by Rich Hawkins
Magnus stepped forward.
The dog growled, his ears flattening against his head. His legs stiffened. He stared at Magnus, who looked back at him, before he whimpered and fled down a side street.
“I hope he survives,” said Ralph. “He’s a good dog.”
They came to the village hall on Church Street. The doors were hanging open and there was a dead body at the top of the steps leading up to the hall, unrecognisable due to the severe mutilation inflicted upon it.
More bodies inside the hall, left where they had fallen, but not untouched by the ravaging hands of the infected. The floor was slippery in places, sticky in others. Arterial spray on the walls in insane patterns of red. The men looked for their loved ones but couldn’t identify them. If they were here it would never be known.
Frank stepped back from the smell. His eyes were stinging. He breathed through his mouth.
Joel was crying and sniffling, wiping his face. “I want to wake up. Please let me wake up.”
Frank put one hand on Joel’s arm. He looked at Magnus, who had retreated from the doorway to stare into the sky.
Magnus said, “They’re up there in the clouds. Above the clouds. They’re up there waiting. I can hear them. They’re speaking to me. Speaking to all of us but only some of us can hear them.” His skin was radiating heat, slick with fever. He closed his eyes, taking in a breath heavy with exhaustion and sickness. His body trembled. He had lost weight. The corners of his mouth flinched. He spat yellow phlegm on the ground.
“Magnus?” said Frank. “Are you okay?”
Magnus opened his eyes. He wore a defeated smile as tears ran down his face. “Not long now.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
They arrived at Ralph’s house first. The others waited in the street while he stood at the garden gate, composing himself, gathering his thoughts. Adrenaline made his arms and hands tingle. He breathed through his nose, filling his lungs with clean air. For the moment, the entire world consisted of just him and the house.
The garden was just as it had been when he’d left. Mum liked to tend the flowerbeds, but Dad was in charge of the lawn and he was proud of it.
Ralph didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay by the gate and hold onto the thought that his parents were alive and uninfected; that they would be waiting for him inside the house. He would walk through the door and they’d be sitting down in the living room, watching one of the old Peter Sellers films they enjoyed so much. Dad in his armchair with a cup of tea and a small plate of chocolate digestives. Mum on the sofa, sipping Bovril and petting their cat, Gus. They would be in there and they would welcome him home, and Mum would make him a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich with brown sauce.
Past Mum’s hideous beige curtains he glimpsed part of the kitchen and living room. He looked for movement, but there was none. The red front door didn’t open for him. No welcome for the returning son.
This house was ingrained in his memory. This house where childhood memories were made and treasured.
He opened the gate, walked up the garden path and stopped at the front door, which opened inwards as he turned the handle. A breath of old air met him.
He stepped into the house. The oppressive silence was like a break between screams as he moved into the living room. Two empty armchairs and two empty mugs. The television was dead. Old photos in silver frames. A four-day-old newspaper on the floor. Shelves of autobiographies and history books filled the far wall. Dad’s slippers lay next to the fireplace. No sign of the cat.
French windows looked out onto the back garden, where he’d played football with Dad when he was a boy. There was nobody out there now.
He checked the downstairs rooms and found them deserted. Then he climbed the stairs and paused on the landing outside his parents’ bedroom. A basket of dirty laundry next to his feet. A cheap painting on the wall. The door was closed. He listened for any sound and was disappointed with silence. Breathing hard, he steeled himself for a terrible sight and opened the door.
The smell of rot greeted him.
Dad lay face down on the bed, partially eaten, his spine exposed to show nubs of bone through yellow fat and the red flesh of his back. The nape of his neck had been gnawed away. His killer had ripped through his clothes to get into him.
Both bedside lamps and the pillows were dotted with dried blood.
A part of him refused to believe what he was seeing, even as he sobbed and gritted his teeth.
He found his mother lying in the bath. She was covered in blood. Her eyes were dark pools as she hissed at Ralph through the red slash of her mouth.
His heart was like a bag of stones weighing him down. He held his ground, feet shifting on the linoleum floor.
“Mum,” he whispered. “Mum, it’s me.”
She was naked, her skin pale and mottled grey. Her fingers were elongated and tipped with onyx claws. Her right arm hung over the side of the bath, dripping blood onto the floor.
Shit, piss and viscera filled the toilet nearby.
Mum reached for him and he shrank away from her. In response she let out a plaintive mewl. She was one of them now. A monster. And in a second of pure white-hot agony, he realised she was gone forever.
He walked to his bedroom and reached under his bed, groping amongst the porn magazines and old James Herbert and Shaun Hutson paperbacks, and pulled out the baseball bat. The base of the handle was wrapped in duct tape for a better grip. His initials were carved into the wood. It gave him some comfort.
He returned to the bathroom, every bit of him screaming to run away. But he couldn’t. He had a job to do.
Mum reached out to him again, and there was something like recognition in her dark eyes as he stood over her. Her mouth opened, her tongue emerging like a gleaming serpent from a cave, picking scales of dry blood from her chin.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” he said. “Thank you for everything. I love you, Mum.”
His mother’s face was pathetic and full of woe. Maybe she whimpered. Maybe she said his name.
Her skull gave no resistance as he brought down the bat upon her. Her body jerked as nerve endings flared for one last time. A soft moan left her mouth, then something like a sigh of relief.
Ralph finished her without hesitation, forcing all his strength into the final blow. He stared at her body. This broken, diseased thing that had once been his mother. He pulled on a pair of gloves, carried her to the bedroom and laid her down next to Dad.
Ralph covered them with a blanket and said goodbye.
After grabbing some bandages, gauze and painkillers for Magnus, he raided the alcohol cupboard for the last bottle of vodka, then pulled a photo of his parents from its frame and put it in his pocket. He sank a few mouthfuls of vodka, savouring the burn in his chest, and punched himself until his face was sore and tender. And he enjoyed it because pain was life and life was pain, and one could not be without the other.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The group walked past places remembered from days gone by. They checked the church and found it empty. They found a man lying by a woman’s grave, his throat cut by his own hand, a photo of happy times beside the body.
The pub – The Duke of York – was deserted, with smashed glasses and bottles on the floor amidst upturned tables and chairs. Trails of blood on the bar, but no bodies. Frank stared at a human ear left on a stool in one corner like an offering for them, before he covered it with a bar towel.
They arrived at the street where Joel and Anya shared a semi-detached house. Smoke dirtied the air, made it thick and acrid. Fallen leaves flittered upon the road. A plastic bag coasted past. The breeze was cold and intrusive, reaching inside Frank’s collar to stroke the back of his neck.
Joel’s house was burning, along with the house next to it. He ran down the street and fell to his knees before the raging fire. When the others caught up with him, he was crying and biting down on his left wrist. Frank crouched next to Joel, grimacing at the heat pressing against his skin. The
fire’s voice was deep and growling. Flames leapt from the shattered windows. The roof had collapsed, and the toppled chimney lay broken on the road. Things popped and smashed inside Joel’s house. Smoke streamed upwards, a trail of volcanic grey. The heated air scratched at the inside of Frank’s throat.
The house and garden next door were almost fully consumed by flames. There would be nothing left but ash and carbon.
Joel’s voice was pathetic against the sound of raging fire. His hands weakened with tremors. “Why did this happen?”
“Joel,” Frank said.
Joel took his wrist from his mouth. Imprints from his teeth marked his skin. His eyes brimmed with shock and incredulity. A fleck of ash landed on his cheek.
“She’s dead,” Joel said.
“You don’t know that.”
“Then where is she?”
“She might be hiding somewhere else. She might be with Catherine.”
Joel’s tears were drying from the terrible heat. “That was our house. We were supposed to live here.”
“She’s alive,” Frank told him.
“Do you really believe that? How can you believe that?”
“I know, because you and Anya are going to get married. We’ll find her and Catherine, and we’ll find Magnus’s family and we’ll all be safe.”
Joel’s mouth worked but no words came out. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot as he watched flakes of ash dance in the air. “I’m ready to lie down. I’m not strong enough. Never was. If Anya is still alive, she’s got a better chance of surviving without me. She’s better off without me. I’m better off dead.”
Frank slapped his friend across the face.
Joel gawped at him in reply.
“Don’t ever say that again. You will survive, Joel. You will survive and keep Anya safe. Do you understand me, Joel? Do you fucking understand me?”
“You really think we’re going to survive, Frank? Even after all we’ve seen? How do you know?”
“Because I’m your best man and Ralph and Magnus are your ushers. It’s our job to look after you. You’re still the groom. Nothing has changed from the weekend. We will stick together and survive. Do you believe me?”
Joel coughed weakly. “I believe you.”
Frank nodded, pulled Joel to his feet. “Good job, mate.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Joel barely raised his head to see where he was walking. Ralph stared into the distance, gulping vodka like it was water.
Magnus wheezed and moaned, holding his shoulder, every breath a sucking croak. Death was like a black dog on his heels. They had bandaged and tended his wound, but a nagging voice told Frank they would have to deal with Magnus before nightfall. The thought of it hollowed him out, made him feel sick and despondent. Maybe Ralph would do it, as he had the bat.
Frank looked at Florence. The girl was brave and strong and he admired her for it. He envied her for it.
Frank stopped, looked at the road sign.
“Home,” he whispered.
*
Frank stepped inside his house. It was like coming home from work, but no one came to greet him and there was no smell of food cooking in the kitchen.
“Catherine…”
He stood in the hallway, amongst the gathered mementoes and artefacts of their life together, and breathed in slowly. Where had she gone? His heart kicked fast in the hollow of his chest as he searched the house. The shadows cast by the grey light gave him the feeling he wasn’t alone. He thought he heard Catherine singing and wondered if it was her ghost returning to him.
The singing faded away and he sat on the edge of their bed, one hand laid upon the mattress, hoping there would be some residual warmth from her body. Adrenaline and disappointment weighed him down, and his lungs tightened from the smoke he had inhaled. His skin was tender from the heat of the fire.
He searched through Catherine’s wardrobe, touching her clothes, holding them to his face and thinking about her.
“Where are you?” he asked.
He looked at the photos in the house. Then he emptied the almost-bare cupboards of the few tins of remaining food. He and Catherine were supposed to have gone grocery shopping today. The food in the fridge was already going bad, and when he opened the freezer a waft of decay rose to meet him.
Frank locked the door when he left the house. The possibility of never returning burrowed a gaping hole inside him.
The others were waiting by the road. Joel’s face was full of foolish hope.
Frank shook his head.
*
Magnus’s pace quickened and he wheezed out a moist breath. “Debbie. My boys. I’m almost home.”
Frank glanced at Ralph, who took a swig of vodka while watching Magnus.
They followed Magnus down the street. Parked cars lined one side of the road. The trees were perfectly still, as if painted there by an artist’s hand. The breeze had died.
Magnus stopped on the road and faced his house, tears softening his face. Trembling limbs and slight curve to his spine. Fever and heat. Glistening skin. Jaundice around his eyes.
They gathered beside him. Frank put one hand on his arm, and Magnus jumped, as if woken from a daydream. He wore a defeated smile that broke Frank’s heart. The muscles moved under his face. His shoulders seemed thinner and his neck scrawnier. Veins pressed against the skin like they were trying to escape the prison of his body.
But he was home.
He was becoming something else; something that would make the man known as Magnus Heap as simple memory.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and they could be seen dancing behind their lids, as if he were dreaming.
“They’re inside the house. They’re waiting for me.”
“How do you know they’re in there?” asked Joel.
Magnus started towards his house. Frank placed one hand on his uninjured shoulder and made him turn around.
“Are you going in there alone?”
“I have to.”
“Let me come in with you. For old times’ sake, mate…”
Magnus nodded. He looked at his friends in turn, offered them all a smile that was like a grimace painted onto a corpse. Then he turned away and stared at his house.
Frank told Ralph and Joel to stay with Florence. He fell in behind Magnus.
The darkness within the windows watched them; oily and dense, full of unseen eyes.
*
The garden was a small jungle, the grass left to grow too long, infested with weeds. A deckchair on the lawn tilted to one side, its metal legs rusting and bent near a deflated football. Magnus bent down to pick up something from the grass: a green plastic toy soldier. He put it in his pocket.
They continued to the front door. Magnus produced his keys from one pocket, fiddled with them in his shaking hands. He went to stick the key in the door but missed the keyhole. Frank offered to take the keys, but Magnus shook his head.
“No. I have to do this.”
On the second attempt, Magnus unlocked and opened the door. Frank followed him inside.
The hallway. A carpeted floor. A small table with a cordless telephone nestled in its cradle. Straight ahead was the kitchen, shrouded in dim shadows. To Frank’s right was the living room door.
Magnus headed to the kitchen, treading softly on the carpet and onto the linoleum. Frank followed him, more than willing to let Magnus take the lead.
There was nobody in the kitchen. The sink brimmed with dirty plates, stained mugs and stagnant water. Forks and spoons and knives encrusted with food and dried fluids formed a mound of skeletal metal upon the worktop.
The window above the sink showed them the back garden. Out there were the boys’ bicycles and the trampoline. The window was smeared with grime and dirty fingerprints.
The house stank. When Frank took a deep breath he had to stop himself from gagging. He grabbed a serrated bread-knife from the rack.
Magnus eyed him, then the knife. “Are you gonna kill my family with th
at?”
“We don’t know what’s in here with us.”
“My family are here.”
“Where are they?”
Magnus turned and nodded back the way they had come. “They’re in the living room.”
When Magnus stepped forwards, Frank retreated from him.
*
The Magnus Heap of old was fading, becoming something else. I’ll become a beautiful butterfly, he thought, and almost laughed.
Debbie’s voice hummed inside his head. She sounded happy. But she hadn’t been happy for a long time. Not since before the twins were born.
Magnus placed his right hand on the door handle, turned it slowly and pushed with his leading arm. Frank didn’t move from the doorway.
The sickly-sweet stench of blood and shit hit Magnus as he stepped into the room. The curtains were pulled shut. Motionless shapes and suggestions lurked. The sofa and the two armchairs had been moved against the walls, clearing the centre of the floor. The television had been upended onto its face, dead and useless and smashed. The natural light from the hallway brought a dull definition to the room. Magnus’s eyes adjusted. There were soft things under his feet. Damp raggedy strips of newspaper and a mulch of mushy organic matter covered the floor. One of the boys’ shoes. There were small animal bones amongst the litter and waste, gnawed clean to a gleaming shine.
Something moved on the far side of the room.
Grant and Adam crawled around in the filth, naked and covered in offal and a pale oily substance. They were tragically thin, their little faces like those of dolls, puffy and pale and tinged with a red bloom like rouge upon their cheeks. Their mouths shifted open, displaying small teeth like ivory. The boys coiled together, sniffing the air, and then they swung their heads towards Frank. They hissed and moved towards him, their fingers extended into sharp hooks.
Magnus stepped in front of Frank and held out his hands.
The boys halted. After a moment they began to mewl and whimper. They looked at Magnus, tilting their heads to one side as they approached him with caution, clicking in their throats.
