by Stuart Keane
"It doesn’t bear thinking about."
Luke nodded. Said nothing.
Nicky looped her arms around his shoulders and embraced her brother in a moment of intimate solitude, suddenly thankful for his comforting presence. She considered the events of the traumatic day so far, the news of the violent attacks, the revelation of Oedema, the gradual downfall of society as she knew it, all of which was occurring from the protective sanctuary and safety of her home.
She envisioned another scenario, imagined being at work when the attacks came.
Would her hospital have been targeted? Would she still be alive? And what of Oedema? Would they be in the dark about the virus? She couldn’t comprehend the discovery and onset of such a monstrous disease, and the fallout, and didn’t want to consider the ongoing consequences, the long-term outcome. Not being able to see Luke again, or Alex.
Alex.
I hope to God he's alive. I hope he's somewhere safe.
I don't want to lose either of them right now, or at all, but as Luke explained, that's beyond my control for the moment.
Take every minute as it comes, for now. Don't stress about it.
She shivered, looked at her brother, and smiled, hugging him close. "Thank you for being here. I couldn’t do this without you."
He patted her hand. "No problem."
They watched the horizon for a moment longer, sharing the tranquil silence that accompanied it, and then Nicky loosened her grip. Luke hoisted her into his arms and carried her back to the house. He navigated the garden path and walked through the open patio doors. He lowered her onto the sofa, returned to the doors, closed them, and slumped down in his armchair. He placed the Glock on the table and breathed out.
"What now?" she asked.
Luke leaned back in his chair. "Well … I could cook us something for dinner."
"I'm not really hungry … figures, I suppose. What with the day we've had. And, for just this once, it's not because of your cooking, dear brother."
"Probably a good thing. Pot Noodles and soup are out. That's your culinary expertise down the toilet."
Nicky laughed. "You cheeky bastard."
"Just think," Luke mused. "No more pasta or poached eggs. No more boiled potatoes."
"No more vegetables," Nicky added.
"Hey, maybe it's not such a bad thing?" Luke joked. His sister chuckled, weakly.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Nicky played with the TV remote, spun it around in her hands and flipped it into the air, with no desire to turn the box on. She couldn’t handle that right now. Luke remained still, his eyes transfixed on nothing in particular on the plain white ceiling. They had time to burn.
"Maybe we should eat," Luke broached again. "We might –"
A sudden crash from upstairs halted the conversation.
Luke bolted upright, landed on his feet, and immediately placed a finger to his lips. Nicky turned and watched the stairs with feverish intensity. Both were on edge. She gazed in her brother's direction, eyes wide, saw the calm look and intensity on his face, made eye contact, and quickly nodded. He ambled over to the sofa, treading silently on the carpet. He lowered himself to Nicky's position and waited a beat. He whispered, "We don't normally have noises like that."
She kept her voice low too. "No, it’s a new house. It doesn’t settle."
"You heard it too, right?" he offered. "That was more than settling."
Nicky nodded, but said nothing.
"We left the patio doors open, while we were outside. Could someone have got in?"
"Maybe, if they used the side gate. It doesn’t lock properly."
"Surely we would have seen them?" he said.
Nicky shrugged.
Luke grimaced, collected the Glock from the table, and started slowly towards the stairs. Nicky grabbed his forearm, and urged him not to. She wanted him to stay close, to protect her. The terror bristled and boiled beneath her skin, and she shivered. "Stay here. Please."
"I'm not going up there. They have to come down at some point. We'll let them come to us. I'm just taking up position over here. I got your back. Might be worth ducking down, though."
Nicky rolled over and pushed herself into the sofa, as far as her healing body would allow, lying low. She winced as her wound was crimped between her t-shirt and the fabric of the cushions. From the stairs, and in her current position, only the top of her head would be visible, and if she remained still, maybe they – whoever they were – would miss her completely, mistake her hair for a cuddly toy or part of the decor. As she carefully lowered herself into the cushions, she saw Luke standing beside the stairs, at a ninety-degree angle. Someone coming down the stairs would be in front of him, and he would be standing outside of their cone of vision.
He readied the Glock and poised, waiting.
Another crash sounded from upstairs, lighter this time. Luke examined the room before him, to see if anything was missing. He studied the layout of basic furniture, the elaborate TV centre, the expensive pictures on the wall. Nothing was out of place. He counted the valuable drinks on the table too, and realised none of them were missing, either.
What are they doing?
Are they robbing us?
If so, they're doing a lousy job.
Did they even see us?
Luke heard a chuckle from upstairs, an unmistakable feminine laugh. It was abrupt yet lingering, eerie in its fleeting resonance. The shrill sound conjured creative images of blood-soaked psychopaths and demented lunatics from the sickest of horror movies, and stuck in the brain long after it disappeared.
For Luke, though, horror movies weren't his main source of fear…
He recalled a mission from three years ago, where a woman was suspected of, and correctly identified as, shooting at his fellow troops. The woman had been nineteen and heavily pregnant, and defending her three children with an AK-47. She hadn't survived the day, opting to kill herself and her family on capture, as per her personal mantra, but as she did, she'd simply laughed in his face before wrapping her arms around her children and detonating the Semtex crudely strapped around her baby bulge. Luke and his team had been lucky to survive that horrific incident, but it left him with a permanent reminder.
That laugh.
The laugh sounded similar, too similar, to the one that emanated from upstairs. It sent a long shiver along his spine. He rubbed the perspiration from his head and tapped his temples, forcing the memory from his frazzled mind. Could he have imagined it? He glanced at Nicky, saw her wide eyes peeking out from the back of the sofa, and her startled response told the entire story.
The laugh was there, alright, and not simply a figment of his overactive imagination.
Someone was upstairs.
A woman, maybe more than one.
If his thirty years on this earth had taught him anything, the lazy seaside towns of East Sussex weren't quite the scorched plains of a war-ridden Afghanistan, but the women were just as dangerous and vindictive. The circumstances and living conditions were completely different, but all it took was the wrong day, a badly timed death in the family, or an affront to their personal being, to turn them into that woman from Afghanistan, a woman who threw her morals out of the window, opened fire on armed troops and sacrificed her entire family on a violent whim.
The wrong day.
A day like today.
Luke didn't like the unknown.
But to face the unknown, you have to prepare for anything.
And he was ready.
Luke steadied the Glock and inched forward.
He heard hurried footsteps along the upstairs hallway, growing louder, and felt his firing arm tense. The cry of the battle was upon him. The intruder sprinted along the narrow corridor and quickly started down the stairs, headed towards them. Luke saw nothing but bannister, but he could feel the frenzied thuds on the carpet, as if they were stamping on his own spine; the visceral jolts resonated through his entire being, shaking him to the trembling core like epic clap
s of thunder. He inched forward, fought the feeling with his developed training, ready to meet his unseen foe.
It's time.
Now or never.
And then, events before him slowed to an agonising crawl.
The intruder stepped into view, turned, and stared straight at Luke.
Impossible…
How did he know I was –
A thin man with a red headband strapped around his wide forehead, his dark, greasy hair limp and dripping with acrid sweat, bent at the knees and lurched towards Luke. His gaunt face was drawn into several deep creases of flesh by his wide-open mouth, which was contorted by the bellow of a screaming war cry, but Luke didn’t hear a thing. He didn’t need to, the sight was familiar and visceral, and he'd seen it a dozen times before. All he observed was slowed-down silence and pumping legs, a fraught O consisting of thin lips, a purple, probing tongue, and the darkened maw that resided beyond. Manic eyes with one thing in mind. He saw a genuine threat, a man broaching on his territory, a man who would kill him given the opportunity.
He also saw the Spas 12 shotgun in his hands, a vicious weapon with the ability to cut a human in half when aimed at this distance. Designed to breach doors and provide immense stopping power to the military and police, the spread of the fired weapon could render a man dead in seconds, spray the wall with the shredded remains of this innards, those that survived the scorching reach of the exploding blast, that is. The man was lifting the weapon, aiming it at him, his war cries a clear signal of intent.
Luke raised his Glock, the draw of the weapon now a fateful race against time.
A matter of life and death.
Nicky also saw the person thundering down the stairs. She was both shocked and amused by the red headband around his wide forehead, the sweat-drenched hair, the thin mouth stretched into a screeching O of defiance. A suburban Rambo, she thought, but a barrage of fright ripped at her insides as she first heard him scream – the banshee-like wail that almost perforated her eardrums – and then observed as he raised his weapon, a grotesque looking shotgun torn straight from the pages of a violent comic book. The intruder aimed it at her brother as he turned and sprinted in his direction, and for a moment, Nicky feared the worst.
Her flight or fight kicked in.
She ignored the burning pain in her healing side, scooted from the sofa, her safety no longer the priority, leapt to her feet, and ran towards the intruder. Luke was in the zone, raising his weapon at the oncoming threat, preparing to defend himself, in order to stay alive. Nicky hobbled across the room, held out a hand and began to scream, in an attempt to distract the armed man, but that's when she noticed a second person coming down the stairs, a smaller person this time, thin and frail, and a little shorter. The sudden revelation, and the jarring rotation of her neck to notice the emergence of the second intruder, shocked her, and knocked her completely off balance, toppling her to the ground.
Nicky slapped the rough carpet hard, her body twisted to the side, and the woman howled in pain as her stitches ripped loose. She felt a surge of white hot agony ripple up her side, imagined her bruised waist opening like torn Velcro, and felt the trickle of hot warm blood seeping onto her skin. She glanced at the foot of the stairs and hissed through her teeth, her eyes bulging in her head and her face purple with unfathomable torment, as the second person landed on the carpet beside her and aimed his weapon in her direction. The person screamed, "Pow!"
And sprayed Nicky in the face with his Super Soaker 5000.
Nicky flinched, felt the warm water dribble down her burning face and enter her mouth, before spattering the carpet. The young boy giggled at her, thrust his hands into the air, and jumped for joy, swinging the water pistol around his head. "I got her, I got her! Right in the face! That's two people today! Booyah!"
Nicky wiped her face, turned around and searched in vain for her brother.
She saw him in the corner, his Glock still aimed at the intruder with the shotgun. The young man with more bones than skin, tin-ribs, as she called them – a word she coined at work, for someone who was malnourished. His clothes hung off him in droves, three sizes too big, but this kid wasn't starving, he was just one of a thousand teenagers in the world whose body was yet to develop through puberty. She blinked away water and stared at the strange sight, one that seemed to linger for a long moment, like someone had pressed pause on their remote. Nicky realised that the kid was laughing manically, like a woman – another side effect of his pre-pubescence. The toy shotgun was aimed at Luke, and the boy's thin frame was shaking with unadulterated laughter.
A woman laughing.
That's what we heard…
They're just kids. Stupid kids.
"I think we scared them, bro…" the boy uttered, addressing the younger boy beside him.
"Yep. Just like old pervert Bob this morning. We got them proper."
"At least this guy's balls aren't hanging out," the older of the two said, stabbing the shotgun in Luke's direction. He lowered the plastic shotgun, and held it out to his side. He stared at Luke, his adolescent eyes telling the full story. "No hard feelings, man. We were just looking for some adventure, some pranks. Gotta keep the brother away from video games and the TV, am I right?"
Luke studied the intruder with wide eyes. He tilted his head, looked past him, and deliberated the boy's younger brother, who was standing over Nicky. Saw the cloudy water dripping from her pain stricken face, the fresh blood seeping through her t-shirt, the unusual calmness of her demeanour, meaning she hadn't realised the harrowing truth yet.
The boy continued, "Dude? Am I right? Kid's gotta prank, innit?"
Luke looked at the older boy, and lowered his weapon. "Right."
The boy turned to his brother. "See? Not everyone is so –"
Luke raised his Glock and fired, shooting the boy in the face.
EIGHTEEN
The splintered glass was awash with torrents of shimmering, translucent slime, a stubborn liquid that cohered to the sticky glass and sluggishly slithered to the tiled floor in profuse ectoplasmic rivulets, copious lashings that blocked any visible sight to the outside.
A patient window battered by heavy rainfall, a glass water feature in a cheap garden store, an unending, horrific waterfall straight from the depths of Hell. Hannah conjured meticulous images of all these things, and breathed in staggered relief at the prospect of being alive. She finally peeled her soggy eyes from the double doors that stood only feet from them, from the former crowd of people beyond – a crowd of adults that no longer existed, people who were no longer supple or alive, a violent crowd reduced to nothing but the mysterious slime that now dribbled down the glass and seeped beneath the crack of the doors.
The slime. That was … that was people.
Now, they're … nothing.
Hannah groaned inwardly.
That was close.
Too fucking close.
She unlocked her arms and carefully eased Mia away from her chest, chuckled, and started to wipe the tears from the girl's reddened face. Mia shook her head with a rueful grin, stopped the woman by clutching at her wrist, and started to care for herself. She wiped her beautiful eyes with small dabs of her slim hands, and Hannah immediately thought it was the most adorable thing she'd ever seen.
She met the child's gaze and watched for any signs of concern. "You okay?"
Mia blinked, nodded, and suddenly sniffed. Her tiny lips quivered and opened as another droplet rolled down her cheek, signalling a second bout of tears.
"Hey, hey. Shhhhh … it's over," Hannah whispered. She wrapped her arms around Mia and scooped the girl into another comforting cuddle. She hugged her close once more, and felt the sobs wracking her entire body. She flicked her watery gaze to the door once again, still doubtful in her own mind, and double-checked the situation. "It's over. It's over. Shhhh."
"I hope … I hope so," Mia said, her voice muffled by Hannah's chest.
The woman smiled nervously, a weight partially lifting
from her shoulders. After a content moment, Mia pulled away, and Hannah released the comforting embrace. She glanced down at her chest, and noticed that her cleavage was dappled with the young girl's tears. She groaned, slipped from the booth, her sweat-soaked bathing suit clinging to the hot leather, and straightened up.
She listened.
Heard nothing.
Her eyes returned to the door, the slippery glass.
The growing pool beneath.
With small, tentative steps, she approached.
"Hello?" she uttered, and immediately cursed herself.
Idiot.
If trashy films and Netflix have taught you anything…
Fuck it.
Hannah stood by the door and hesitated. Reluctant to touch the splintered glass with the mysterious liquid on the other side, knowing what it could do, she kept her distance, and ensured that the criss-cross of cracks had not allowed any slime to seep through. She grabbed a fork from a nearby table and quickly scraped it back and forth across the glass. The fork came away dry, a notion she tested with a padding napkin.
Content with her assessment, Hannah side-stepped around the clear pool of liquid and gently placed her face against the glass. Her hot, shaky breath misted the pane, and she found herself wiping it clear with a swift palm. She stared out onto the wooden ramp, and saw nothing but the long stretch of oak as it led away from the cafeteria to poolside, the straight pathway and the surrounding foliage distorted and twisted by the oily remains of the dissolved people that slathered the window on the opposite side. By the door, the ramp was infinitely darker, the wood stained a grotesque purple, and soaked through with all manner of bodily fluids. The stench was indescribable. She gagged, and turned away from the door, with one thing clear in her mind.
No people.
No threat.
All was clear.
For now.
Hannah backed away from the carnage, careful to avoid the expanding pool of liquid at her bare toes, and paused. She slowly walked across the cafeteria, stopped before the window and stooped down, approaching the wide pane with caution this time. The last thing she needed was a second group of people locating her and … well, a repeat of the past ten minutes.
