The Last Plague

by Rich Hawkins

Frank made sure the main doors were shut tight. There was nothing to push against them. He wondered if they had the wit to open doors.

  Candles had been lit. Someone was in here, or had been recently. Frank put the girl down. She looked at the stone floor.

  “Stay close,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you.”

  The girl said nothing. Barely a nod of her head.

  With the girl following him, Frank walked slowly up the aisle. Absurdly, he thought of his wedding day, years ago. He looked around. Stained glass and saints. Tall stone columns scarred by age. Wooden beams and arches built by men long-dead and buried. The floor radiated a dry cold. Rows of pews. Stained and worn wood, dissected by a long, carpeted aisle leading towards the altar. The air was cold, fetid and old. Dry. Thick enough to snatch handfuls. Their footsteps echoed around the empty spaces. The candles threw shadows like slick-limbed spirits. Frank’s heart jumped at every small sound and whisper of breeze. Inside, he was a riot of fear, nerves and horror.

  Churches made Frank nervous. Even on his wedding day he’d been worried about setting foot inside one. All that piousness and judgement. He’d never found a reason to believe in God…or any other god. He needed evidence to believe in something. Due to his father’s gentle encouragement, he stopped believing in Santa Claus and The Tooth Fairy when he was barely seven years old. Father had been a taciturn, honest man and he taught Frank to be pragmatic and sensible in life; that problems could be solved with common sense and simple solutions. His father said once that “dreamers never get anywhere. That’s why so many writers and artists kill themselves”.

  Frank was his father’s son.

  The nave was empty. About halfway up the aisle, Frank stopped. The girl stopped beside him. His skin prickled. The sound of creaking wood and shifting stone. He imagined the church as a living organism born from deep within the earth; groomed, sculpted and adorned by men.

  Frank sat the girl down on a pew. She was malleable and compliant. Understanding in her hooded, green eyes. He bent down to her eye level. Her face was pale and dirty.

  “I’m going to take a look around,” Frank said, keeping his voice low, keeping the fear out of it. “I’ll see if anyone’s around. Are you okay to wait here? Don’t worry, I won’t go too far.”

  She stared into his face. The corners of her mouth moved, like she wanted to talk.

  “Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.” He offered her a tired smile. She looked down at the floor between her dangling legs. She remained there like someone’s lost doll. Frank went to touch her on the shoulder but withdrew his hand at the last moment. He felt bad for leaving her.

  Again, he gave her that same feeble half-smile; he wished he’d stop doing that. He felt foolish. What good would a smile do when her parents were dead?

  “My name’s Frank,” he said, placing his hand on his chest.

  She glanced slowly up at him. Blinked. Looked down again.

  Frank searched the other pews. Nobody was hiding in the pulpit or the lectern. The rest of the nave was deserted. Effigies of the Virgin Mary, and St. George fighting the dragon. Cold blank stares from carved faces. He checked the chancel and around the altar. A monolithic organ melded to the wall. He stood before the linen-covered altar, intimidated by the grandeur of the holy paraphernalia: the alter crucifix; the tabernacle; the chalice used for communion; the rows of candles. He felt the weight of history and age inside this place. It was stifling and claustrophobic. There were two doors flanking the chancel.

  His footsteps echoed and bounced off the stone walls, making it sound like he was being followed.

  Everything was cold.

  He kept looking back to make sure the girl was still where he had left her. She was still gazing at the floor.

  He checked the north and south transepts flanking the chancel. In a dark corner where the east and north walls met, Frank found a fungal-like growth that stretched from the floor to about five feet high. Pulpy and ripe-smelling. He didn’t touch it. It was the colour of algae and stank like pond water.

  Frank returned to the girl. She was lying on the pew, eyes shut. A prayer cushion under her head.

  He took off his jacket and placed it over her.

  Silence, apart from an occasional distant sound from outside. A scream or a cry penetrating the thick walls.

  He wondered who had lit the candles and who had rang the bell earlier. Maybe whoever had done so had already moved on. Maybe they were dead. Maybe they were beyond one of the doors he had declined to investigate. It wasn’t important right now. All that mattered, for now, was that they had shelter for the night.

  After blocking the main door with a bookcase full of hymn books, he took out his mobile. No signal. He sat down in the pew one up from the girl. She was wearing blue jeans with patterns of flowers and a white jumper under her pink jacket. White trainers. A green butterfly hair clip amongst her red hair. She reminded him so much of his daughter, and the mere thought of it almost brought him to tears.

  He would keep the girl safe. He would watch over the girl all night. He would protect her. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

  “I’ll look after you,” he whispered.

  In the morning he would decide what to do next.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Frank awoke to weak light washing into the church. He checked his watch. Almost six in the morning. He yawned, rubbed his eyes. Groaned sour breath from between furred teeth. Because he had slept sitting upright his spine felt like a rod of hot metal.

  The girl was gone.

  He got up, straightened himself out, and looked around. Maybe she was hiding.

  “Little girl,” he said.

  No reply. His jacket was on the floor. He picked it up and put it back on.

  She wouldn’t be stupid enough to go outside, would she?

  He searched the inside of the church. The main doors were shut. Sudden guilt stabbed him. Panic stirred his guts. He had promised to take care of her. Then he remembered the two doors in the chancel. Frank opened the door to the right and walked into a plainly-decorated, musty room. A light covering of dust on skirting boards. A broken cobweb hung from the ceiling. The room was the sacristy, if he remembered correctly. There was an old porcelain sink, cracked and stained. Vestments hung up in a wardrobe. Communion equipment. A pile of white linen.

  The girl wasn’t there.

  He took the door to the next room. He could smell alcohol.

  There was a dead man at an antique oak desk, slumped back on his chair, his face raised to the ceiling. A half-full bottle of whiskey and some empty blister packs of painkillers. An empty glass.

  Frank stepped towards the body.

  A porcine-faced priest. His dog collar was yellowed and grimy. Grey whiskers sprouted from a double-chin. Bulging stomach touching the edge of the desk. His hands were dangling by his sides. His eyes were open and dull, cloudy with dust.

  A bookshelf on the wall, lined with hardcovers. One was about campanology.

  “Bell-ringing,” Frank said. “Solves that mystery then.”

  Frank checked the priest’s pulse. Nothing. Still fairly warm. Couldn’t have been dead for long. Rigor hadn’t set in yet. Maybe he had died while Frank and the girl had been sleeping.

  “Fucking hell,” Frank muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t swear,” a quiet voice said behind him.

  Frank turned sharply. His heart leapt into his gullet.

  The girl was huddled in the corner, where the walls met the floor, her arms folded over herself and her face tilted downwards. Small eyes regarded him over thin wrists. She had been crying, judging by the red around her eyes.

  “I’ve been trying to find you,” said Frank. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure? You’re not hurt?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I was exploring. I found him.” She nodded at the priest. “Did he kill himself?�
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  “I think so.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was he sad?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How did he do it?”

  Frank looked at the desktop. “He took a lot of tablets and drank a lot of whiskey. Then he went to sleep.”

  “Will he still go to Heaven?”

  “If he believed in it, then yes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He believed in Heaven, so that’s where he’ll go.”

  “Do you believe in Heaven?”

  “Of course I do,” he lied. “I’m sure he’s in Heaven…with the angels and all that jazz.”

  “So why did the man kill himself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because of the bad people?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Was he scared of the bad people?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’m scared,” she said.

  “You don’t have to be scared,” Frank said. “Everything will be okay.”

  “My mummy and daddy are dead, aren’t they?”

  He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

  “I miss them.”

  “It’s okay to miss them. It’s okay to be sad.”

  “Do you think they’re in Heaven?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “Should I do what the priest did? If I do that, will I meet my mummy and daddy in Heaven?”

  Frank didn’t know what to say.

  “You don’t believe in Heaven, do you?”

  “I don’t know. I won’t know until I die.”

  “Would you die just to find out?”

  “No,” Frank said. “I’ve got a wife and friends. I want to see them again.”

  Her eyes drilled into his. “What if they’re dead?”

  Frank wiped sweat from his upper lip. “We should get out of here, find somewhere safe.”

  “The village is full of monsters,” the girl said.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  She looked at him, unsure. “Mummy told me I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

  “Your mum was very wise. But it’s okay, I won’t hurt you. I’ll take care of you. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  “Your name is Frank,” she said.

  “That’s right. I can’t be a stranger if you know my name, can I? You remembered.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You only told me last night.”

  Frank couldn’t help a grin. He held out his hand. “What do you say?”

  She nodded, got to her feet. She hesitated, but then approached Frank slowly. She took his hand. Her palm was warm and clammy.

  Frank smiled at her. “I’ll look after you.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her green eyes were full of sadness. “Florence.”

  “Nice to meet you, Florence. How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “A proper grown up then.”

  She ignored Frank and pointed at the priest. “Do we have to bury him? That’s what you’re supposed to do when someone dies, isn’t it?”

  “I think he’s past caring. I’ll get some linen from the next room and cover him up. At least that’s something. Do you know what happened here, Florence? In the village.”

  She stared at the floor. “It started yesterday morning, I think. I was at home with my mum and dad. We heard screaming and shouting outside. I saw Mr Stewart who lived next door. There was something wrong with him. Mr Stewart was the one who killed my dad.”

  “I’m so sorry, Florence.”

  She looked up at him.

  “I won’t let any of the bad people hurt you.”

  She nodded. There were dark patches around her eyes. A frame of red hair; stray curls of it touching her chin.

  “Do you live in the village?” she asked him.

  “My friends are in the village, hiding in a house. Waiting for me. We’re from a small village called Shepton Beauchamp. It’s in Somerset.”

  “Your friends might be dead,” Florence said.

  “They might be.”

  “I can’t go home, can I?” she said.

  “I’m afraid not, Florence. It’s too dangerous. We have to get out of the village.”

  “And go where?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When they returned to the nave, Frank glanced at the black growth in the north transept. Bits of fungal matter on the floor beneath the wall, as if it had burst at some point.

  There was a scuttling sound amongst the pews to their right.

  “What was that?” Florence’s voice was quiet and scared.

  Frank caught a glimpse of something black and small peering above the pews.

  “Let’s go,” Frank whispered. “Quietly.”

  “Maybe it’s a cat,” said Florence.

  Frank gripped her hand too tight. “Keep moving. Don’t stop.”

  It came at them like a skittering black spider, low to the floor and fast, trying to cut them off before they could reach the end of the aisle. Bristling arachnid hairs covered much of its gleaming chitin-coated abdomen. Multiple insect legs on each side of its twisted body. Too many eyes, gelatinous and dripping unknown fluids.

  Frank realised, with mounting horror, that the creature had a child’s face mounted upon its horrific body.

  “It’s a little boy,” said Florence.

  He picked up the girl and ran. The creature chased them, its busy legs tapping on the floor and its wheezing breath getting louder. Frank opened the main doors, glanced back. His legs quivered. The boy-creature bolted towards them. Its face was horrid and yawning. Its mouth was a quivering rip in flesh, sheathing an emerging nest of sucking worm-mouths and blind feelers.

  Frank shut the doors too loud. He glanced around the graveyard. Slack, feverish faces turned towards them.

  The boy-creature hit the door on the other side, scratching and scraping and searching for a way out. Frank stumbled down the pathway, avoiding the desperate lunges of bony fingers and grasping hands. A man came after them, hobbling on a bad knee. His mouth was stretched too wide and his eyes were blistered and bleeding. His hands had formed into pale hooks of bone.

  Frank shut the gates, hurried onto the street. He looked both ways, chose the way he had come last night. He set Florence down and they ran together. She was quick and he barely kept pace with her, despite his longer strides.

  There were screams behind them.

  “Don’t stop,” Frank said. “The house isn’t far away.”

  They approached the place where Florence’s parents had died. There was dried blood on the road. Her parents were gone. Florence stared at the car as they passed it. Minutes later they arrived at the house. The front door was splintered like something dense had smashed into it. Frank entered the house first. Furniture was strewn around the hallway as if his mates had barricaded the door and then had to remove it to escape the house.

  The downstairs rooms were empty. Ralph, Magnus and Joel had left behind their bags. Frank left the bags on the living room floor. They climbed the stairs. The bathroom was empty, as was what seemed to be the marital bedroom. Someone had pissed in the toilet and not bothered to flush it. In a boy’s bedroom, they found the boy dead under a duvet, and he was...different. Florence stared at the corpse until Frank guided her onto the landing.

  There was movement up in the attic. Scrambling and scratching. He knew it wasn’t his mates. He didn’t want to see what might look down at them from the open hatch, so they left quickly and didn’t look back.

  Nothing attacked them on the street. The silence was enough to bring despair. This was a dead place. Frank never wanted to return here. He glanced at Florence and wondered how she was dealing with losing her parents, her home, and her old life.

  Her old life? Her life from yesterday.

&nbs
p; How was she still functioning? Maybe it was because she was young. Or maybe it would hit her eventually. Really hit her. She had plenty of nightmares to come. Plenty of therapy.

  Were Ralph, Magnus and Joel still alive? What had happened to them? If they were dead, how would he break the news to their families?

  A hot, creeping panic tried to overcome him.

  He kept watch as they moved down the road. The sky churned with grey, promising rain. He wanted to see the sun again. He wanted to go home.

  But first he had to find help.

  “Unless we can find a car,” he said, “we’re in for a long walk.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Joel awoke and immediately regretted it when he remembered the past few hours of his life. He’d dreamt of monsters and corpses and things with gibbering mouths. He was sitting against the wall in a corner of a long, wide room, a musty blanket covering him from his neck to his knees. Plain walls of faded beige and shallow spider-web cracks. There were windows set high in one wall, letting in dull light. A large whiteboard was attached to the far wall, and tables and chairs had been stacked in corners. Posters displayed maths sums and the alphabet. There were crayon drawings of stick people and lemon-shaped suns and rabbits with large eyes and comical bucked teeth. Posters of cartoon animals with permanent grins.

  The distant tap-tap-tap of gunfire. His heart raced.

  His legs stretched out before him on a wooden floor. His entire body ached. He felt like crying. He was confused and disorientated. The strong stink of unwashed bodies filled the air; the musk of humans packed together. He trembled under the blanket. He checked his pockets and realised he had lost his wallet. It contained a photo of Anya.

  “Sleeping Beauty’s woken up,” said Ralph. He and Magnus were either side of him. “We thought we’d have to carry you around from now on.”

  “You okay, Joel?” Magnus asked, face creased with concern. He had wrapped a blanket around his body.

  Joel shivered, wrapped his arms around himself. “Where are we?”

  “We’re safe,” said Ralph. “But things are pretty fucked by the sounds of it.”

  Joel sat up straight, cleared his throat and looked around, avoiding eye contact with the room’s other occupants. Many were asleep. There seemed to be about a hundred people here. Gathered in various groups or alone. Some families. Lines of people around the walls, some staring into space or at the floor. Some were huddled with blankets over their shoulders. More people were in an adjacent classroom through an open doorway. A few were drinking from plastic cups or bottles of water. Some gnawed slowly on protein bars, chewing moronically like cows doomed for the slaughterhouse. An old woman was trying to roll a cigarette with shaking hands. A man with a severe facial tick was drinking from a bottle of cough medicine. Young and old alike here. A palpable fear lurked amongst them. A miasma of desperation, shock and disbelief. Wide-eyed denial painted upon pale traumatised faces. Sleepers having bad dreams. One man was crying into his hands and muttering a woman’s name. Another man stared at the floor, his left arm in a sling and an unlit cigarette hung from his bottom lip. He had long, black hair tied into a ponytail.