, his ankle banging weakly against the door which swung shut with a tiny click.
Ben lay on his back, eyes staring at the mound of tangled fur. Poor Ralph. He’d been a good tom. A fine tom! A little too pampered but - hell, he deserved a better fate than bubbling away in a mound of hot human snot and snot-melted concrete.
An hour passed...
Two.
Gathering his strength, Ben got to his knees, then his feet. He was swaying, head light, filled with dark anger and music and random snatches of conversation ...
He staggered into the kitchen, grabbed the only bottle which was to hand. Whisky. He drank the bottle in one long, burning, satisfying gulp...
And spent the rest of the morning giggling on the kitchen floor.
Mary sat in a broad wide white bright room, hands clasped in her lap, still shaking. The police had found her story of great interest. And via a succession of comm calls, so had the military.
"Tell me again," said the huge man, placing his gun on the white desk with a barely audible clack, "about the snot."
"But who... who are you?" managed Mary.
The police man grinned, scratching his stubble with his two remaining fingers.
"They call me Mongrel. ’Cause I’m a son of a bitch," he said.
The afternoon found Ben Sherikov seated within the confines of his living room. He’d managed to find a pair of shorts with which he fought a violent battle before struggling into their snug genital hug. He sat in his armchair, a 2 litre bottle of BlueX Heroin Tonic beside his elbow from which he took the occasional swig.
Fact.
Snot kept pouring from his nose.
Fact.
His wife had run away.
Fact.
Because he’d snotted over the tom cat and killed it.
Fact.
He needed a doctor.
A doctor...
Ben eyed the comm warily, like a cat eyes a hedgehog; with a desperate primal need to kill, but aware all-too-painfully of the spikes.
One call. Emergency. One call.
He surged to his feet and padded into the hall. He stepped gingerly over Ralph’s remains and picked up the comm. He stared at it for long minutes before reaching out with tentative fingers and punching the numbers to connect.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Ivers?"
"Good afternoon. Before we continue, have you got your Customer Charge Number?"
"Yes," said Ben. "It’s bleurghh."
"Pardon?"
There was a click, and Doctor Ivers was left staring at the blank comm in confusion.
Ben had a look on his face, but it was not confusion. It was far from confusion. It lingered in the realms of terror and pelted apples at the windows of disgust.
He had snotted over the comm, which, in the tradition of things which got covered in heavily acidic orange snot, bubbled away into a gooey mess and dripped onto the carpet leaving Ben with only a half-comm in his twitching fingers. He shuffled away, so as not to get it on his toes.
"Is my own body rebelling against me?" he screamed at the melted puddle.
I’ve got to get out of here, he thought.
I’m going crazy!
He staggered to the door and reached for the handle. Bright light shone through the glass. It touched his skin, leaving him feeling drained and suddenly weaker than weak.
He turned the handle.
Opened the door -
Light flooded the hall and Ben gagged, nausea tearing through him, violent bursts of colour swamping his mind as he fell to his knees and felt his whole body shrivelling, drying up, his skin wrinkling and blistering and tearing great gaping black putrid wounds in his blackened flesh and he gasped, eyes watering as he pleaded with God and pleaded with the Devil to help him save him find him save him from this terrible all-consuming pain...
The door drifted, and clicked shut.
Slowly, gradually, over millennia, the pain subsided.
Gasping, Ben pushed himself to his knees and examined his skin. Pure white. But his thirst, his terrible thirst... he staggered back to the living room, treading on poor Ralph’s sloppy cat corpse as he zig-zagged an erratic route to the bright calling of BlueX Heroin Tonic. In
a gulp it was gone, and Ben continued to the kitchen where he stood, his spine twisted, his mouth under the cold water tap for long, long minutes until he thought he would burst.
Only then did he sink to the floor, burping and happy, feeling light-headed but the thirst had gone, finally, it was gone!
And this was good.
I cannot leave, he realised.
I cannot leave my own damn house!
It has become a prison cell.
It has become a hole in the ground.
A sanctuary.
And...
my own private Hell.
III
SATURDAY EVENING
There was a knock at the door. A blob moved outside and Ben shouted, "Let yourself in," from the safety of a gloom-filled interior.
Justin Sullivan opened the door and peered around the portal. "Ben? Ben mate, it’s me, Jus. I’ve brought you that guitar."
"Come on in."
Jus frowned. Ben sounded strange.
Different.
Jus stepped in, an electric kooler-matrix guitar in one hand, a small amp in the other. He kicked shut the door and trotted into the living room which was shrouded in almost complete darkness.
"What you doing in the dark, Ben? Turned into a vamp, eh?" He laughed. Ben did not.
"Nice to see you."
Ben slid past Justin, who dumped the guitar and amp on the carpet and followed Ben to the twilight kitchen; the blinds had been drawn and the only eerie light came from the green chemicals of the lightning hob.
"What you doing?"
"Cooking," said Ben.
"Yum," said Jus. "Can I skag some? I am starving, mate."
"If you like," said Ben, stirring something in a pan.
"What is it?" Jus peered forward, but could only see what looked like thick soup.
Ben lifted a spoon. There was a dull glint of orange. He fed the thick contents into his mouth where it spooled between his teeth, thick strands of gelatinous goo, black and orange, and smelling real bad.
"What the hell is that?"
"Snot," said Ben, dropping the spoon.
"What?"
"Ashes to ashes. Snot to snot. Ha ha."
"You what?" Justin took a step back, suddenly wary of Ben’s proximity, suddenly fearful of the gloom and the atmosphere and the smell, the bad smell, and this person whom he had thought was his friend…
"Like this," said Ben, head dropping forward, face contorting into impossible shapes; and then he was coughing, wheezing, coughing again and Jus looked on in horror as a thick pool of orange spewed from his friend’s face, thick and orange it flowed free and down and flowed across the kitchen floor and ate through his shoes.
"Ahh!" screamed Justin, hopping back and kicking off his snot-covered shoes. "It’s burning, ahhhh, it’s fucking burning!"
"Yes," nodded Ben. "It does that."
Justin ran across the living room and up the stairs; only when cold water jetted across his feet did he allow tears of relief to fall free. The pain was incredible and Justin stooped to watch blisters and thick orange bubbles rise across his skin.
With a grim face he descended the stairs.
"I’m sorry," said Ben, appearing in the gloom. "I didn’t mean to do that."
Justin smashed a right straight into Ben’s face, hammering his friend back against the wall where he slid to the ground bearing a curious smile as blood dribbled from a split lip.
Without another word Justin left, limping down the drive as the London light began to fail and darkness crept spider-like across tall, gaunt buildings.
Behind him, Ben cradled his head and wept.
IV
SUNDAY: 2:30 AM
Andy, Jake, Sonia and Sharon were drunk. They staggered up the pavement. Sometimes they staggered up the road. They sang. They chuckled. They roared. Onwards they marched, until Jake suddenly halted and, swaying with the look of eagles, said, "Look at little dog?"
"Eh?"
"Eh?"
They peered into the gloom - but it was gone, scampering under a bush and away towards the SynthoPark and the trees and grass beyond.
"A dog?"
"‘Ello?"
"Hotel?"
There was a roaring of laughter, a great guffawing which reverberated from cold wet tarmac and on they continued until Sharon stopped.
"What’s this?"
"What?"
"Something - ugh - it’s stuck to my boot!"
They crouched around on the floor, their chuckles forgotten as Sharon’s
feet began to burn and her throat began to screech ...
Heavy tyres churned mud. Matrix engines screamed, gears clashed and the five Truks crunched to a halt. Men, many men, disgorged from the silent blank black tombs and spread out with SMKKs ready.
Mongrel signalled and soldiers hit the earth:
Waiting.
Flicking off the safety on his Browning, Mongrel grinned and holding the gun in his good hand gave a high, clear whistle. Signalling the advance.
He was free.
He leapt, twisting through the air to land on all fours, perfection, twirling, dancing. The grass was cool under his claws. The breeze cool against his hot, fevered skin. His eyes were bright - incredibly bright - and his tongue lolled
and he giggled.
Ben giggled.
He scampered across the park, leaping again, singing in a high soft voice, a croon of perfection, soft notes, gentle notes.
Occasionally he would stop and snot on the grass, marking his territory, watching the plasti strands bubble. Then he would leap and dance once more into the darkness.
They would come for him.
He giggled.
He knew they would come for him.
How could they let one so perfect live?
How could they let one so perfect be free?
They would come with heavy boots and heavy guns and screaming voices but he was ready, he, Ben Sherikov, had made his peace. With God? With Satan? He knew not. But his inner demons were laid to rest...
Suddenly, the night exploded.
Brilliant white light shot out from many sources, pinning Ben to the grass like a butterfly to a board by its shredded, pulped wings; he held up his arms to ward off the light which paralysed him as harsh crackles rang around the park and SMKKs fired warning screams into the air and Ben cowered, helpless but giggling and snotting, in the middle of the park.
"Cage him," said The Mongrel, watching as heavy steel nets were brought into position. Then he turned, and as a snarling spitting giggling Ben Sherikov was trussed up in thick wire he placed a hand on Mary’s arm in a moment of rare tenderness.
"You did the right thing," he said.
"Did I?"
"Yes." The Mongrel’s eyes were bright with conviction. "He is dangerous."
"And you’re not?" She encompassed the whole gathering with her scathing stare. "With your guns and bombs and War?"
The Mongrel shrugged, and watched as Mary ran off into the darkness, sobbing. One part of him wanted to go after her, to comfort her. But the stronger part, the military slice, returned to the task in hand and he helped load Ben Sherikov into the Truk and he happily put in the boot and the fist and the stomp, and the engine roared and the wheels churned mud and they were gone and away ...
V
TUESDAY EVENING
A cold TV.
White light, split by colours as naked troopers danced a jingle and hands clapped and laughers laughed and politicians spewed verbal skag from lips tainted with poison.
Adverts.
Crisps.
Sex.
Guns ...
And a new TV series... Exploration... The UNKNOWN...
Mary Sherikov sat in the damp bare apt, her hands cold in her lap, her mind blank, her eyes cold and shadowed and fevered. She waited. She waited with simian patience.
"And now," gleamed the sparkling whiter-than-white teeth of the host, Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman, as he capered across a stage which
had been erected for the occasion, "here we have ..." pause for applause "the one and ONLY BEN SHERIKOV WOOOOOOOOOH!"
Screams.
Women fainting.
Jolly Joker jumping and cavorting in his Jolly Jokeman Way.
There was a soft hiss as Mary let out her contained breath. She could feel her heart beating in her breast. Loud. Too loud.
Ben was led across the stage in manacles. He was subdued and naked, and his body bore the brunt of medical experimentation.
"Can we explain the SNOT?" cackled Jolly Joker the Jolly Jokeman. There was a hush from the audience and the lights dimmed. Jokeman’s teeth sparkled like laser-rimed diamonds.
"Can we explain the MADNESS?"
A spotlight flared, illuminating the bright green and red costume of The Jokeman, and into the circle stumbled Ben Sherikov, blind, dumb, disease-ridden, poxed, and full of snot.
The TV died to a point of white and disappeared.
They’ve turned him into a freak, Mary thought. I can watch no more.
She wandered wearily into the kitchen and poured herself a drink. Whisky. She downed it, and found that her hands were shaking. With a rattle she dropped the glass into the sink and suddenly a strange sensation came over her. She felt light-headed. Drunk. Her knees were weak, and a strange gushing seemed to scream through her face, through her nose. And she stared down at a wide bright pool of purple snot which melted the washing bowl and ate through the stainless steel sink.
There came a looong pause.
"Oh no," she whispered.
West London. A high apt. Away from the dregs of dirty festering human scum below.
Justin Sullivan sat on his fancy carved wooden toilet seat, his bubbled, weeping feet in a bowl of salt water, his head in his hands.
"Ow," he said.
"Ow. Ow!"
The orange snot blisters had popped, seeping orange pus to mingle with strong brine, and Jus knew he had to go to the hospital. The wounds were serious. Much, much more serious than he had at first realised.
Why hadn’t he gone earlier?
Why o why o why?
"Shit o shit o shit," he said.
Reaching for the tube of Savlon, he emptied the tube into his palm and smeared the soothing white over his tortured hooves. For a second - a cool soothing cool calm pure white second - the pain went. Justin sighed.
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