by Adam Millard
“Please, I don’t want to die!” she sobbed as her fingers brushed against something soft and sticky. She curled her hand around it, and with one tug, she pulled it free.
A worm. Just a regular worm. She sighed, relieved, and dropped the worm into the water which covered her waist entirely. Closing her eyes, she relaxed back against the artic wall, reprimanding herself for being so silly.
“Scared of a worm,” she muttered. “No wonder I’m a virgin.”
That was what scared her the most. The thought of dying without experiencing a wo/man’s, touch terrified her. She’d known her own touch, but that didn’t count, and she hadn’t been that good at it anyway, too scared of breaking a nail to get properly involved.
As she lay there, half-submerged in the back of the abandoned artic lorry, she found herself drifting off. Fatigue was slowly setting in. Now was not the time for napping, but she couldn’t help it. Maybe by the time she woke up it would all be over, President Sheen would have done his thing, and the escaped animals would all have been shot, maimed, or adopted by Angelina Jolie.
When she woke—ten minutes? Half an hour? Three days later?—it took a few seconds for Jessica’s eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they did, she wished she’d never woken at all.
Her knees were covered with what looked like snails. Giant shells clattered against one another as the creatures slithered up her body. There were eight of them in total, an octet of gastropods that had no right to grow to such colossal proportions. It would have been mesmerising to watch if, say, it was happening to somebody else, but Jessica just wanted them off.
They’re just snails, she told herself. But that was how all tragedies started. It’s just a spider, it’s only a volcano, it’s just a suicide bomber.
She slowly reached down and flicked the shell of the nearest snail, but the creature didn’t budge. It had all the suction of a Garfield window cling. Without pausing to think about it, she grabbed the shell in her hand and pulled hard. It came away this time, at least most of it did, and the bit that remained wasn’t going to get far on its own. She dropped the shell and its dead inhabitant into the water and reached for the next one.
Suddenly, the snail reared up. A harpoon shot out of it, catching Jessica right in the throat. As if on cue, the other snails stopped slithering and fired harpoons into Jessica’s face. Jessica screeched as the pain coursed through her entire body. It was like being stung by a thousand angry wasps all at once.
She lunged to her feet, almost fell straight forward onto her face as pins and needles rendered her legs useless. She knocked the snails off; their harpoons retracted from her face and throat as they tumbled into the water, where she hoped they would die a terrible and painful death.
What kind of snail fucking stings you in the face? There were things out there that Jessica would never understand: snails with harpoons, spiders with antlers, flying fucking rats! You only had to look at the zonkey to realise that the world around was no more surreal than Pandora, just with hundred percent less Na’vi.
It was becoming difficult to breathe. No matter how much air she sucked into her lungs, it didn’t feel like nearly enough. And her face! It felt like it was on fire. She reached up, prodded around, and quickly realised that her entire head had ballooned. Whatever those little bastards had pumped into her was causing her face to swell. Another minute or two and she would look like Joseph Merrick in drag.
“Oh God! Oh please! Please, not the face!” She dropped to her knees, not that she had much choice in the matter. The snails’ venom was slowly paralysing her. She was going to be hideous and motionless, a real treat for those that eventually stumbled upon her corpse.
As her face continued to expand and her limbs lost all sensation, Jessica found herself slipping down into the water. By the time her head disappeared beneath the murky surface, she hadn’t breathed for almost an entire minute, which meant that death came relatively quickly.
A crown—cheap, tacky and pointless—floated to the surface. Off in the distance, car-alarms continued to wail, house-alarms continued to screech, and all manner of beasties continued to tear the residents of Cromer apart.
13
“So, let me get this straight,” Thad said. “You’re not real soldiers?”
The sergeant shrugged. His men stopped moving, anticipating an argument. “What would you define as a real soldier?” he asked. “Do we go out to war zones? No. Do we fight for our country? Not really. But we’re wearing camouflage uniforms, which makes us practically soldiers. We’re more paintballers than anything. You give us a mile of forest, a gas-powered gun, and a tub of yellow ammunition, we’ll kick ass all afternoon, or at least until teatime.”
Thad couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “None of you have ever killed anything before?” he asked, sidestepping the corpse of an old man floating along on the water.
“I haven’t,” the sergeant said, “but Brewster over there, he used to be a bit of a hunter back in his day. Ain’t that right, Brewster?”
One of the soldiers stopped moving, turned, and said, “Aye. They used to call me Shootster Brewster.”
“Because you were so good?” Thad said.
Brewster shook his head. “Because it could take me up to a hundred shoots ter kill anything.”
Thad took a deep breath, surveyed the flooded landscape. People were sloshing around, looking for survivors, trying to locate missing children. One man with a bright pink snorkel attached to his face bobbed along the surface. Whatever he was looking for, it was surely long gone by now. The whole town was in chaos, and Thad Bailey suddenly realised how severe their situation was. The fact that he was now part of a ridiculous platoon of what could only be described as paintball mercenaries only served to make the whole episode worse.
“I’m pretty sure the cavalry will be here soon,” the sergeant said, attempting to light a waterlogged cigar, which he’d produced from his breast pocket.
A minute ago, Thad thought, you were the fucking cavalry.
“What if they don’t come?” the one called Hudson said. “What then? Game over, man. It’s game over!”
“Hudson, you really need to sort your shit out, son,” the sergeant who wasn’t, in fact, a sergeant said. “Have you thought about counselling? Perhaps medication?”
“Erm, guys, we have a problem.”
It was Brewster leading the way, though now he’d drawn to a halt. The five soldiers up front stared out over the decimated town. One of them, a guy by the name of Stanley Twobrick, was trembling so violently that the water surrounding him had become frothy.
The sergeant joined his faux-platoon on the front line, and when he saw what they saw, his bladder gave way. Luckily, none of the others saw him piss himself, but Shootster Brewster felt the water-temperature rise ever so slightly and put it down to a farting frog.
Now’s my chance, Thad thought, staring at the backs of the six camouflaged idiots. Get away. Run while they’re looking at whatever it is they’re looking at.
Just then, the sergeant whirled and dropped to his knees, which probably wasn’t the best thing to do, since the water was waist height. After a second or two, his head reappeared, and once he’d got rid of the snot-bubble and the used condom attached to his earlobe, he said, “Please, Thad, you have to help us! We’re going to die out here! We’re not soldiers! We’re not even professional paintballers! We went once on Twobrick’s stag do, and we lost to a bunch of nuns! Do you know how fucking stealthy nuns are, Thad? Like ninjas, they are! Ninja nuns!”
Thad peeled the sergeant’s hooked fingers from his arm and slapped him hard across the face. A giant, red handprint appeared on the sergeant’s cheek, but at least he’d stopped babbling on about Kung-Fu clergy. “What’s got into you?” he said. “You’re acting like a bunch of cowards.” He waded through the water until he was level with the five soldiers, who were still mesmerised by whatever they were watching.
There, just a few hundred feet away, a dozen large c
ats were swimming toward them. They appeared to be in perfect formation, as if they’d sat down and discussed the best course of attack, only for the lion to pipe up with, “V-formation! It worked in The Great War, and it’ll damn well work now!”
“Maybe they’re not, what’s the word? Carnawhores!” Brewster said, scratching his head, knowing that if it came down to it, he would trip one of the others just to get away.
“They’re big cats,” Thad said. “Nobody ever saw a vegetarian big cat.” It’s ridiculous, Thad thought, that I have to explain this to a bunch of grown-ass men.
“My sister-in-law had a skunk once that would only eat that jelly stuff you get in pork pies,” Twobrick said. “But that’s got nothing to do with this, has it?”
The sergeant shook his head. He’d just taken his second piss of the minute and was ready to stand up now to address his men. “We can’t outswim them, can we?” he said.
“Is your last name Phelps?” Thad said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
The sergeant sighed. “So how the fuck do we take down a bunch of hungry big cats?”
The cats, sensing their meal was almost within reach, picked up the pace. The lion at the front roared, and the six non-soldiers and Thad whimpered in unison.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Thad said. “They’ve already seen us. Turns out that camouflage of yours doesn’t work in Cromer. We can try to run, but I don’t fancy our chances. Have you ever tried running when something’s chasing you? You just end up giggling.”
“It’s better than standing here like fucking wet dicks,” Brewster said, slowly moving backwards through the water. “I don’t know about you guys, but being chewed up and eventually shat out by a cheetah rates high on my Things Not to Experience in My Lifetime list.”
“Okay. Let’s go,” Thad said, barely more than a whisper. He turned slowly and was about to start running/swimming/flailing for his life when something flashed past him, something bright red, almost like fire. The smell of smoke filled the air, and for a moment Thad was blind.
Brewster: “Whathefuck!”
Twobrick: “It’s them homosexual fishermen!”
Sergeant: “Where the hell did they come from?”
Thad: “I can’t see a damn thing. What’s going on?”
There was a loud twhump! followed by the combined growls of the approaching big cats. Thad’s vision slowly returned, and not a moment too soon as far as he was concerned.
“Don’t just stand there!” one of the fisherman, the one holding the flare gun, bellowed. “We can’t hold them off all day!”
Over the last few hours, Thad thought he had seen it all: a ten-metre tidal wave carving a path of destruction through his town; a woman murdered by what was the smallest frog he’d ever seen; a squadron of famished felines swimming in flawless formation. And now this.
The second fisherman lowered a rope over the side of the trawler, which was parked right there in the middle of the street. If they weren’t careful, a traffic warden would be round any minute to slap a ticket on their anchor.
“Quick!” the sergeant said, wading through the water toward the bobbing boat. “Everyone on board!”
The fisherman with the flare gun fired another smoking missile toward the prowling cats. “They’re still coming, Barry!” he screeched in a much higher voice than even he had anticipated.
“Just keep them at arm’s length, Bobby!” Barry said, leaning over the edge of the trawler. “These soldiers need our help, and by God we’re going to give it to them!”
Thad swam toward the illegally-parked trawler, joined the queue forming next to it. “What are we waiting for?” he said. “Get your arses up there!”
The sergeant nodded, grabbed the rope, and started to climb. About two seconds later, he fell back down into the water, shaking his head and rubbing his biceps. “Does anyone here know how to climb a rope?”
“For fuck’s sake!” Thad took a step back and called up to the fishermen. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a ladder up there, only these guys aren’t really soldiers.”
“THE CATS ARE AT THE FRONT OF THE BOAT!” Bobby screamed.
“Never mind!” Thad said. There was no time. He would have to improvise. To the sergeant, he said, “I’d like to say it was nice knowing you, but frankly it’s been a bit of a downer for me.” He grabbed the sergeant around the waist, crouched slightly, and with all his might tossed the man into the air. There was a thud and a grunt as the sergeant thumped into the side the trawler, about a foot away from Thad’s intended destination, and as the poor fella flopped down into the water, the rest of his platoon stepped away from Thad, fearing they were next.
“INCOMING BIG CATS!” Bobby yelled, and then more calmly to his fellow fisherman, “Can they hear me down there? I mean, I keep telling them they’re about to get mutilated, but they don’t seem to care.”
Just then, a ladder hit the water. “Are you sure they know how one of these works?” Barry called down. “It's a little more complicated than rope.”
Thad ushered the five remaining soldiers toward the ladder. “Go on. Get up there and take your sleeping gaffer with you. I’m right behind you.”
The V-formation of big cats appeared at the front of the trawler, and when they saw their food escaping up a ladder (all except for one, and though he was big, he wouldn’t share out adequately amongst a dozen beasts) the noise they made was deafening. It was like listening to Slayer, Megadeth, and Katy Perry all at the same time, absolutely sickening.
Thad put his back to the trawler, watching as the cats spread out, encircling him as if they were a bunch of horny old ladies and he was the Donny Osmond tour bus. There was no escape for him now. If he turned his back for one moment, they would be all over him, which was a bit of a shit as he’d never tried to climb a ladder facing outwards.
The faux-soldiers were safe though. And yet he doubted that would be much of a comforting thought as he was rent limb from limb.
“You can’t fight them!” Barry called down. “I’ve got to get this ladder up, son. I used to have a tabby called Mr. Tiddles, and he was like shit off a shovel when it came to getting into my attic. You understand, don’t you?”
Thad nodded. “Just tell me family that I love them,” he said, though he didn’t know why. He had no family, and even if he had, he doubted the fisherman would know where to find them.
“You don’t mind if I piss off now, do you?” Barry said. “I can’t stand the sight of blood, and I’m almost positive there’s going to be some.”
The big cats were almost upon Thad, whose efforts to deter the beasts by flexing his copious muscles at them seemed to go unnoticed. “No, you go on. Get yourself off. I’m a bit of a bleeder, so I expect it’s going to get pretty gross down here in a second.”
“Cheers, mate. Sorry we couldn’t rescue you and all that. We tried.”
“Oh, I completely understand,” Thad said, snarling at an eager leopard. The ladder to his side slowly retracted, leaving him waist-deep in ocean and completely fenced in by zoo monsters. This was not how he wanted to go. Having sex with Taiwanese twins whilst watching the box-set of 24 on Netflix, that was how he wanted to go. This, well this was just cruel.
The lion seemed to smile as it swam forwards. The rest of its mismatched pride watched intently, awaiting the lion’s orders to go forth and devour.
“I hope you fucking choke on me, you pussies!” Thad said, closing his eyes, preparing himself for the inevitable pain.
“Excuse me,” a calm and somewhat annoying voice said. “You can’t park that boat there.”
Thad opened his eyes to find a traffic-warden standing next to the boat’s rudder. He was so busy writing out a ticket, he failed to notice the throng of big cats licking their lips.
“There’s a car park in the next street, though it’s a little pricey, but not as pricey as this ticket, which I’m afraid is HOLY SHIT ARE THOSE THINGS GOING TO EAT ME!?”
As the cats leapt for the traffi
c-warden, dragging him into the murky water, Thad heaved a massive sigh of relief and jumped for the rope that had been left dangling over the trawler’s side. Unlike the fake soldiers, he knew how to scale a rope, and he was up and over the trawler’s edge in less than three seconds.
“Good to see you again, son,” Barry said as Thad landed on the fishgut-drenched deck. “You’re not bleeding, are you? Because I’m not great at steering this vessel when I’m unconscious.”
14
After almost twenty minutes of aimlessly floating through Cromer on the back of her door, Brandie decided she wasn’t getting anywhere. The people she saw were either dead—and therefore not very conversational—or being attacked by monkeys, who were not quite as silent as the dead folk, but still a little ignorant. No matter how many times she warned the unfortunate souls being laid upon by chimpanzees that hitting them with sticks would only serve to incense the great apes further, they just wouldn’t listen. In the end, she decided to leave them to their own devices and concentrate on keeping a low profile.
She managed to direct her raft toward Cromer Cathedral. Surely there would be survivors there seeking solace in God, praying that the water would recede and that the myriad wild animals would somehow vanish into thin air. And if the support of a mythical deity wasn’t available, the cathedral had a rather nice tea room. If the pastries and scones weren’t all soaked through to the point of inedibility, Brandie imagined it would be a nice way to kill a few hours until the helicopters arrived.
“Hello?” Brandie called out, though not with any great conviction. There was something eerie about the place, and she didn’t like it one bit. She’d expected to see someone by now. Any other time, the cathedral was a hive of activity. “Is anyone there?”
When no one replied, Brandie assumed the townsfolk were all inside, drying off with a tall glass of port and a lamb samosa. It never crossed her mind that the congregation were already dead, that they had been set upon by the animals, the very animals that she was supposed to have dominion over. Of course, it wasn’t her fault. Whoever had had the bright idea of plonking a zoo right next to the fucking sea in the first place? Those were the people that had some explaining to do. Oh, and the meteorologists, seismologists, physicians, government officials, and anyone who’d read the New Testament.
