Rhos Meadow

by Lex Sinclair

  ‘Yes,’ she squeaked.

  Eric ascended the staircase using his torchlight to penetrate the black.

  In his mind’s eye he couldn’t switch off the graphic images of the woman downstairs without a head. And yet the most harrowing aspect of all was she - in retrospect - was one of the lucky ones. Her misery had ended in a second’s blast. Deliberating on it made Eric want to sit down and let the ground swallow him. And he wasn’t even infected.

  He reached the top of the staircase, doing his utmost to keep the torch steady.

  The first floor consisted of two short hallways and a bathroom directly in front. The door to the bathroom was open. Eric could see without having to cross the threshold that no one lurked inside. He didn’t care about what rooms were where and what items or the décor were inside them. He simply wanted to find the box of ammunition and get the hell out of here.

  A creak of wood sounded like a gun blast in the house.

  Eric whirled, swinging the beam of the torch to the left where the sound had emanated.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called out.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ a timid girl’s voice replied.

  Eric’s heart bucked. His right leg caught the step onto the landing and Eric stumbled into the wall. He righted himself immediately.

  ‘Who’s there? Is that you, Tulisa?’

  ‘My name’s Tulisa,’ the girl’s voice said through the second door on the left hallway. ‘Are you the policeman with my mum?’

  How does she know I’m a policeman with her mum? Eric thought.

  ‘Yes. I’m a policeman. Your mum is downstairs.’

  ‘Tulisa!’

  Eric craned his head over the banister and saw Diana standing on the second step looking up.

  ‘Tulisa your mum is here. Come out of the room. It’s safe.’

  The doorknob turned and retracted on its hinges. Eric shone the torchlight on the hallway directly in front of the door to offer Tulisa light instead of dark.

  She emerged and squinted at the source of the radiance.

  Eric moved the beam out of her eyes and proffered his hand. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Tulisa. It’s mummy. Come downstairs.’

  Tulisa’s eyes lit up like emeralds at the sound of her mother’s voice. She ran past Eric and hurried down the stairs. ‘Mummy!’ she cried.

  Eric smiled at seeing mother and daughter embrace and then halted at the luminescent glow trailing the beam of his torch and following Tulisa to the bottom of the staircase.

  12.

  THEN

  November 2014

  Alan Willard had decided to take a two week holiday to Turkey. He desperately needed the break. The events unfolding in Rhos Meadow were gnawing away at his sanity. Something ominous had inflicted the residents. Something like the plague. Yet no one seemed to be doing anything about it. The only few remaining he could still say were themselves were Bobbie and Abigail Hopkins and Greg Zane.

  The flight had been peaceful. But Alan’s mind was in turmoil. The steady increase of his pulse and the slight tremble of his twitchy hands had been induced by the dreaded thought of returning home.

  When the cab driver pulled alongside the kerb outside his house, Alan shivered involuntarily. He unfastened his seat belt wiped his palms dry on the seats and stepped into the crisp evening.

  ‘Quiet as a grave here,’ the cab driver said, a plume puffing from his mouth obscured in his beard.

  ‘Yeah,’ Alan replied. Grave being the operative word.

  ‘Pity they put those wind turbines and fracking bollocks over there,’ the cab driver said, pointing to the meadow and the rolling pastures swallowed in the dark.

  Alan nodded.

  The cab driver assisted him in carrying one of the suitcases up the drive and then turned the mini cab around and headed out of Rhos Meadow.

  Alan Willard watched the cab go around the corner and felt a pang in his chest.

  ***

  The first thing Alan Willard did when he got in and flicked the lights on was start a fire. The antique clock above the hearth informed him that it was five to six. Rhos Meadow being on high ground lost the warmth as soon as daylight receded.

  Fortunately, Alan always travelled light. He only had two suitcases and a satchel on this occasion because he went for an extra week. He carried the satchel upstairs and put it on the chest in the bathroom and drew himself a hot bath.

  He slid into steaming bubble bath wincing at the sudden heat enveloping him. The muscle relaxing bubble bath soothed him completely. Only his head wasn’t submerged. Tendrils of steam rose towards the ceiling and dissipated. Alan thought it looked like fog.

  He emerged twenty five minutes later when the water had gone cold and dried himself with a towel off the warm radiator. Once he got dressed into clean pyjamas and a dressing gown Alan took the phone out of its cradle and dialled a familiar number.

  He listened to the monotonous ringing wondering what was taking so long to get an answer. Then just as he was about to put the receiver down a shrill voice said, ‘Who is it?’

  Pulling his ear away from the unexpected exclamation, Alan said, ‘Me. Alan. Abigail?’

  ‘Alan?’ Abigail’s voice softened. ‘You’re back?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Alan said, confused.

  ‘When did you get back? Are you still you?’

  Alan frowned. ‘’Bout half hour ago or so. And yeah it’s me, Alan for the second time. I said I’d call you as soon as I got back, remember?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Abigail said, laughing without humour. ‘It’s so good to hear you, that’s all.’

  ‘Abigail, what’s wrong? You’re all nervous and on edge.’

  ‘If we could’ve afforded it we would’ve gone away too,’ Abigail said. ‘Since you’ve been gone something terrible has happened.’

  ‘Like what?’ Alan could feel the tension staring to assail his muscles all over again.

  ‘Gary found Reverend Rhodri Jenkins’ head speared onto one of the spokes on the fence of the graveyard. The rest of his body was found on a heap of soil badly dissected. They had the medical examiner here and he said it had to be some animal, like a wolf or rabid dog. His intestines lay over him like dead snakes.’

  Alan’s mouth dried of all saliva. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Alan, what the fuck is happening to our town? This is turning into some kind of horror fest that has no end.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘The streets are practically empty, day and night. Everyone stays indoors as much as they can. But at night, Bobbie and I can here people moving around.’

  ‘Whatcha mean “moving around”?’

  ‘Making deep noises in the backs of their throats and scurrying from one place to the next, looking for something... or someone. Their running footsteps on the concrete keep me awake all night. But the noises they make are worst. Feral... like wolves or beasts or... I dunno. But not human that’s for sure.’

  ‘D’you want me to come over?’ Alan asked. ‘Is Bobbie there?’

  ‘Yeah. Come over.’ With that, Abigail’s emotions got the better of her and she started to cry. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, don’t apologise. I dunno how many times I’ve felt like crying. That’s the reason I left; to get away from it all for a while. I just dunno where this is all gonna end.’

  ‘This is the town of the dead.’

  Abigail’s words sent icicles through Alan’s ventricles, freezing his heart.

  ***

  December 2014

  Bobbie and Abigail Hopkins’ beautiful, idyllic red-bricked and varnished timber framed farmhouse had become the safe haven for the remaining few residents of Rhos Meadow who - for the time by at least - were not infected.

 
The artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner of the living room bare and morose. It was Christmas Eve and rather than congregating to celebrate the festive cheer, the small group of survivors sat in a circle fighting their trepidation.

  Greg sat on the armchair trembling uncontrollably, shaking his head of the graphic images too tangible and surreal to comprehend without feeling the awesome impact. He’d been to see his friend and fellow Rhos Meadow resident, Harold Banks who told him he’d been bitten by a Winona Harris early yesterday morning. He’d risen early and decided to venture outside and take a stroll. The girl, who wore her dark brown hair pigtails, rushed out of the foliage growling and spitting. Her eyes were blood-red and inhuman. That was all Greg had managed before his gorged rose and he dry-retched. Hot tears spilled down his quivering cheeks and dripped onto the cushion. He’d slowed his breathing and regained his composure.

  ‘What happened then?’ Alan asked, leaning forward.

  Greg met his gaze and shook his head. Alan and the rest of the small group assumed that Greg was refusing to elaborate; that he couldn’t possibly continue.

  Then: ‘Winona - or the entity that had taken over her human form - sunk her teeth into his arm just as he was about to embrace her. Harold said her teeth weren’t like a child’s or adult’s teeth, they were needles puncturing through many layers of flesh. Then he had to wrestle her off his arm. She was sucking the blood pouring from the wound. He had to use all the force he could muster and even then she only came free with another layer of flesh jutting from her open mouth. Blood dribbled down her chin. His blood. Then she made a hissing guttural noise and sprinted towards him once more. Harold got his foot up in time and the little girl flipped over, landing facedown with a hard slap on the concrete.

  ‘Harold couldn’t believe she got straight back up without showing any signs that she was in pain or even registered the sickening impact that had shattered her jaw. Now she looked even more hideous. Her scarlet tongue slid out of her mouth. Her jawbone resting on her neck. She leapt on him like a panther. Harold tried to protect his face. She bit his index finger at the joint and dug her teeth in so far that by the time Harold elbowed Winona on the bridge of her nose all that was left was a severed stump hanging on by stringy muscle tissue. The crunching sound sounded like tyres rolling over gravel.

  ‘Understandably, Harold was overcome by dizziness and nausea. He turned and fled back to his house. But Winona had already picked herself up from the pavement and was rushing after him, arms swinging like windmills making those fiend-like noises.

  ‘He ran to the front door and threw it as hard as he could into her face, knocking her down for the third time. The door was still ajar though. He could see the ruined features and swelling beneath both eyes from the elbows, kicks and the front door slamming into her. He knew she’d come after him again. This wasn’t a little girl he said, this was something else. It wouldn’t stop hunting him until either or both of them were dead. She tasted his flesh and blood and that had increased her motivation insatiably.

  ‘Harold said he’d never known such terror was possible. His head pounded in manic rhythm of his thunderbolt heart. He ran into the living room and smacked his brow on the marble hearth, knocking the bronze bucket over. The last thing he remembered clearly was grabbing the fire stave, rolling over and holding it up away from him just in time to see Winona lunge for him, impaling herself and slowly sliding down the cold metal. Their faces were inches apart. Harold said he could detect the pungent smell of gangrene.

  ‘He said the inside of her mouth was filled with thick congealed layers of blood. Her blood dripped into his mouth and onto his face. Eventually he pushed the stave to one side and watched in subdued interest as the girl’s body slumped to floor.

  ‘He woke sometime later, drained and weary. His arm had swollen to the size of cricket ball and felt like he’d got cramp. It dangled disproportionately from the elbow. Harold assumed he’d been lying on it with all his weight the whole time he’d been unconscious. It didn’t even look like an arm. But after what he’d been through he couldn’t care less.

  ‘As he got to his feet, using the mantelpiece for assistance, Winona started twitching spasmodically. The sharp shock piercing his heart might have been a heart attack. Harold gasped and then pissed his pants. No living human could survive a long iron stave through the heart and get to a standing position the way Winona did, he said. And if it was for the evidence in his living room and on his own body I might not have believed him. Would’ve said it was shock that had elaborated his memory.

  ‘The next few minutes, Harold said, was a blur. He booted Winona in the face again, mashing her nose, embedding it into her head. It smeared across her cheeks. Harold gripped her by one of her pig tails and threw her head through the glass screen of the fireplace. After several attempts he managed to light a match and tossed it onto the pile of logs. Using the petrol can he kept in the living room, he squirted the flickering flame. An almighty Whoosh was instantly followed by a fervent fire. It engulfed Winona’s head, blistering the pallid skin and dissolving the dark brown hair eagerly.

  ‘Harold watched in pure revulsion, shaking from top to bottom. Then he leapt back and almost died of fright when Winona recoiled from the fire. She swatted the ravenous flames. Her hands were charcoal. Her face was blowing orange, pulsing bubbles and bursting crimson fluid. She leaned on her hands and knees and hurried forward, emitting a hoarse cry.

  ‘Stomping her until her grip loosened from his jeans, Harold ran to the kitchen and returned yelling at the top of his lungs, wielding a meat clever and proceeded to hack away like a madman until he’d severed all the bones, tissue and tendons keeping Winona’s gruesome head attached to her diminutive frame. The carpet soaked the blood up, changing its colour to reddish-black.

  ‘I saw the stain. I could smell the stench of human blood. I mean pints of it spilled on the floor right before me. But worse than all that was the severed stump where the child’s head and been hacked off and the blistering skull of something that distantly resembled a girl I once knew.’

  Greg exhaled deeply. He buried his flushed face into his hands.

  ‘Well, where’s Harold now?’ Alan asked, alarmed.

  Greg pulled his hands away from his haggard face leaving white finger marks. ‘Harold’s dead.’

  The two words dropped a silence bomb into the living room.

  ‘How did Harold die?’ Alan asked, close to tears.

  ‘Once bitten its over.’

  ‘But we could’ve taken him to a hospital,’ Abigail said, distressed.

  Greg laughed derisively. ‘Oh, really. You stick your head outside and try walking more than five yards. They’ve fucked up all the cars by either puncturing tyres of wrecking the engines. The phones aren’t working. For some reason there is no reception on any of our mobiles. All we get on the radio is interspersed voices and static. The Ariel mast has been destroyed and the air doesn’t move. It’s not even thin air like in high altitudes. It’s just empty space. So yeah, great idea, Abs.’

  ‘All right, Greg,’ Bobbie said.

  ‘You still didn’t answer the question,’ Alan said.

  Greg eyed Alan with contempt. ‘You really wanna know?’

  ‘Harold was my friend too. So yes, I’d like you to tell me so I can pay tribute to a great guy whom I’ll never see again.’

  Nodding in acquiescence, Greg said, ‘I went back to my house to get my shotgun. Then I returned to Harold’s with tears in my eyes. I kept thinking of all the times we’d shared going clay shooting, watching sports in the pub and hanging on out drinking beers in his back yard on the patio deck watching the sunset. Things like that.

  ‘I gave him the loaded weapon and he did what he had to. I said goodbye first. Then I stepped out of the room and leapt at the thunderous blast. I retrieved the shotgun not deliberately looking at the mess where what
was left of Harold remained.

  ‘I wanted to pay my respects too, Alan. Trouble is there is nothing to pay your respects too. You get me?’

  Alan didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

  Abigail poured herself another glass of red wine. Her drunken stupor relaxed her jangled nerves, dulled her senses.

  ‘You’re right about one thing, Greg,’ Alan said.

  ‘Yeah? What’s that?’

  ‘Even if by some way we could escape this hellhole, taking Harold to a hospital wouldn’t achieve much. If anything it would’ve made things worse.’

  Bobbie frowned, perplexed. ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘This... disease or whatever the correct terminology is needs to be contained. Our little town is a home to a pathogen so deadly and virulent it could wipe out the other surrounding towns and cities. Think about it from an outsiders’ point of view for a moment. Harold was a very dear friend but take away any emotional ties and what facts are we left with? A malignant, fast-spreading disease that infects and breaks down our red and white blood cells. I don’t believe there is a cure. I hope I’m wrong. But think had Harold lived the disease would’ve broken down his defences. The nervous system would be broken down. Harold would have slowly but surely slid into dementia. The irreversible effects would affect his brain too. He would have turned on us just like Winona. He’d attack with an inhuman blood thirst, a feverish desire to bite, penetrate and invade. He would’ve become one of those out there,’ Alan said, indicating to the living room window behind the curtains. ‘At least his last living breathing moment was his own however grim.’

  Abigail shook her head vehemently. ‘The doctors and surgeons could have saved him, though.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Alan said, hating to see her protest. ‘But if I were not part of Rhos Meadow I’d want it to be quarantined before the disease spreads like wildfire.’ He paused, catching his breath. ‘None of us are infected. I’d like to keep it that way. Someone is bound to notice something awry sooner than later and word’ll get out. We can be extricated by the authorities and moved to a sanctuary while the infected are taken care of. Until then we gotta just keep it down and sit tight.’