by Rich Hawkins
“Are any people from Wishford here?”
“Only the few who managed to escape,” said Ralph. “Most of the people here are from other places in the surrounding area. And there are other rescue centres, apparently. It’s fucking mental. The police and army have cleared and sealed off this neighbourhood. This is a safe zone in the town.”
Joel took another sip of water. “It’s happened here as well?”
“This has hit the entire country, mate. I overheard some coppers say it’s a national emergency.”
“Have you managed to contact anyone from home?”
“No,” said Magnus. “Our phones still aren’t working. Debbie is going to kill me.”
Jet aircraft screamed low in the sky above.
Joel took out his phone and tried to call Anya, but the network was dead. Panic increased inside him as his heartbeat stuttered and his face flushed with heat. He fought the urge to scratch at his skin and draw blood.
“Everyone here is a refugee,” said Magnus.
“I have to get home to Anya.”
“We’re not allowed to leave. It’s too dangerous out there. The army is fighting in the streets. You heard the gunfire, didn’t you?”
“We could take our chances,” said Ralph.
Magnus shook his head and took the water bottle from Joel. “We’d die out there.” He drank.
“What about Frank?” Joel asked. “Have you heard from him? He could be in here somewhere…”
“We haven’t seen him.” Magnus said.
“We should never have left him. We abandoned him.”
Ralph cracked his knuckles and grimaced. “We didn’t abandon him, for fuck’s sake.”
“He might still be alive.” There was little conviction in Magnus’s voice.
“He’s dead,” said Joel. “Frank’s dead. I can feel it.”
Neither of his friends replied. The silence that followed was punctuated by throaty coughs and sniffling from the other refugees.
“Have you seen them?” an old woman asked from nearby. She was sitting opposite them, stroking a small dog on her lap. Her greying hair reached down to her shoulders. She was shoeless, wrapped in a blanket, and trembling slightly.
“Excuse me?” said Joel.
“Have you seen them?”
“Seen who?”
“The monsters. The things that used to be human.”
“We’ve run into a few of them,” Ralph said.
“You’re lucky to be alive, then.”
“We’ve had a few close calls.”
“What happened to you?” Joel asked her.
“I was shopping with my friend Francine on Sunday morning when people started to collapse and convulse. Francine was one of them. I had to hide from her in a clothes shop’s changing room. She went crazy, started sprouting dark growths from her back and stomach. Then she tore out the throat of a teenage boy and ate bits of him.”
Ralph blew air from his mouth. “Fucking hell.”
Magnus had a far-off look in his eyes. “A virus.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” said Joel to the woman. “How did you end up here?”
“I managed to escape from the shop. There was so much screaming. It’s all a bit foggy now. I got home and Alfie here was going crazy, barking and growling. He knew what was happening, the clever boy. I tried calling my son in London but he didn’t answer his phone. I called the police but the line was busy. A few hours later I was picked up by a search and rescue patrol looking for survivors. Alfie and I were bundled into the truck. They dropped us off here on Sunday night. More people have arrived from the surrounding areas, brought here in buses and vans.”
“We heard that this ‘event’ happened all over the country,” said Magnus. “Do you know if that’s true?”
She cleared her throat. “Before the power went out I saw on the BBC News that the cities had been affected as well. It’s worse in the cities, from what I’ve heard. We’re lucky, really, when you think about it.”
“I’ve got a cousin in London,” Joel said. “He’s got a family.”
“I think my son is dead,” the woman said matter-of-factly. “I hope he’s dead rather than one of those monsters. You should hope the same for your cousin and his family. I’m sorry – where are my manners? I’m Susan Blake. You’ve already met little Alfie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Susan,” Joel said, and gave his name. “This is Magnus, and that’s Ralph.”
“We’re all refugees now,” she said. “We’re never going home.”
*
Joel trudged to the toilets. The corridors were full of people leaning against the walls, plastic bags and belongings around them on the floor. He stepped carefully. Nobody spoke. Eyes flicked towards him but didn’t linger. Through a ground floor window he looked out at the rear of the school – a high wall surrounded the playground, which had become another gathering place for refugees. Makeshift tents covered the playground. A child was crying out there.
The toilets smelled of disinfectant and piss. Low urinals lined the wall. A row of sinks crowded by bottles of liquid soap, a forgotten toothbrush, damp rolls of paper towels and other discarded trash. Smudges of grime on the taps and hand-dryers. A sign above the sinks reminded him to wash his hands after using the toilet.
He stood with one hand against the wall, off-kilter, confused and scared, then entered the only empty cubicle out of four. The door didn’t lock properly and there was a turd amidst a soggy smattering of white paper in the toilet bowl. He tore away several sheets from the meagre remnants in the paper dispenser and used them as a glove when he flushed the toilet. The dirty water rose, crested by the turd, almost to the rim of the bowl. He backed away, trying not to retch.
Eventually the tide in the bowl receded, and he raised the seat and tossed the paper into the toilet. The man in the next cubicle was grunting. Joel didn’t have the nerve to tell him to shut up.
When he had finished pissing, he grabbed another wad of paper and lowered the toilet lid, which he then wiped clean. He discarded the paper and took out the small silver cross necklace from his pocket. He sat down. The grunting sounds from the next cubicle stopped.
The marker pen graffiti on the cubicle wall was a mixture of messily-depicted genitalia and apocalyptic warnings.
This is the end, boys and girls.
Abandon hope and be free.
Joel wrapped the necklace chain around his hand and over his knuckles. He closed his eyes and held his hands together. Only Anya knew about his faith; she was Catholic, although she had lapsed in the last few years.
He prayed silently. He prayed that God was listening.
Because if God still cared, was the virus and the monsters the work of the Devil? Were they demons? Were they people possessed by demons? If they were possessed, could they be saved? And if they could be saved and returned to normal, was killing one of them an act of murder?
He opened his eyes.
God let Frank’s daughter die. Emily was her name. Always remember her name. God let the cancer eat her alive.
He ignored the spiteful voice in his head and stared at the door, waiting for a sign.
Seconds later the walls began to tremble. He looked to the ceiling and felt something in the sky moving over the town. Something massive.
A sign.
He pocketed the silver cross and rushed back to the others, not bothering to wash his hands.
The windows were rattling in their frames while Alfie the dog barked skywards. Every person in the room stared at the ceiling.
Ralph got up. “I’m going to see what’s happening.”
Joel and Magnus followed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Early morning mist. Where the monsters were hiding.
Frank held the girl’s hand as they walked the road and left Wishford behind. He kept an eye on the hedgerows and trees flanking them. Distant booms echoed beyond the mist. Thunder in the darkening clouds.
Florence gl
anced over her shoulder. “Where are we going?”
“Horsham.”
“Are we going to walk all the way there?”
“If we’re unlucky, yeah.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re walking if we can’t get a lift.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind walking.”
“I do,” Frank said. “I’m old.”
“You’re very old.”
“Cheers.”
They walked on, and just over a mile later arrived at a Ford Escort abandoned in the middle of the road. Frank approached it and found the doors unlocked, but there were no keys in the ignition.
“You know how to hotwire it?” asked Frank.
Florence shook her head then started rooting around the backseat. Moments later she handed him a wallet. He opened it and checked the driver’s licence filed within.
It was Joel’s wallet.
Frank couldn’t help a sad smile. “This belongs to a good friend of mine. He was here. Hopefully Ralph and Magnus were here as well.”
A mournful wailing came out of the mist.
Florence stared into the mist, her mouth moving silently.
“Come on, let’s keep moving,” Frank said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Joel and Magnus emerged into the daylight of the car park outside the front of the school. A few others followed them.
Armed police holding submachine guns and clad in Kevlar vests were standing guard by the school gates and along the tall metal wire fence. A row of semi-detached houses lined the other side of the street beyond the road that ran alongside the school. More civilians had already emerged outside, loitering amidst the squad cars, riot vans, ambulances and cars. Several paramedics stood in a group.
Everyone was staring at the sky.
“Oh god,” someone said.
A vague dark shape the size of a mountain drifted within the grey clouds directly overhead. Joel leaned against the side of a car to support his watery legs. The ground was vibrating, thrumming with energy. The filling in one of his molars tingled, and he felt compelled to run away and curl up into a ball until the presence passed over.
More people emerged from the school. They moved slowly, cautiously.
“It’s not a craft,” said Magnus. “It’s not a ship. It’s a living thing. A dark mass.”
“It’s living?” Joel asked, and he was answered with a sky-cracking wail. He covered his ears, as did everyone else. The sound of its cry reverberated through the sky, a sombre blast of noise like the keening of something that dwelled in alien atmospheres.
“We’re insects compared to that thing,” a man said from the back of the crowd.
Joel had thought it a sign from God, but this wasn’t anything to do with God. He was in terrible awe of the gigantic presence. Where was it from? Was it one of many? Were humans all over the world staring up at such colossal impossibilities, asking the same questions?
A profound terror bloomed inside him and he wanted to cry.
“That’s what I saw on Saturday night,” said Magnus.
Ralph and Joel looked at him.
“Before you found me passed out on the grass, Ralph, I saw something in the sky. I think it was one of those.” He nodded at the immense shape.
“Is it the same one?” said Joel.
“I don’t know. Could be hundreds of them.”
“Hundreds,” muttered Ralph. “Fucking hell.”
The presence in the clouds moved northwards, rising until it vanished higher into the sky.
Joel put his hand in his pocket and touched the crucifix. But he wasn’t comforted. He had the horrid feeling that God wasn’t watching.
“Nothing will ever be the same,” said Magnus. “The world is changing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There was a house ahead on the right side of the road. Florence saw it before Frank did because he’d been glancing over his shoulder, worried they were being followed.
“Do you think people are in there?” the girl asked.
“Maybe. They might be able to help us.”
“There won’t be any monsters?”
He shook his head. “I’ll look after you.”
“I hope they’ve got chocolate biscuits.”
“Let’s hope so.”
They walked up the gravel driveway towards the red brick house, noticing the tyre tracks in the damp dirt between the stones and grit. Frank kept Florence behind him as they stood before the front door, which was framed by a wooden latticed archway. He knocked on the door and waited, watching the windows for signs of movement.
“I don’t think they’re home,” Florence said.
He knocked again.
Florence fidgeted with her hands. “Maybe they’re asleep.”
Frank opened the door.
“Isn’t that rude? Are we allowed to go in there without asking?”
“It’ll be okay. Stay close. Stay quiet.”
He stepped into the hallway, his muscles tensing as he looked around. Shadows retreated from the light coming through the doorway.
“What’s that smell?” asked Florence.
“Something nasty,” Frank said, screwing up his face. It was like the stink of bad meat. He went into the kitchen, noting the framed photo of a man, a woman, a teenage boy and two younger girls on the microwave. Upon the worktop was an electricity bill addressed to Mr. David Pulver.
Florence stared at a hamster cage with its door hanging open. The wiry metal was bent and warped. When Frank touched her arm to get her attention, she flinched away as though he’d slapped her. He nodded towards the open doorway to the living room, where the sound of movement was unmistakeable. They looked at each other and Frank gestured for her to stay put. Then he moved closer to the doorway, blinking the grainy air from his eyes, and looked into the living room revealed in sullen daylight.
“Oh God,” he said, raising one hand to his face. Florence asked him what was wrong, but he ignored her. The air left his body and the sudden stink of slaughter made his eyes water. The room before him drifted in-and-out of focus until it remained terribly clear to him. It was a scene never to be wiped from his memory.
“What’s wrong?” the girl asked again.
“Stay in the kitchen, Florence.” He sagged against one side of the doorway.
The walls were stained red with splatters from arteries and veins. The remains of bodies on a carpet waterlogged with blood and shit. Scraps of hair and the stumps of arms and legs, jumbled up with torsos that were no more than stripped meat and splintered bone. Shredded clothes and wet rags. A small ribcage. Slippery organs and chewed lumps of glistening wet flesh strewn around the floor.
At the foot of an armchair was a spine and next to that a damp pelt of hair that might have been a cat, judging by its furred skull and empty eye sockets.
A small man crouched over the remains of a naked woman. He was sobbing and topless, the lower half of his face coated with blood. Hairy shoulders and a pot belly. Boxer shorts. His knees, forearms, and hands were stained red.
Frank recognised the man from the photo in the kitchen.
David Pulver clasped his hands together, sobbing and muttering under his breath. He looked up at Frank, his face a mask of pain, misery and hunger.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I tried to stop. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.” His tongue squirmed between rows of dirty teeth. His eyes were small and pathetic and remorseful.
Frank said nothing.
Pulver continued. “My son got away, but I killed Mary and the girls. They didn’t want to die. They begged me. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to. I didn’t have a choice. Do you understand? Do you see?” He lowered his face and kissed his wife’s mouth with obscene tenderness. Most of the skin had been peeled from her face. Pulver turned his body slightly, and Frank saw a scattering of red pustules on his bare back.
Frank raised his crowbar.
“Please kill me,�
�� said Pulver. “Do it before I change completely. There’s nothing left for me. The world is changing. We are changing.”
Frank remained in the doorway, unable to move. A tremor started in his hands and ran up his arms. He stared at the stew of red slush and abattoir runoff before him. His stomach muscles tightened and a wave of nausea passed through him, but there was nothing to bring up. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.
“Kill me,” Pulver said once more. “I’m begging you.” And moments later the pustules on his back began to pulse and something moved under his skin. He moaned softly and a thin sliver of drool slipped from his wet mouth.
Frank turned back to Florence. “No matter what you hear, don’t come in after me.” Then he entered the living room and closed the door behind him. When he stepped towards David Pulver the sodden carpet squelched under his shoes. Fetid air pressed at his skin. The appalling stench was enough to unbalance him. He stood over Pulver and felt his mind weaken, as though the man’s insanity was infectious.
Pulver glanced at the crowbar. “Do it.”
Frank hesitated.
“If you don’t kill me, I will kill you, then the little girl in the kitchen. I will go out there and do such terrible things. I will rip her open and eat every soft bit of her.”
The pustules throbbed and swelled. The man’s eyes went wide and manic, and he opened his mouth to snarl with bared teeth.
Frank raised the crowbar and brought it down with all the strength he could summon into his shaking hands.
*
They walked the road. The world was quiet.
Frank had thrown away the crowbar, unable to face wiping it clean of skull fragments and blood. He remembered Pulver’s mad face. Those eyes like dark stains. Taking the man’s life was easier than he thought it’d be, and the realisation made him ashamed and guilty.
He’d found an axe out the back of the Pulver house, forgotten in a corner amongst other tools and discarded things. It was still sharp, with a tinge of rust along its edge. He carried a rucksack containing some tins of food, a few cans of fizzy drink, and two packets of ready salted crisps, along with a blanket for Florence, a torch and a pair of binoculars – all of it liberated from the house. He had no qualms about looting a family’s home. Not now, anyway. Things had changed.
