The Infestation: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel

by Matt Shaw

  “So now what?” she asked, a glimmer of hope in her bright eyes - unless it was the reflection of the brilliant sunshine. If it were hope, she obviously hadn’t realised we’d need to track the vehicle down and get it away before anyone had a chance to stop us. Again, given the situation, I’m not entirely sure what our punishment would be if we were to be discovered.

  I took a deep breath, “Well we need to find out which vehicle the key belongs to. With any luck, wherever the vehicle is, it isn’t blocked in by other cars or lorries...”

  The light disappeared from her eyes. There are no clouds in the sky so clearly it was her hope that I had earlier seen.

  “It’ll be fine,” I lied. ‘But, for now, we can’t do anything. Not whilst it’s light...”

  “So - what? We just pretend everything is fine and carry on as usual?”

  I nodded, “That’s exactly it. You do whatever they want of you and I’ll just try and blend in with the rest of the civilians...You think you can do that?”

  “And what if it all kicks off in the meantime?”

  “Then we’ll have a quick change of plan. When the sun goes down - meet me here. Okay?”

  She nodded. I smiled at her. It was supposed to be a reassuring smile but I’m pretty sure it didn’t have the desired effect. She smiled back. If my smile missed the mark - hers definitely did.

  D A Y T W O

  R e u n i o n s

  That afternoon, whilst waiting for night to fall and darkness to help with my escape from the camp, I made myself known to a young looking soldier who was walking around giving his best impression of someone who knew what they were doing. I had informed him that I was new to the campsite and that I had no idea where I was supposed to go - or what I was supposed to be doing.

  Considering the run in that I had had with the car full of soldiers, and the experience with the troops when the next coach load of people came in, I have to say that he seemed decent enough. Conversation didn’t help him, though. It only let me know how nervous he actually was and - more importantly - how his lack of experience meant he was completely ill-equipped, mentally, for what was happening to everyone.

  Regardless, he showed me to a large tent which was probably the length of two of my houses linked together - but not as tall. Inside were rows and rows of beds and, thankfully, more air-conditioning units to try and keep the people cool. And people...As for them - there were possibly hundreds of them crammed in here. Some of them crying, some of them trying to comfort the ones who were upset and others who were simply getting on with their own lives as best as they could by having conversations with their family members and, I presume, friends. I wonder, were they friends before they got here or did they make the best out of a bad situation and grow to know these people through conversations?

  Just as long as people keep themselves to themselves. I’m not here for conversation as I’m not here for much longer than a few hours, if all goes as planned.

  The soldier left me to my own devices, more or less straight away as soon as he showed me the tent. I made my way along the line of beds until I found what I thought to be an empty one.

  “Is this bed taken?” I asked someone on the next bed.

  “I don’t think so,” they said. Words which I took to mean, “No - it’s yours if you want it.”

  I laid down on the bed and tried to get comfortable. Easier said than done for I’ve never been a fan of camping beds. I find them uncomfortable and I’m too long to fit on them properly - which is another problem I find irritating. I miss my bed at home and this just goes to prove that going home is definitely the best course of action.

  It’s not long before my mind wanders to my home; my family to be more specific.

  All the times I’ve had conversations with Emma where she’d tell me how much she loved me. I always cringed at such conversations. For some reason, they always made me feel uncomfortable and I preferred to stay away from them. Move on to safer territory - something that I was happy to discuss. Something that wasn’t to do with my feelings.

  “I love you,” she’d tell me.

  “Quite right too,” I would often reply, quickly followed up by asking what was for dinner. All because I have a problem with saying the words back. It’s weird and I don’t understand why - especially given the fact that I know I love her too. More than she could ever know. It’s just the words I have a problem with. Especially when they’re said often. It’s as though, by repeating them again and again, they feel cheap and meaningless.

  “I love you,” she’d say.

  “I know,” I’d reply.

  Damn words haunting me now. I’d give anything to be able to turn the clock back to tell her what I truly felt. I always thought she knew. She knew how I really felt but now she isn’t here...Now I’m not actually able to tell her, face to face, I can’t help but wonder whether she really knew it? I should have said the damned words more often.

  I felt my eyes start to well up and closed them tightly.

  I won’t allow myself to cry.

  Not here.

  Not in front of all these strangers.

  The last thing I need is one of them coming over to try and save me with words of supposed comfort and meaning when all I want is to remember my family.

  At least I told the children that I loved them. I didn’t say it all the time, mind you. But I know I said it enough for them to know it’s how I felt. I didn’t just presume they instantly knew like I did with my wife. Or, like I thought - and hope - my wife did.

  Fuck it, I should have been a better husband. A better, more compassionate, human. I’m not sure why I turned out the way I did - lacking the ability to show my emotions like others show theirs. I regret it, though, whatever it was that caused this in me.

  “How long do you think we’ll be here?” asked the stranger on the next bed. “I didn’t feed the cat this morning. She’ll be hungry.”

  I could tell by the young woman’s tone of voice that she wasn’t really looking for an answer to her question. She already knew that we’d be here for a fair amount of time - at least, she’d be here for a fair amount of time. If anything, it sounded more like she wanted me to reassure her that everything was going to be okay and that her cat was, and still is, fine. A tone of voice which urged me to lie.

  I thought back to my wife. Even though I didn’t believe in the words, I should have told her that I loved her. I should have said them - no matter whether I had just said them earlier in the day. Words that are said too much and yet not enough. And my thoughts returned to this woman who was lying, close-by, urging me for a similar declaration - not of ‘love’ but of ‘comfort’. I didn’t believe we’d be okay. I didn’t believe the cat was okay. Hell, it was probably already dead. Killed by spiders or over-zealous soldiers with guns and flame-throwers. The cat would be dead, for sure.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” I lied. It felt weird offering her the comfort that I didn’t believe in but, at the same time, it felt good too. “The cat’s probably tucked up, under a bush, sleeping through it all,” I continued to lie.

  “You think?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I nodded. I looked at her and smiled. She smiled too. I could tell, by the expression on her face, that she knew I was lying and yet - the same expression seemed to tell me that it was okay. Not only was it okay but she also appreciated it.

  I rolled back over onto my back and heard her do the same.

  “Thank you,” she said; loud enough for me to hear but not so loud to suggest she might expect an answer from me.

  If only I had answered my wife with what she had always wanted to hear as opposed to what I thought was a clever answer used to save me from having to show actual emotions. Perhaps then, when I closed my eyes and pictured her beautiful face, I could envision a look of comfort upon it.

  “I love you,” I whispered. Not to the young woman who was by my side but to the image of my wife which seemed stuck to the backs of my eye-lids whenever I
closed them. “So much.”

  I tried to concentrate on what I had said to the stranger; my little white lie on how everything was going to be okay. If she was happy to believe it, there is no reason as to why I shouldn’t too.

  Everything will be okay.

  I’ll find my family.

  I’ll cuddle my children and I’ll tell my wife, daily, how much I love her. And - what’s more - I’ll mean it every time I say it too...

  I started to get upset again. Not because of the thoughts about my family and regrets I have with regards to things spoken and unspoken but rather thoughts about the kind of person I’ve let the years twist me into. A cynical asshole who puts his own needs before the needs of others. Why I’m thinking like this - now that it is too late to change anything - is beyond me and I wish I could put the thoughts far from my mind but I really have been a bastard. A bastard to both people I care about and people I don’t really know. And for what reason? It never made me feel good? Other people didn’t appreciate my comments, and obscure thoughts, which they sometimes found to be hurtful or unwarranted and yet I couldn’t help myself.

  Jesus, I feel like I’m having some kind of Ebenezer Scrooge moment. Whereas he had ghosts showing him the error of his ways, I’ve got fucking spiders. I wonder, though, whether I’ll have a second chance to change, like he did? Another opportunity to put things right that I’ve so far failed with? I hope so...

  My mind jumped back to the thought of spiders. Seriously - what were the military thinking? What kind of fucked up scheme were they trying to devise which could possibly warrant the need for creating spiders which have the potential to cause so much destruction? What - did they want to box them up, in little crates, and drop them in the Middle East? In what world could anyone ever think this was going to be a decent plan? I shook my head. It can’t be. It isn’t and no one would have thought it to be a good one. They couldn’t have. But if that was the case - how could they have gone ahead with it?

  The more I thought about it, which was a welcome relief to regretful thoughts centered around my family, the more I realised it couldn’t have been a military experiment organised by government officials. It didn’t make sense. But if that was the case - where the hell did they come from? We live close to the sea - maybe they came here, on a boat? Or the plane that came down? Maybe they came in on a plane and were already at the airport in the next town? They had managed to get there and were already attacking our town?

  No.

  That can’t be it either.

  If they came in on a plane - then surely something would have happened onboard, before the plane even got close to the country, to bring it down? After all - the plane that I witnessed come down...That had only just taken off so it would make sense that it would have the same effect with any other plane too. And that makes me think of another worrying factor; I’m sure they fumigated planes before they take off and when they land too- an act done to kill any unwanted insects, and other creatures. How would the spider survive? Are they immune?

  I felt the hairs, on the back of my neck, rise.

  Why’d it have to be spiders? They’re creepy to look at. They move so quickly and silently - seemingly appearing out of nowhere and disappearing again before you can catch them. Truly the stuff of nightmares.

  Great, now they’re stuck in my mind.

  I’d sooner have the regretful thoughts about how I failed my family back in my head again.

  * * * * *

  The remaining hours of light seemed to drag on forever. Probably not helped by the fact that it was light until quite late during the summer months. Usually a fact I came to appreciate as it meant I had time to enjoy what felt like a bit of the day when I got in from a crappy day in the office. Now, though, when I want the darkness - it’s nothing more than a hindrance to getting out of here and finding my own way away from the Hell.

  My general feeling of unease, about this particular site, swelling with each passing hour. Just when I thought things seemed to have calmed down, I’d hear raised voices again as people shouted at each other. Thankfully no more sounds of screaming, or gunfire, but I couldn’t help but feel it was only a matter of seconds away.

  Looking around, at my fellow survivors, I could tell they were thinking the same as me. At least about the situation within the camp anyway. I doubt they’d managed to secure some keys to make a great escape bid.

  “DADDY!” a little girl’s voice made me sit up and spin around towards the entrance of the tent. She sounded so much like Rebecca that I couldn’t help but to get my hopes up and my heart sank when I realised it wasn’t her.

  This little girl ran into the tent, and straight into the arms of a man who I presume was her father when he too turned at the sound of her voice. She was crying, he was crying. The tent’s entrance flap went to one side again as the girl was followed by an older woman. She too ran into the arms of the man - crying with happiness and repeating how she thought she had lost him. At first I smiled and then I felt a pang of jealousy hit home.

  “I was so worried!” the man kept telling them. “Where were you?”

  I couldn’t stand it anymore and climbed from the camp bed and made my way out of the tent. I know I should feel some kind of joy, in my heart, for the family but all I could do was wish it had been my family as opposed to his. Perhaps these thoughts were natural but they made me feel uneasy. They didn’t even fill me with hope that it meant my family could be out there somewhere too. Just jealousy. An ugly emotion to go with the ugly way I’ve behaved as a husband and, on some levels, human-being.

  Outside now. It’s getting dark but still too light to make a move. The temperature is still higher than you’d expect for this time of the evening too. You could feel it as soon as you stepped foot outside of the nicely air-conditioned tent.

  I heard more people shouting. This time I realised they were shouting for joy. I turned in the direction from whence the voices came and spotted another coach had pulled up with more civilians disembarking. A crowd of people had gathered around the coach - no doubt people already here who had dashed over to see if their family, friends or loved-ones had been saved - despite the soldiers telling them to get back to allow the new arrivals the space to step down from the coach.

  I walked towards the coach, desperately trying not to get my hopes up but it was impossible. Especially after the scene I had witnessed in the tent. If God saw fit to give that man his family back - why wouldn’t he allow me the same rights? What am I doing? I don’t even believe in God.

  As I neared the coach I thought my heart was going to explode right there in my chest, leaving behind nothing more than an empty vessel where it used to reside. I spotted Fiona. She was on the register again, noting down the names of the new folk. I gave her a wave to try and get her attention.

  If my family is here - would it change my plan for later in the evening? Would I stay here for as long as possible and give the military a chance to set things right outside? Or would I still go ahead and make a run back to the perceived safety of my own home?

  Fiona noticed me. Solemnly, she shook her head.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  Fighting back the tears of anger, pain and frustration - I turned away from the scene of happy reunions; a sight my mind seemed to notice more than the people who disembarked from the coach alone, looking lost and scared. People who weren’t meeting up with anyone they knew. It was as if these individuals were invisible to me.

  I felt a hand touch my shoulder and turned round to see Fiona.

  “It’s fine,” I told her before she had a chance to tell me how sorry she was that my family weren’t amongst the new arrivals. “Nothing changes,” I said, “we leave tonight.”

  I walked away from her as I knew I wouldn’t be capable of hiding the obvious disappointment that I was feeling. She chased after me, “Wait,” she said. I turned back to her expecting to reiterate that it was fine. “I’ve at least got some good news for you,” she continued.
<
br />   “What is it?” I asked.

  She handed the key to me, “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s a key,” I said.

  “Look closely,” she pointed to the top of the key. Three digits scratched into it. “You know what that is?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, “It’s the first three digits of the number plate. Our vehicle is across the field...And, more importantly, it has nothing blocking our way.”

  “Really?” I tried not to get my hopes up on the off-chance, although highly doubtful, I had misunderstood what she meant.