by Rich Hawkins
“What is it?” Magnus asked.
Frank turned the golf ball around in his hand. He imagined her holding it, terrified and alone, in the back of the van.
The smiley face grinned, mocking him.
“I gave this to her, to cheer her up.”
The others looked at him.
Frank stared down the road. “I think she’s still alive. They couldn’t have gone far.”
“Fair enough,” said Ralph. He took the axe from Frank’s hand and walked over to the infected woman. She was making a low mewling sound, like a dying cat. He ended her suffering.
“I’m driving,” said Frank.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Frank stopped the car two miles later.
An infected man and woman had pinned Mackie and were peeling him like soft fruit in the middle of the road.
“He’s one of the men who took Florence.”
The infected had torn away Mackie’s clothes, which lay strewn around, ripped and bloody. Their mouths snapped at the man’s body, picking away bits of him. He was still alive.
The infected glared at the car, distracted for a moment from Mackie’s tender parts. His mouth was moving as he reached towards the car with a flayed arm. Then he was gathered up like a pile of wet rags and dragged from the road, to be pulled apart in the long grass and weeds.
The last Frank saw of Mackie was his red hand trailing behind him.
*
Frank stopped the car on a hill looking down at the surrounding fields and roads. Ahead of them was the village of Loxwood.
Ralph swept the area with the binoculars. The village appeared to be empty. Smoke stained every horizon. War upon the land.
“I see something,” Ralph said.
“What is it?”
“Not sure.”
Frank snatched the binoculars and looked to where Ralph was pointing. He saw a flash of movement among the fields, a brief sighting of something pink and small at the edge of the village.
His body tightened. Adrenaline kicked in, dosing his blood.
Three figures were walking across a field towards Loxwood. Bertram, Florence, and the bastard in the balaclava. Both men were injured and hobbling. Bertram was holding a machete. The balaclava man corralled Florence along with his baseball bat. Her head was bowed, avoiding eye contact with the men.
“It’s them. It’s Florence. We have to get down there before they reach the village and find a car.”
Ralph took the binoculars. “I see something else down there.”
“What’s wrong?” said Magnus.
When Ralph lowered the binoculars from his eyes, his face was severe and concerned. Frank grabbed the binoculars and his heart faltered. Some kind of creature – a pallid human-shaped form – was following Florence and the men. It flitted between trees and patches of grassland like a pale shadow.
“Oh fuck, what is that?” said Joel.
Frank ran to the car.
*
They reached the village minutes later. Frank stopped the car and they got out. A baseball bat, speckled with blood, had rolled to a stop by the kerb.
Frank led them as they followed a soft gurgling sound down the street.
“Oh my God,” said Joel when they walked around the corner. He put a hand to his face and touched his mouth.
The creature was a travesty of sagging, corpse-white skin and wheezing breath. It held the fundamental shape of a human being, but its flesh and muscle was twisted and wrinkled. Tumours bulged under its skin, expanding and retracting as it breathed through a clenching ruby-lipped mouth. It was hunched over, withered vestigial arms dangling from its body, as it steadily absorbed the man in the balaclava.
The man’s arms moved in spasms. His eyes opened. His mouth opened but nothing came out. No words, just incoherent fear and terror.
“Fuck,” said Magnus.
As they watched, the monster puffed out and expanded like a creeping growth, losing its human shape to a blubbery mass of mottled flesh that enveloped the man slowly, as if the creature were savouring the absorption of its prey. It was like a giant unshelled mollusc. Dozens of small yellow eyes opened on the creature’s body and prickly tendrils grew from its flanks, sensing Frank and the others. Their slick tips tasted the air like awful tongues.
The man vanished beneath the monster. His muffled cries could be heard from underneath the creature’s pulsing flesh.
The creature seemed to swell and enlarge even more until it was the size of a large car. The man screamed once as the creature’s mass made several violent shudders, and there was a sucking, scouring sound.
Ralph aimed the flare gun at the pulsing thing. His arm was steady, but he didn’t fire, instead lowering the gun and shaking his head. No need to waste a flare.
The creature made a moaning, pleasurable sound and Ralph realised he was fascinated by it and the other infected. He liked to watch wildlife documentaries, captivated by nature’s cruelty and the dance between predator and prey.
“Amazing,” he said.
The creature looked at Ralph with its many yellow eyes. Then it regarded the flare gun in his hand. It feared neither.
He respected the infected. They held no pretensions or any delusions about what they were, unlike people. They were honest in their intentions to eat or infect you. They were what they were, and nothing else. No lies, hatred or ignorance.
No prejudice.
No evil.
No humanity.
The creature’s protean mass began to diminish, deflating itself until it returned to its original size. The pulsing stopped, its eyes closed and its tendrils lowered to become slack and idle upon its tumorous mass.
It had fed well, and now it would sleep.
There was a cry of pain from beyond the creature.
“Florence,” said Frank.
They left the creature to its gluttonous slumber and staggered down the street.
*
They found Florence standing over Bertram’s corpse, which slumped against the foot of a wall. His face was raw and wet, mutilated by a sharp edge. His right eye had been cut away.
Florence turned to the men, holding Bertram’s machete. The blade dripped red. Blood on her face and arms. She was shaking, but seemed unhurt. Her eyes were shadowed with dull patches and appeared too large for her face.
“He tried to take me away. He tried to touch me, so I took his knife and I…”
“It’s okay,” Frank said. “Everything’s all right.” He knelt beside her, looked into her face, and smiled. Relief and horror flooded through him. “Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head. Frank took the machete from her and dropped it on the ground. Behind him, the others were staring at Florence, their mouths open. They said nothing.
“You came back for me,” she said.
“I would never leave you.”
She began to cry, and she wrapped her arms around Frank’s neck and hugged him, staining him with Bertram’s blood.
He didn’t care. He couldn’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER FIFTY
They kept to the back roads while rain gathered in the heavy skies. Ralph stared out the window at a lone figure in the fields. It was a naked man, his hands clasped over his chest like he was uttering a plea upon the sodden earth. The man’s stomach was distended and rippling, and suddenly it split into a vertical slavering mouth lined with human teeth.
The man fell to his knees.
Ralph looked away.
The girl sat between Ralph and Frank on the backseat. She was resting her head on Frank’s chest. He had cleaned her face of Bertram’s blood. At first she had eyed Ralph, Magnus and Joel with suspicion, but Frank had convinced her that they were the good guys, not bad men like those who had taken her. Frank had told her that they were going to look after her and keep her safe from the monsters.
Frank caught Ralph’s eye and nodded. He realised Frank cared deeply for the girl. Her resemblance to Frank’s daughter Emily was uncanny. F
rank hadn’t mentioned that detail before, and because Florence and Emily were so similar Ralph was concerned about how his friend was reacting to her presence. He had seen the change in Frank even before finding Florence in Loxwood.
Emily died two years ago. A child’s funeral was possibly the most heart-breaking thing in the world. Ralph had watched Frank and Catherine suffer for their loss, and although they eventually healed, it wasn’t a full recovery. And never would it be.
He looked at Frank.
Frank was smiling.
*
Some roads were strewn with wrecks and human remains. A milk tanker rested on its side across the width of one road. Milk had leaked and congealed to create a white gloop around the stricken vehicle. They had to reverse and take a side road that was no more than a muddy lane littered with broken tree branches and potholes.
Away from the road, people stood around a burning house, staring at the flames.
The sky turned black for a few hours and when it rained it was like something unworldly. It could have been magnificent in a different time.
They passed lone travellers hitchhiking and people packed into cars, just as they were. Riders on motorbikes and bicycles.
They passed Haslemere, Hindhead, and Liphook, finding few signs of life.
Magnus shuddered as a dark mass bloomed inside him and stayed there like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He wanted to forget a lot of things. He wanted to go home.
When he saw a dead child face down by the road, he felt like crying. He kept his hands gripped onto the steering wheel so he couldn’t see how badly they were shaking.
Great flocks of the infected stained the land, hunting the refugees. Monsters and men. Dead livestock in the fields.
They passed a crashed Boeing airliner in a field of rapeseed. A torn fuselage and scattered wreckage among the garish yellow. Rows of seats with their occupants still in them. Handbags and shoes. Spilled suitcases. Discarded clothes fluttering on fences and hanging on tree branches. Sheets of paper and Styrofoam cups drifted in the wind. More bodies pulverised and shredded, and some had come to rest hundreds of yards from the airliner. A severed human head was on the road. The infected picked through the remains, scavenging carrion.
“My God,” said Joel.
Magnus was speechless.
“Don’t look,” Frank told Florence.
She asked, “Are we nearly in Bordon?”
“Yes. Almost there.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Magnus stopped the car at the outskirts of Bordon. A pizza delivery moped was lying nearby at the kerb.
Frank turned to Florence. “Where do your auntie and uncle live? Do you know where their house is?”
The girl put her hand to her mouth and stared at the floor. “It’s near the church, I think. It’s a dead-end where they live.”
“A dead-end?”
“A cul-de-sac?” said Ralph.
Florence looked at Ralph, her face creasing. She spoke slowly while nodding. “Cul-de-sac.”
Frank said, “Do you know what road they live on? What it’s called?”
“Their house has a wall at the bottom of the front garden. The gate has a sign that says ‘Beware of the dog’…but they haven’t got a dog.”
Ralph scratched his mouth. “Well, that narrows it down.”
“We’ll find them, Florence,” Frank said.
Ralph looked at Frank and shook his head.
“I hope they’re okay,” said Florence. “You don’t think they’re dead, do you?”
Frank smiled at her. “It’ll all be okay. Just you wait and see.”
*
The cul-de-sac comprised of eight houses in a curved row, their windows dark and front doors closed. There were dried patches of dark fluid on the pavement, near a woman’s high-heeled shoe.
Magnus pulled up outside one of the houses.
“Is that it?” Frank asked Florence. “Is that the house?”
A Beware of the Dog sign hung on the gate. Beyond that, a wooden bird bath leaned to one side, encrusted with seeds and droppings.
Florence nodded.
The house was silent and still. It looked abandoned. The curtains were closed.
“Let’s go, then,” said Frank. “Florence, you stay here with Magnus and Joel, okay?”
“But I want to see my aunt and uncle…”
“You will, but I need to check it first.”
“Is it safe for us to wait here?” Magnus asked.
“If you get any trouble, beep the horn.”
Magnus nodded but didn’t look convinced. He glanced back at Ralph, his face drooping and weary. Ralph met his eyes, winked, and then slapped him on the arm. “We’ll be back soon, darling.”
“Good luck, fellas,” said Joel. He handed a torch each to Frank and Ralph, who both then exited the car. Ralph was holding the flare gun while Frank hefted his axe, scanning the area around them.
The world was silent. Ralph liked the silence. Frank opened the gate and the two men started up the stone pathway.
Ralph gestured at the house. “What if they’re still home and don’t want visitors?”
“What?”
“What if Florence’s uncle and aunt are armed to the teeth in there…?”
“They could be infected.”
“That’s what I meant by ‘to the teeth’.”
“Idiot.”
“So we’ll just knock on the door and ask to come in?”
“We’ll see what happens.”
The lawn was snooker table green. Gnomes watched them with dead eyes and wicked smiles, having a whale of a time. White beards and pointy hats. One of the gnomes was standing by the small pond, holding a fishing rod. Goldfish sucked tiny bugs from the water’s surface.
“Why are we here?” asked Ralph.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I promised Florence I’d take her here so she’d stay with me. I have to show Florence that I’m here to look after her. It’s the only way she’ll trust me.”
“You want her to stay with us, don’t you?”
Frank avoided Ralph’s stare. “She’s safer with us. We can look after her.”
“She’s not our responsibility.”
“Yes, she is. Her parents are dead; we can’t just leave her. She won’t survive without us.”
“Without you, you mean.”
“What?”
“I’ve seen how you look at her.”
“Shut up, Ralph.”
“She’s not Emily. She’s not your daughter.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not sure you do. I think your judgement is clouded by her resemblance to Emily.”
“Stop saying her name.”
“Emily’s gone. Florence can’t replace her.”
“Shut up,” said Frank. “Please shut up.”
“I’m looking after you, mate. I don’t know if Joel and Magnus have noticed it, as well, but I’m sure they’d say the same as me.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know more than you think. Florence can’t replace Emily. Florence isn’t your daughter. You can’t be her surrogate father.” Ralph turned away and looked through one of the windows, cupping his face. He could only see shadows and suggestions of dim shapes. Nothing moved. His breath bled from his mouth and fogged the glass.
“I have to protect her,” Frank said. “It’s meant to be. What choice do we have?”
Ralph stared at him. Frank met his stare and didn’t flinch.
“If her aunt and uncle are alive, do you promise to let Florence go with them?”
Frank closed his eyes. Opened them. “I promise.”
“Good.”
“But part of me hopes we don’t find them.”
“Fair enough. I figured that. But if we do, you let her go. I’ll make you, if I have to. Our only aim should be getting home, not babysitting some orphaned little girl.”
“What els
e should I have done? Abandoned her? Left her to die?”
“She’s not our problem. You were never obliged to rescue her. We have to look after our own. You’ve risked your life to keep her safe. Catherine could have ended up a widow just because of your fucking morals.”
“I don’t want to argue, Ralph. Florence is just a little girl.”
“You should have left her to die.”
Frank gripped his axe tighter.
Ralph stared back at him, then turned away and looked at the front door. “Do you want to knock?”
Frank twisted the door knob and pushed the door open. He looked at his friend. “Ladies first.”
Ralph stepped through the doorway.
*
Ralph held the flare gun and the torch, expecting something to leap at him from one of the rooms. The hallway was tidy, nothing out of place. Coats hanging on a rack above a pair of woman’s tennis shoes placed together. The paintings on the walls were mostly modern art, all weird shapes and bright colours. There was a small table in the hallway, topped with ceramic ornamental fairies, coins and an opened packet of chewing gum.
A stairway beckoned Ralph upstairs, but he followed Frank into the living room. Frank opened the curtains, the daylight revealing a beige carpet, cream-coloured walls and a three-piece-suite. No bodies. A faint smell of air freshener. A painting of Niagara Falls above the fireplace. More photos of a man and a woman who looked to be in their thirties. They were hugging in each photo. And smiling. Lots of smiling. Ralph already disliked them.
“Look here,” said Frank.
There was a photo of Florence and two adults. Her parents. Frank stared at the photo until Ralph took it from him and replaced it on the mantelpiece.
“Come on. Let’s check the rest of the house.”
Ralph pulled back the curtains in the kitchen. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of yeast and sweat.
