The BIG Horror Pack 2

by Iain Rob Wright

  The next call came from line-2. A cantankerous old man, named Bob. “It’s them bloody Koreans, I’m tellin’ ya. I’d blame the Arabs if I could, but they don’t have the smarts for this. North Korea has been closed off to the rest of the word for decades. We don’t know what they’ve been up to, do we? But I tell you one thing for nought; they’ve obviously been plotting the downfall of the world this whole time. Kim Jong Il arranged for it to happen before he died and, surprise surprise, a virus the likes of which the world has never seen, has come out of a country no one knows anything about. Prime Minister Lloyd-Collins knew about it; tried to do something about it before he died.”

  Sarah butted in while she had chance. “Now, Bob, it’s already been confirmed that North Korea has been affected like everywhere else. Early reports that they were the instigators of this pandemic turned out to be false. Prime Minister Lloyd-Collins’s directive to bomb their country was just the paranoid actions of a dying man. General Harvey Whitehead was right to do what he did by holding emergency cabinet hustings and taking command of the Government.”

  “All so he could get in power,” Bob asserted.

  “Come on,” said Sarah. “Do you really believe that? General Whitehead was only made Deputy-Prime Minister temporarily because his military background is exactly the skillset needed to help manage the nation through this crisis. His decision to ignore Lloyd Collins’ directives – God rest his soul – averted a nuclear war.”

  “And also let the bloody Koreans get away scot-free. You bloody watch what happen. This time next year we’ll all be slaves to a bunch of slitty-eyed-“

  The line went dead. Jeremy had heard enough of this. Holding a public phone-in was just morbid and macabre. There would be no hope gained from talking with them, for they were the most hopeless and lost of all. The men and woman of the United Kingdom were floundering helplessly in the dark, rotting away slowly in both body and mind. Their sad stories would do nothing but spread more suffering, infecting people’s thoughts in the same way The Peeling infected their flesh.

  Jeremy was just about to abandon his post when a ruckus erupted in the corner of the studio. A handful of people had begun to scuffle with one another while others backed away fearfully. Angry voices filled the air and bounced off the narrow walls, interrupting the on-going news report.

  “We seem to be having a few problems here in the studio,” Sarah told the audience. “I think we should cut to a commercial break briefly, but don’t go anywhere, guys. We’ll be right back.”

  Sarah and Tom stood up from their desk and headed away from the violence, whilst Jeremy shoved past them and headed for the centre of the squabbling crowd. As he got nearer, he realised that it was not a fight that had broken out, but an attack on a single individual. A pair of men and one woman were kicking hatefully at a downed body.

  “Everybody, back away, now,” Jeremy hollered at the group with great force in his voice. While he may not have been a physically imposing man, he had a voice that commanded attention. The group of people immediately stopped what they were doing and backed away from him. The victim remained on the floor, huddled and whimpering: a blonde woman, a girl really.

  “She has it,” said a woman in a grey power suit. Her face dripping with anger. “The bitch has it and tried to hide it.”

  Jeremy looked down at the girl shaking on the floor and saw no signs of The Peeling. He looked up at the power-suit woman who had spoken. “What?”

  “It’s true,” said a tall, Black man standing next to her. “She’s been sneezing non-stop for the last hour.”

  Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Sneezing? A young girl sneezes and you all think you have the right to attack her? A big strong man like you?”

  “She deserves it. We could all be infected because of her. I have a family.”

  “Then you should be with them, instead of here acting like a thug. Now help her up off the floor.”

  The man shook his head. “You pick her up. I’m not touching her.”

  Jeremy took a step forwards and stared the man hard in the face. “You just did touch her, with your fists. Help her up now. I won’t ask you again.”

  The taller, larger man just laughed at Jeremy, then shoved out with both arms. Jeremy acted quickly, grabbing one of the man’s thick wrists and pulling him forwards, off balance. Then he kicked out and took the man’s legs from under him, sending him to the floor with a thump. Jeremy was just about to follow him down to deliver a knockout punch when Sarah called out to him.

  “Jeremy, don’t! I’ll help the girl up and we’ll take her somewhere to lie down.”

  Jeremy looked up at the young news anchor, confused. “Sarah, you have the news to be getting on with.”

  “We’re on a break, and Tom can handle it for ten minutes.” She glared at the nearby crowd and shook her. “You people should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  Sarah went over to the fallen girl and knelt down beside her. Jeremy knelt the other side and together they gathered the woozy young woman to her feet and walked her away from the baying crowd. There were a whole host of angry mutterings that followed after them, but no one had the guts to act out after what had happened to their ring leader.

  Jeremy and Sarah took the girl out into the corridor, soothing her all the way.

  “We can take her to my dressing room,” Sarah said.

  Jeremy nodded. It was a kind offer, and that was why he had always liked Sarah. She was as friendly as anybody else, despite being a national sex symbol. Her ego had every right to be much larger than it was, but she was surprisingly down to earth.

  They half-carried, half-dragged, the girl into the dressing room and set her down on a plush sofa filling one side. She was weak and upset, but seemed coherent.

  “Are you okay?” Jeremy asked her.

  Her eyes had filled with tears, but she nodded. “I don’t think they would have stopped.”

  “Animals,” Sarah said. “They should be arrested.”

  The girl waved her hand. “It’s okay. I’m just going to go home and forget about it. Can I just rest here for a while first?”

  “Of course you can, sweetheart. Take as long as you need.”

  “Is it true what they said,” Jeremy asked the girl. “Do you have it?”

  “I…don’t know. I have the sniffles, but I’ve been sneezing for a few days now and nothing else has happened.”

  “You just have a cold,” said Sarah. “If you’ve been sneezing that long and haven’t come down with other symptoms then you’re probably fine.”

  Jeremy nodded and let out sigh. Despite millions of people being sick, it was still a relief to know that this one young girl was going to be okay – for now.

  The girl laughed pitifully. “I think people forget that The Peeling didn’t make all of the other, regular illnesses go away. Not every sneeze means you have the plague.”

  “Exactly,” Sarah said. “Now you just relax here until you feel better. There’s water in the fridge and some cookies. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you, Miss Lane. You’re really kind – kinder than I would have expected you to be.”

  “Yeah,” Jeremy agreed. “A big celebrity like you, mixing with the common people like us.”

  Sarah bopped him on the arm playfully. “Don’t be silly. I’m C-List at best. Anyway, I have a feeling that the world will have little need for celebrities soon.”

  “You shouldn’t think the worst. The world will get through this, one way or another. Not everyone is getting sick.” As Jeremy said it he didn’t believe it, but it felt like the correct thing to say.

  Sarah took Jeremy by the arm and led him back out into the corridor. It seemed like she wanted to tell him something, something that couldn’t be anything good.

  “Is everything alright?” Jeremy asked her, noticing the tears that were brimming in her eyes.

  “No, it’s not alright. Things are definitely not alright, Jeremy. You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Wh
at do you mean?”

  Sarah leant back against the wall of the corridor and for a moment it looked like she might collapse completely. “I have the producers in my ear, nonstop, telling me facts, figures, things to say – and what not to say. We’re not telling the public anything close to the truth.”

  “They know the truth. It’s right in front of their faces.”

  Sarah shook her head. “They’re all locked up inside while police and military patrol the roads. All they see is what’s out their windows.”

  Jeremy wasn’t following. “So what is the truth?”

  “That there’s thirty-million dead in the UK, not four-million. The worldwide estimates are over half a billion. The USA and most of Europe have been decimated three-times over.”

  Jeremy’s stomach swelled against his ribcage. Vomit rose in his throat. “You’re telling me that half of the UK is infected, in less than a week?”

  “The NHS has estimated that the virus affects one-in-two people. Everyone has a fifty-fifty chance. They’ve also put the chance of death at 100%. Anyone who catches The Peeling will die. No exceptions.”

  “But you haven’t been telling people that. You’ve been reporting the numbers of infections, but you haven’t said people are dying. You’ve even implied that there’s a chance of recovery.”

  “I don’t make the decisions about what to report, Jeremy. The Peeling doesn’t kill people instantly. They suffer for days. The death toll has only just begun, as the first people to catch it have had it for almost a week now. We didn’t know the virus would kill in all cases, at first, but with the data coming through today, it’s clear that no one is surviving it. The Government are trying to make the decision on whether to go public with the information or not.”

  “The Government? What right do they have to dictate to the news outlets?”

  “They can control information in a national crisis. They always have.”

  Jeremy stood wearily in the corridor, shocked and sickened. He had known The Peeling was a plague beyond anything ever witnessed, but he hadn’t thought it powerful enough to wipe out half of the world – 50/50. There would be no containing it now, no cure – just unimaginable death and suffering that would linger in the consciousness of mankind for centuries.

  He looked at Sarah and could not imagine the burden she was forced to carry – to have such information, but unable to share it.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked her.

  “I’m going to finish up tonight and then go home. I’m finished after tonight.”

  “You’re quitting?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What then?”

  Sarah took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her slender nose. She stared at Jeremy for a moment, then put her left hand to her right sleeve. She rolled up her cuff and exposed her wrist.”

  Jeremy shook his head in disgust. “No. You can’t have it…”

  The wound on her arm was puckered and wet, the skin gone and exposing the flesh of her muscle beneath. A tangy odour filled the room like spoiled bananas.

  “I’ve been hiding a cold the last couple days, but I didn’t know I had it for sure until this morning. Noticed it in the shower. It’s already spread twice as much since then.”

  Jeremy rubbed both hands down his face and imagined his cheeks peeling off beneath his fingernails. He was one of the lucky ones so far; the right side of 50/50. “You’re sure there’re absolutely no survivors?” he asked. “There’s nothing the NHS can do?”

  Sarah shook her head, seemed resigned to her fate. Maybe she felt luckier to be one of the infected than one of the healthy – at least for the infected the nightmare had an end in sight.

  “I’m already dead,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m infectious, but I don’t want to take the risk anymore. I’m going home tonight and staying there. It’s where I’d rather be. I need to feed my cat.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jeremy said and truly meant it. “I wish there was something I could do or say.”

  Sarah rolled her sleeve back down, covering her wound. “I’m just glad you don’t have it as well. As long as some of us get through, then I guess things aren’t completely doomed.”

  “My wife has it. She came down with it three days ago now.”

  Sarah put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Then you should go home and take care of her.”

  Jeremy glanced at his watch. “My shift isn’t-”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t think anything matters anymore. This is just the calm before the storm. Things are about to fall to pieces and the only thing we can do is look after the people we love. Go home, Jeremy. Look after your wife.”

  Jeremy watched Sarah return to the studio and knew that it would be the last time he ever saw her in person again. He hoped her passing would be peaceful, but that was a luxury The Peeling gave to no one. She would feel pain beyond anything she had previously imagined, and then she’d die – adding to the statistics that she’d been reporting for the last week.

  It was time to go home. Sarah had been right about nothing mattering anymore. If those people in the studio wanted to start fights then let them. Jeremy wasn’t about to waste another minute watching over a bunch of unruly strangers turn on each other.

  The news studio was on the second floor so he had to take the stairs downwards to reach the building’s exit. The reception area was empty, its staff all sick and dying at home. Jeremy knew most of them, but not well enough to grieve for them. He headed for the heavy glass doors that led outside to the parking lot.

  Outside were several vehicles, belonging to the people inside. Sarah’s Jeep Cherokee was parked next to Tom’s more audacious Jaguar XK; beyond them both was Jeremy’s Ford Focus. He took out his keys as he headed over to it, pressing the fob to unlock it. The lights flashed twice and the doors unlocked. He opened the driver’s side door and slid in behind the wheel.

  Turning the ignition, Jeremy started the engine. The needle on the fuel gauge headed towards empty and stopped a little ways off. He laughed. Some things would never change, no matter what happened to the world; cars would always run out of fuel, and fuel would always cost a bomb – especially now that the military had commandeered it all.

  The military were everywhere, as were the police. It was to be expected, Jeremy supposed, but it was still disconcerting to watch olive green, 3-tonne trucks patrolling every main road. With the UK’s history of riots, the Government was taking no chances. There was even a sentry posted at the news station’s car park, controlling the bright-red automatic barrier instead of the usual civilians that had done so before. Jeremy pulled the car into gear and drove towards that barrier now. The armed soldier stepped up to meet his car as it approached and Jeremy lowered the electric window and leant out with his security ID. It wasn’t his usual station ID, but a new state-issued ID that allowed him to leave his home and travel to work. They called it a Vital Services Identity Card – pronounced V-SIC. It was a privilege to have one in many ways, but a burden too. Being outside was a constant danger for many reasons – number one being exposure to The Peeling. Still, if Jeremy was going to come down with the sickness, he surely would have caught it by now.

  “Everything okay in there?” the soldier asked him, motioning to the news studio with his head.

  “There was a bit of trouble earlier. People are getting scared. Might be a good idea to post a man inside.”

  “No can do,” said the soldier. “Orders are to remain outside at all times, unless absolutely necessary.”

  Jeremy understood and nodded. “Can’t have people thinking that the military are controlling the press.” Even though they are, he thought secretly.

  The soldier gave no reaction, his expression implacable. “Drive safely, sir. Go straight home.”

  Jeremy nodded and crept the car forwards as the metal barrier rose in front of him. Once past it, he pulled into third-gear and increased his speed. It was easy to drive fast because the roa
ds were all empty. Travel had been restricted to prevent the spread of infection and only certain vehicles were allowed on the road. Jeremy’s Ford Focus qualified and had a luminous green circle on both the front and back. It told any passing military that he was allowed to be out – for the most part they left him alone. In fact, a convoy of trucks was heading toward him right now and seemed unconcerned by his presence on the highway. The driver of the lead truck nodded to him as it passed, and it was only a few moments before Jeremy was the only car on the road again, driving along the withered husk of the nation’s once-heaving infrastructure.

  He lived almost forty-miles away from the news station, but with the roads wide open, he would get there in thirty minutes. He turned on the radio but quickly switched to CD mode. The last thing he wanted was more news – or uninformed hypotheses masquerading as news, more accurately. The sound of Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear The Reaper came on from a mix-disc he’d filled full of rock songs. It seemed pretty apt for the mood he was in and he let it play to its conclusion.

  ***

  After taking the dual-carriageway most of the way home, Jeremy took a slip road into Stratford. As he crossed over the bridge into the centre of town, he could see that the police were patrolling the River Avon in modified barges. Every single day the police and military presence seemed to increase, and it now seemed that Britain’s waterways were just as restricted as its roads.

  Much of the routes through town were cordoned off and Jeremy was forced to manoeuvre his car along the riverbank, passing in front of the Globe theatre. The historic, thatched-roof building lay abandoned and mournful now, its function to entertain no longer required. Jeremy suddenly regretted never having been inside before to experience the lively works of Shakespeare. There would probably be a lot of things he’d never experience now.