The Words of Their Roaring

by Matthew Smith

  Gabe was pushed forward, closer to the two-way mirror, and Andrei, Harry and the rest followed. For a moment, there was just blackness on the other side of the screen, and they simply gazed at their own reflections; then Andrei snapped a wall switch and the fluorescents flickered into life, illuminating a room on the other side of the divide that wasn't dissimilar to the one they were in. A cold, grey concrete area, with little concession to decoration. There was furniture in this room, however - a tatty armchair stood in one corner, with a small coffee table before it, on which stood an ancient portable television, an antenna perched on top. A battered VCR sat beside the TV, a small hillock of cassettes piled upon it. Nearer the viewing window was a larger table, with a couple of wooden chairs tucked beneath it; seated motionless at one of these chairs was Andrei's intelligent zombie, its arms resting on the table surface like a mannequin that had been positioned to approximate someone waiting to be served dinner. Its eye sockets were empty, but as light flooded the room it cocked its head sideways in tiny, incremental movements. It was impossible to deny that that creature was aware that its environment had changed, and it was reacting to the shift - something Gabe had never witnessed in a Returner before.

  Physically, it had seen better days: it was in an advanced state of putrefaction, and its charcoal-black body had been reduced to little more than a deep-fried skeleton. Its hairless head appeared too big for its flimsy frame, and every time it was jerkily turned it wobbled as if not securely tethered. The shrunken sockets were pits of absolute shadow, and the lips had shrivelled away to give it a permanent rictus grin. It took Gabe a few seconds to realise that the ghoul had been dressed in a jacket - and presumably trousers too, though they were hidden by the lip of the table - which hung loosely about its emaciated torso and had become stained in God-knew-what bodily excretions. The effect was bizarre, as if someone had attempted to construct a picture of normalcy when the truth was the very far from that.

  "Christ," Gabe heard Harry mutter. "How long have you kept that thing here, Andrei?"

  "Many years," Vassily replied quietly. "Many years." He leaned forward and pushed a button on the wall next to a speakerphone. "Can you hear me? Nod if you can." His voice echoed on the other side of the screen, and the zombie's attention perked up to the sound of it; it raised its gaze to the speaker, determining where the words had come from. Then it dropped its head forward in the unmistakable approximation of a nod, and lifted its right hand in acknowledgement.

  "Jesus," Hewitt said. "Just what the fuck is that thing?"

  Vassily glared at him. "It's learning, is what it is. It's working out how to be human again. By my reckoning, it's about two-thirds of the way there."

  "Fuckin' abomination needs a slug put through its skull if it wants me to accept it."

  "That's enough," Flowers snapped, shooting the kid a warning glance. He turned back to Andrei. "You're teaching it?"

  Vassily nodded, watching the ghoul trace a pattern on the table's surface with a shredded finger. "At first, I noticed it using its memory through repetition. Y'know, remembering when to expect me when I came to visit, training itself to behave if it was to receive a reward, the same way any domesticated animal will do with its master. But there was more to it - it started to adopt human tropes, signals, mannerisms, like it was beginning to recall little flashes of what it had been pre-death. A hand on my arm in a gesture of friendship, an attempt at my name... it was as if the virus was instructing it how to be alive."

  "It was still a flesh-eater, though."

  "Yes. Still is, in fact. Can't seem to override that motor function yet, though it mainly consumes offal from the kitchens. It doesn't need it to survive, of course - stomach organs have long since atrophied anyway - but it gets restless if it doesn't feed after a while, and won't concentrate. That's what the videotapes are there for; I've been trying to develop its language and recognition skills. They're parenting guides, really, but are quite good in the circumstances. Nevertheless, it's still too dangerous not to be kept on a chain."

  "How did you come by it in the first place?" Harry asked.

  Vassily didn't reply at first. "I found him at his place of death. I've no idea why he should be so special, why the virus should be evolving so quickly and advancing his state of awareness. Maybe it's the age... maybe they're all like this and the bacteria just needs time to work on them..."

  "So are we feeding O'Connell to this fuckin' thing or what?" Hewitt enquired testily, looking at Flowers. The old man nodded gravely, and signalled to Vassily.

  The Alley boss spoke into the intercom again. "Stand away from the door. Do you understand?"

  The ghoul moaned softly, and the chair it was sitting on suddenly screeched against the stone-tiled floor as it staggered to its feet, its stick-thin arms supporting its weight against the tabletop. It straightened and stiff-leggedly swivelled and stumbled towards the rear of the room, stopping close to the TV and waiting for its next instruction. It was clear it had done this many times before, and was following a routine pattern.

  "Jesus..." Hewitt breathed again. None of them had ever seen a deadhead perform like this, responding to orders, seemingly fully cognitive of what Vassily was telling it.

  Andrei motioned to Jackson, who stepped forward and pulled down on the door's heavy locking handle. It clunked open with a finality that sent a chill travelling down Gabe's spine.

  "I never thought it would come to this, son," Flowers said regretfully. "I had high hopes for you. But you leave me no choice."

  "Harry," Gabe choked out, the spreading coldness from his belly wound worming its way across his torso and seizing his throat, leaving him unable to swallow. Every word was an effort, dredged spluttering from the depths of his chest. "Don't do this... I told them nothing, you know that..."

  "Put him in," Flowers said, and Jackson shoved open the door and pushed Gabe inside. He tumbled to his knees, putting out a hand to cushion his fall, jarring it against the cold floor, and squeezed his eyes shut momentarily at the sound of the door being slammed shut behind him.

  When he opened them, the first thing he saw were the deep red stains ingrained in the stone; wide circular splashes that had dried from scarlet to maroon. He guessed that they had been there for quite some time, and that Vassily hadn't been entirely truthful about what he'd been feeding this pet ghoul of his. He was certain that offal wouldn't leave that arterial spray.

  The deadhead itself had noticed his arrival and was shuffling towards him. Gabe scooted backwards, the small of his back hitting the wall a couple of feet later; he looked around him, trying to find something that could aid his escape, but the room was solidly built. It was square and plain, with no other exit save the thick steel door that he'd been dragged through, and that would be impenetrable from this side. He looked towards the mirrored screen and wondered how strong it was; could it withstand one of the chairs being thrown at it? Even if he succeeded in breaking through, there would be no way out, with Harry and his goons keeping guard; but perhaps he could force one of them to open fire and end Flowers' little execution a touch prematurely. He snorted a desperate laugh; when the best of his options was a quick death, he knew he'd reached the end of the road. Still, he didn't see why he should make things easy for the old man.

  The zombie staggered closer, a thin whine issuing from its ever-grinning mouth, and Gabe realised that he had to make a choice - if he went for the window, he would only have one chance and it would leave him open for the Returner to grab hold of him. If he didn't, perhaps he could concentrate on evading its clutches, or even try fending it off. But how long could he keep that up, he asked himself. He was growing faint from loss of blood, and would only be delaying the inevitable. He made his decision in a second.

  Pulling his legs under him, he pushed himself up against the wall until he was standing. He took a couple of painful breaths, keeping one eye on the advancing ghoul, then sprang forward, covering the space between the door and the table in three giant strides. H
e hooked his left hand around the chair's topmost slat, lifted it, spun and flung it with all the strength he could muster at the viewing screen. It arced in the air and hit the glass dead centre with a dull thud, bouncing back half the distance it had flown to crash to the ground.

  The window was unmarked.

  Gabe was too exhausted to react. He turned to face the deadhead that was reaching out for him. Its hands clutched at his shirt, and at such proximity he gagged from its rank smell. Its jaws opened like a creaking hinge.

  Then it stopped.

  Impossibly, its eyeless visage was regarding him, seeing him despite the lack of organs. Its skeletal hands brushed over his features, as if it was reading him through touch, and something was igniting a flame of recognition within its dormant memory. Then it began to whine again, louder this time, growing in power, becoming a cry. At first it was just noise, a banshee wail; but it soon coalesced into a word that Gabe had to struggle to believe he was hearing.

  "Fllooooowwwwaarrrrzzzzzz..."

  It knew him. The creature knew and remembered him, through association with Harry. How he had no idea, or indeed what enabled this zombie to possess the powers of cognition. But something had sparked it off, and it stood there roaring the name of his former boss in his face.

  The deadhead momentarily transfixed, Gabe seized the advantage and delved into his boot retrieving the syringe. Flicking off the plastic cap, he held it like a dagger in his right hand and stabbed it forcefully into the side of the ghoul's liquescent skull. Virtually the entire length of the hypodermic disappeared into its head, and its cry abruptly stopped, as if a switch had been thrown. He pulled it free, expecting the zombie to instantly collapse, but the thing suddenly grasped his left arm and took a bite, tearing the flesh and muscle from his bicep, blood spurting from the limb in a fountain. Gabe yelled in agony and brought the syringe down on its head repeatedly until it finally sank to the floor, and was motionless.

  Gabe fell to his knees, lengthening shadows stealing into the edges of his vision, and turned as the door was wrenched open, Vassily tearing through with Harry close behind, staring at the inert corpse lying next to him.

  "Why did he call your name?" Vassily was screaming. "Why did my father call your name?" His accent grew thicker in his anger.

  His father, Gabe considered woozily. That thing was his father? Goran Vassily, the kingpin whose demise Harry was responsible for? The club fire? Mother of Christ, it remembered him from its pre-death...

  "Andrei—" Flowers began.

  Vassily pulled an automatic from inside his jacket and pointed it at the ganglord. "What the fuck did you do to my father that he would remember your name like that?"

  "Andrei, put the damn gun down."

  "If you had something to do with his death, if that's why he said your name, I swear to fucking Christ you will not walk out of this room."

  "Andrei, don't make threats you can't back up..."

  "You think I couldn't take you down? You think I'm fucking scared of Harry Flowers?"

  Vassily's questions went unanswered, for a moment later a bullet exploded through his neck. He gurgled, clutching at his ravaged throat, then crumpled into a heap on the floor. Before anyone could react, Jackson and the rest of the Alley boss's men were rapidly mown down; it was only once the firing had stopped that it became clear that Hewitt was the shooter.

  "Better that we get our retaliation in first," he said.

  Harry nodded slowly. "Unfortunate turn of events, but nothing that can't be salvaged. Get in touch with the boys back at the mansion, tell them to get tooled up. We're taking charge of the Alley." He spotted Gabe bleeding and crossed over to him. "And you... Jesus, you're a regular troublemaker, aren't you? If you think you're getting a bullet in the head and a safe passage out of this world, think again. Welcome to purgatory, son."

  "H-Harry..." Gabe whispered.

  Flowers leaned forward. "Keep it brief."

  "Fuck you," the younger man said and plunged the syringe into the old man's calf. He bellowed in pain and staggered backwards, the hypodermic still protruding from his leg. As a couple of his men went forward to tend to him, Hewitt marched up to Gabe and pointed his gun above his heart.

  "Just fuckin' die," he snarled and pulled the trigger, darkness exploding across the thief's mind.

  PART TWO

  Swan Song

  I am the enemy you killed, my friend.

  I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned

  Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.

  I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.

  Wilfred Owen,

  Strange Meeting

  Five Years Earlier

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a city that Gabe had lived in most of his life and had a grudging respect for, but even he couldn't deny that London showed an ugly face in summer. All its sprawling, overcrowded, soot-smeared qualities seemed to swell with the heat. Where what was once bearable in the sharp weeks of winter - its inhabitants barricaded against the bitter wind and driving sleet by thick coats and scarves as they walked its streets - became a claustrophobic, stinking concrete furnace as soon as the sun began to beat down on the baking tarmac. Perhaps it was because its citizens relaxed a touch and loosened their protective clothing, showed a little of themselves to the unforgiving metropolis. For London, it was the merciless season; everything became exacerbated - strained relationships, the stink of pollution, the heaving pavements choked with visitors and workers alike - as if a noose was being drawn tight around its walls for three sweaty months before it slackened off and the city settled back into a more natural rhythm of life once again.

  It could be seen everywhere, Gabe thought, as he pedalled down Buckingham Palace Road towards Victoria Station, from the architecture to the citizens sweltering within. It could be witnessed in the firework explosions of red and orange light as a dying sun reflected off the office buildings' glass surfaces, and in the distant edifice of Canary Wharf's pyramidal tower steaming into an azure sky. It could be discerned in the blossoming patches of perspiration on the back of businessmen's shirts, and in their red-faced, squinting demeanour as they hurried to catch their cramped trains, unyielding leather shoes tramping hard down on scorched flagstones, jackets tucked over arms, ties unravelled, collars unbuttoned, air scratchy at the back of their throats. It could be felt as the grime slicked on bare arms and faces - a combination of dirt, moisture and insect residue - to the point where one had to scrub the taint of London off once one escaped its environs. It could be heard in the constant snarl of traffic and the strident accompanying blare of anger as tempers flared, drivers boiling inside their automobiles; and it could be smelled in the sickly patchwork of odours that rose from the depths of the city, of unwashed bodies crushed together, of what was once fresh growing sour in the heat of day. If the metropolis was an organism, then in summer it was an exhausted beast, irritable and grubby, floundering as it cooked in its own juices.

  Gabe knew what it was like to be stifled in one of those office complexes, a paltry portable electric fan perched atop a nearby filing cabinet cooling the film of sweat on his skin, doing nothing to ease the pressure that would make his forehead throb. After a short stint in the army (whose strict embrace he'd been forced into after his raucous teenage years hotwiring cars) he'd jobbed for a lengthy period at a small local newspaper, chasing advertising and compiling the copy for the listings section - tedious, unsatisfactory work, in which he spent much of his day yearning to just up and walk out the door, never to return - and he could still remember the discomfort of stagnant afternoons, sheaves of paper gluing themselves to his damp hands and fatigue weighing down on him like a lead weight. His colleagues were mostly middle-aged hacks, filling time before their inevitable early retirement, regaling him with tales of when they had a career on Fleet Street, of tyrannical editors and marathon drinking sessions, a hint of self-pity that they were reduced to filing stories on OAP charity walkathons.

 
Gabe had usually found them likeable coves, but the heat didn't agree with them; they stewed and flustered, muttering to themselves, and contributed to the musty atmosphere in which the air felt like it had been trapped in a tomb. He longed to open a window, but the old soaks complained of the traffic noise and fumes emanating from Pentonville Road below. The building in which they worked had stood there since the 1950s, a stone's throw from King's Cross, and little had been done to modernise the place in the intervening decades; the walls were cracked and spattered with encroaching mould, the carpet was worn through to the floorboards, and the weak ceiling lights gave everything a dull sepia tone. Fill it with perspiring, cantankerous boozers and it was wont to turn a little ripe.

  He knew he had to get out before he became preserved in the others' ale breath and cigarette ash; he would be discovered decades later petrified, chipped free and put on display. He was never returning to military life, that much was certain; although his superiors had cast a blind eye to his petty criminal past, one tour of Afghanistan was enough. He had supposed he ought to seek out an opportunity at a more modern place of work - one with air-con and bright, open spaces - but for some reason he couldn't summon the enthusiasm. He'd seen such offices on his travels to and from home - the smokers clustered outside in the street, huddled together like the remnants of a species slowly facing extinction, the reception areas with the elongated sofas and modern art - and their sterility repelled him. It worried him that maybe his extended proximity to the journalistic lags he kept company with had somehow inured him to such luxuries as a workstation that wasn't fragranced like an ashtray or fixtures and fittings that hadn't been beset by damp; but every time he stepped inside one of those silver skyscrapers, he found them soul-destroying and lacking personality. He didn't know when this transformation had taken place, but it was apparent that he'd been mentally conditioned to be incapable of working in such surroundings without wishing to start scrawling across the tasteful abstracts that adorned the walls. He tried to beat this programming to the best of his ability, diligently attending job interviews with the necessary can-do attitude. The people he spoke to, however, he found were either smug and impolite suits, or braying Sloane Square refugees that raised his hackles with each strangulated vowel. Gabe would walk out of the revolving glass doors firm in the belief that he belonged to a different tribe to these cretins; and indeed he had to wonder if there was life beyond the nicotine-stained domain of the newspaper.