The Last Plague

by Rich Hawkins

  Frank looked from Joel to Ralph. “You didn’t order a stripper for tonight, did you?”

  Ralph gasped in mock surprise. “Sir, I am offended. Order a stripper? On Joel’s stag night? Who’d have thought of such an idea?”

  Frank folded his arms. “Did you?”

  Ralph smiled. “I didn’t order a stripper. Wish I had done, though.”

  “Good,” said Joel. “Where’s Magnus?”

  Ralph took a gulp of beer. “He’s in the living room playing on the Xbox. Poor bloke needs a break from that wife of his. She sent him a text a minute ago saying he was neglecting his marital duties.”

  Frank shook his head. “Bloody hell, that’s harsh.”

  “Is she back on medication?” Joel asked.

  “She should be.”

  “She’s always had problems, even before she married Magnus,” said Ralph. “Everyone knows she’s crazy.”

  “She’s bipolar, not crazy,” said Frank.

  “Not to mention she weighs about twenty stone.”

  Frank opened two beers, handed one to Joel.

  Ralph scratched his beard. “Did you bring any toilet roll?”

  * * *

  They downed a round of shots, grimacing as the vodka burned in their throats. Frank welcomed the buzz from the alcohol. He had sent a text to Catherine; a simple message of affection. He touched his wedding ring with his thumb; it had dulled slightly over six years.

  Being the groom, Joel would have the master bedroom with its king-sized bed; the others had to pull straws for the remaining two bedrooms.

  Ralph pulled the short straw.

  “Unlucky, mate,” said Magnus, smirking.

  “Yeah, bad luck, bud.” Frank swigged a beer.

  Ralph shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll take the sofa. Slept in worse places.”

  * * *

  They formed a circle in the living room. More shots of vodka.

  Frank raised his glass. “To Joel: may he be a brave man in the years ahead. May he have the strength to fight the good fight.”

  “May he rest in peace,” said Ralph.

  “May the Lord have mercy on his soul,” said Magnus.

  “Amen,” they said together, heads bowed.

  Then they laughed.

  They downed their shots. Joel was last to finish. He patted his chest, screwed up his face.

  Frank handed out the beers. Ralph offered cigars, and only Frank refused one, due to his asthma.

  Joel swayed on his feet as he lit his cigar. “How many years have we been friends for?”

  “Don’t get soppy, mate,” said Ralph. “You always do this when you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk,” Joel protested.

  Magnus laughed. His cigar plumed a tiny streak of smoke.

  “Let him speak,” said Frank.

  “We’ve been friends since playgroup. How old were we then? Four? Five?”

  “More or less,” said Frank.

  Joel smiled with the idiotic charm of inebriation. “And we were mates all the way through school.”

  “The Fearsome Four,” said Frank.

  “Yeah, four idiots,” said Magnus.

  Ralph studied his cigar. “We left school sixteen years ago. Fucking hell. Seems like such a long time ago. Dumb, spotty teenagers.”

  “But look at us now,” Joel said. “Older and a little wiser. My best man, Frank, and my two ushers. We’ve got responsibilities…”

  “Apart from Ralph,” said Frank.

  Ralph glowered. “I’ve got responsibilities.”

  “You live with your parents,” said Magnus.

  “It’s cheap. Mum does my laundry. Fuck off.”

  “Like I was saying,” said Joel. “We’ve all got responsibilities and commitments, but we’ve still remained close.”

  “Gay,” said Ralph, shaking his head.

  “Fair point,” said Frank.

  Magnus laughed.

  Joel raised his bottle. “Cheers, lads.”

  “Cheers.”

  They drank.

  Frank looked down the neck of his beer bottle. “Where did the time go?”

  “Not down there,” Magnus said.

  “Tell me about it,” said Ralph. He looked at the floor. “You remember when we used to go out clubbing every weekend? I miss those days. I miss the nights when we would go out and anything was possible.”

  “Great nights,” Frank said.

  “They certainly were,” said Magnus.

  Joel finished his beer. “When you reach a certain age, clubbing loses its appeal. Seems a little desperate somehow. That’s why I wanted to spend the weekend here. I didn’t want to go to a nightclub or a big city. I know it’s a bit crap, but I wanted to be here with my real, oldest friends.”

  “Joel’s going gay again,” muttered Ralph. “He’ll be wearing a gimp suit and stilettos any minute now.”

  “We’re certainly getting old,” Frank said. “I’ve started to wear cardigans at home. I’m growing man-boobs.”

  “How do you think I feel then?” said Ralph, patting his stomach.

  “That’s because you eat too much, not old age,” said Magnus, adjusting his glasses. “Anyway, you think you’re got it bad? My pubes are going grey.”

  “And you’ve got the muscle tone of a crack addict,” said Ralph.

  Joel laughed.

  “That is bad,” said Frank.

  “Better wiry than curvy,” Magnus said.

  Ralph shrugged, downed his beer until it was empty. “Fuck it. Put on the DVD. I want to drink until my eyes fall out.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hours passed in a haze of alcoholic fog. They watched Star Wars IV: A New Hope, laughing at Joel’s attempts to critique every iconic scene. He was a big Harrison Ford fan, and Han Solo was his favourite character.

  Ralph kept calling him ‘Hand Solo’ and making a masturbation gesture with one hand.

  Magnus said he preferred the Ewoks. Joel argued with Ralph when Ralph said horror was a superior genre to science fiction. Magnus performed his party trick of balancing a pen on his nose while Ralph poured beer down his throat. He managed to keep it balanced until Ralph swapped the beer for whiskey.

  They played Guitar Hero on the Xbox. Magnus was surprisingly good, hitting each note perfectly, despite being steaming drunk.

  Frank downed enough shots to numb his extremities. He laughed when Joel began slurring his words. He laughed when Ralph tried to light his own farts and only succeeded in burning his arse. He laughed for no reason.

  Then there was a knock at the door.

  Joel froze with a bottle at his mouth. “Who’s that?”

  “What’s the time?” said Ralph, scratching his head.

  Frank checked his watch. “Almost midnight.”

  Magnus burped, gagged a little. His eyes were watery.

  “We expecting any visitors?” said Joel. The last word came out as ‘vishitors’.

  Ralph looked at Magnus. They both grinned. Ralph turned to Frank and winked.

  Frank stifled a laugh.

  Joel looked puzzled. Glazed eyes.

  “I’ll see who it is,” said Ralph. He struggled to rise from the sofa. He stumbled into the hallway, giggling like a schoolboy high on sugar. His shoulder grazed the wall, knocking askew a framed painting of a riverside cottage.

  Magnus looked at Joel. “I’m sorry, mate. It was Ralph’s idea.”

  Joel’s face went slack. “What was…?”

  Frank heard the front door open. Voices. Ralph laughed. The front door slammed.

  Ralph appeared, trying to keep a straight face as he swigged from his beer. He carried a wooden kitchen chair in his other hand.

  “What’s the chair for?” said Joel.

  “What do you think?”

  “Did you…?” Frank asked.

  Ralph nodded. “I certainly did, boss.” He moved some empty bottles out of the way and placed the chair in the centre of the room.

  Joel looked at th
e chair, puzzled.

  A female police officer entered the room, followed by a tall, wide-shouldered man wearing a leather jacket, with a greasy side-parting and a neck like a shaven bear. The man nodded a curt greeting and stood in the corner of the room, arms folded.

  “Oh shit,” said Joel. His voice was uneven and boyish.

  The woman looked to be in her late forties, dyed blonde hair and too much make-up. Eyeliner coated on like paint and blood-red lipstick. Her breasts were almost bursting through her uniform. Crow’s feet and poor skin under fake tan. One eye was bloodshot.

  A short leather skirt barely covered her arse. She was carrying a small black bag and an Alba CD player.

  Ralph started laughing.

  “Is there a Mr. Joel Gosling here?” the woman said.

  Joel raised his hand cautiously. “That’s, uh, me…”

  Frank sat next to Magnus on the sofa.

  “I’m afraid you’re under arrest, Mr. Gosling,” she said.

  “Read him his rights!” said Ralph. He finished his beer and grabbed another one.

  “You’re not a real police officer, are you?” Joel asked the woman.

  In the corner her minder smirked and shook his head.

  “Luckily for you, I’m not, my dear,” she said. “But I’ve heard you’ve been a very bad boy.”

  On the sofa, Frank, Ralph and Magnus struggled to stop from breaking into fits of laughter.

  Joel swallowed. “You’re a stripper, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll let you decide that, my dear. Now come sit down on this chair and we’ll get on with your interrogation.”

  “Brilliant,” said Ralph. He turned to Frank. “You owe me fifty quid for the stripper, okay?”

  “Fifty quid? Bloody hell, Ralph.”

  “She was the cheapest one I could get on such short notice.”

  “Yeah, looks like it.”

  “Pay me tomorrow, mate.”

  Joel sat down on the chair, guided by the stripper. She smiled at him. He tried to return the smile, but it came out as an awkward grimace.

  “My fiancée’s gonna kill me if she finds out.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” the stripper said. She undid her uniform and took off her skirt. Leathery breasts and a pot belly. Sagging buttocks the same colour as a creosoted fence. The back of her thong vanished into darkness. She placed the CD player on the floor then reached into her bag and produced a bottle of squirty cream.

  Joel went pale.

  The stripper pressed a button on the CD player. Britney Spears began to sing ‘I’m a Slave 4 U’. The stripper wiggled her arse and giggled.

  “She’s got cellulite,” Ralph whispered as he took out his camera-phone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two hours later the stripper was gone, and Joel was unconscious, a bottle of beer in his hand and whipped cream smeared around his mouth. Frank dozed on the sofa. Ralph was on the floor, snoring loudly, his stomach gurgling.

  “Lightweights,” said Magnus. He smiled and swayed. A warm numbness filled his body. He ate the last slice of pizza and licked grease from his fingers.

  The house was silent apart from the creak and groan of its wooden joints and brick walls, reshaping itself in the night.

  Magnus walked outside. The breeze stirred the grass. The Corsa was a squat shadow. He liked the darkness. It was peaceful and there were so few moments of peace these days. He filled his lungs with the night air.

  The moon was blanketed by clouds. Abyssal darkness surrounded the house, like the voids between galaxies. No lights from towns or villages. This was how the land would have been before the rise of man.

  The gaps in the cloud cover were filled with stars. Constellations aflame. Distant suns. Ancient suns. Dying suns. Some had been dead for millennia. Beautiful.

  He had read about solar flares; about what would happen if one reached out and enveloped the earth. A temperature of twenty million degrees kelvin would turn the oceans to steam and drown the world in fire. Suck the oxygen from the air. Turn every organism to ash. Cities would be destroyed by immense walls of flame and the planet would be left as a burnt piece of dead rock floating in space.

  He felt small and unworthy like bacteria.

  His hands shook as he took out a packet of cigarettes. He was supposed to have quit the habit. He lit one, took a long drag on it. The smoke was chemical bliss inside him; made his pulse quicken, made his bones feel like feathers.

  He checked his mobile. Three missed calls from Debbie. Another text message. He read it, shaking his head.

  He was sick of her. He was sick of taking care of her and the boys. She had burdened him for five years, with her illness, her complexes and her paranoia. She had drained him of his strength and his will. They hadn’t had sex in over a year and the last time they had he had struggled to hide his disgust at her obese, sweaty, stinking body. Sores on the inside of her thighs where the skin had rubbed together and chafed. Hairy legs. Pubic hair spilling from her underwear like a gathering of spider legs. Skin the colour of the filling in a sausage roll. She often forgot to take her medication, causing mood swings and temper tantrums.

  Magnus toked on the cigarette, looked at the stars, wished they could take him away.

  Sometimes, lying in bed as she grunted and snored next to him, he fantasised about burying her in a custom-made coffin and crying crocodile tears at her graveside. He often thought of caving in her face with a hammer and laughing in relief as he did so. He thought of murder. Then he would be free.

  But he couldn’t kill Debbie. He was a coward. He’d never even been in a fight. And he still loved her. That was the worst part about it. He couldn’t help himself. He had known about her problems when they first met. There had been an attraction on a fundamental level. She had been slim, but curvy in the right places. The sex had been fantastic; the way she would lower herself onto him, grind upon him, press her skin against his. It had been primal, manic fucking. She used to bite him, make him bleed sometimes. He had loved that.

  But as the years passed, and they got married, her condition worsened. She changed into nothing more than a mound of useless meat.

  But he still loved her.

  He finished the cigarette, dropped it, put it out with his foot. He spat.

  The clouds lifted, revealing the scarred moon in its cradle. Silver light fell over the countryside. A patchwork quilt of fields.

  Thunder roared above, and Magnus jumped. He watched the moon vanish. The stars were gone and the clouds were moving and broiling like an ocean in heavy weather. Thunder boomed again. There was a great pressure upon him, trying to push him into the earth and pressing down on him.

  Something was in the sky above him, directly overhead. Something huge and silent. He sensed rather than saw it.

  His nose began to bleed.

  Magnus fell down, sprawled on the ground. His bowels felt like a sack of hot soup.

  The thunder sounded like the giant bones of skeletal gods grinding together.

  Magnus curled into a ball. He began to cry. A childhood terror gripped him. The fear of monsters and being lost in the darkness.

  He whimpered. The ground was cold, sucking at his warmth.

  The world faded away.

  * * *

  Ralph awoke, ran his tongue over furred teeth. A shard of pepperoni was stuck between two molars. He gave up trying to loosen it with his tongue. He burped and it tasted of stomach fluids. He was shivering.

  He sat up, hands over his face, groaning. The world tilted to one side.

  Looking through the window, he saw the sky brightening. The wall clock ticked like a pulse. Just past four-thirty. The room was strewn with the wreckage of the night. The smell of stale beer. He wiped his mouth.

  Someone had eaten the last of the pizza. Ralph growled. Cold air nipped at his bare arms.

  Frank and Joel were asleep. He remembered the stripper through a haze of booze, and laughed.

  Magnus was gone.

  Ralph stoo
d, put his hand on the sofa to stay upright. His bladder was swollen. His stomach gurgled and turned. He burped again. His heart was a heavy weight within his chest, swimming in acid.

  The front door was open. Birdsong. He stumbled to the doorway.

  “Magnus?”

  No answer.

  Thunder boomed far away. Dark clouds to the east.

  Magnus was lying on the dewy grass, curled up, his arms wrapped around his chest. His clothes were damp. His glasses were askew. A crust of dried blood between his nose and top lip.

  Ralph crouched and shook him by the shoulders. “Magnus, wake up. What you doing out here?”

  Magnus opened his eyes, confused and groggy. The bones in his neck clicked when he turned towards Ralph.

  “I had a nightmare,” he said, his voice small.

  Ralph lifted Magnus’s left eyelid. He examined the eye for signs of something more exotic than beer and vodka. “Have you been smoking those Jamaican woodbines again?”

  “I gave up weed a long time ago, Ralph.”

  “Let’s get you inside.”

  “I don’t think it was a nightmare.” Magnus wiped dew from his face. He looked up at Ralph, his eyes regaining some focus. He blinked. Drool glistened on his mouth.

  Ralph helped him to his feet.

  Magnus watched the sky as they went inside.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Later that morning, Frank popped two aspirin into his mouth and washed them down with water. He was sitting next to Ralph on the sofa. Magnus was at the kitchen table, head bowed, drinking coffee and eating toast.

  “I feel like shit,” said Ralph, massaging his temples with his fingers.

  “Join the club,” Frank said. “I need to brush my teeth.”

  The toilet flushed from the other side of the cottage. Joel entered the living room, wearing a baggy t-shirt and boxer shorts. Homer Simpson slippers. His hair was stuck up in ragged tufts. He held his stomach. His face was pale. Watery, puffy eyes. His skinny legs were hairless.

  Ralph grinned. “You look very sharp this morning.”