The Human Condition a-4

by David Moody

  Amy's body is now beginning to move. The first outwardly visible sign of change is in the body's right foot which has begun to spasm and move at the ankle. Over the next few hours this movement gradually spreads to all four limbs and across the torso until, finally, the body is able to stand. Its movements are clumsy and uncoordinated. Coagulated blood and the gelling of the cytoplasm within individual cells (because of the body's increased acidity) is preventing free movement. Its eyes are open but it cannot see. It cannot hear. It cannot feel or react to any external stimulation. The combined effects of gravity, its physical deterioration and the uneven distribution of weight across the corpse after two days of inactivity causes the body to move. Initially it trips and falls like a newborn animal on unsteady legs. Soon, however, its control has reached such a level that it is able to distribute its weight enough to be able to manage a rudimentary walk. Devoid of its senses, the body simply keeps moving forward until it reaches an obstruction. It then shuffles around until it is able to move freely again.

  The body remains in this state for a further two days.

  PHILIP EVANS Part ii

  Wonderful news! I can't believe it! It looks like Mum's going to be all right!

  When I got up this morning I found her out of bed. I couldn't believe my eyes. I mean, I was convinced that she was dead. She must have just been in a coma or something like that. I saw a programme about it once on telly. Anyway, she couldn't hear me and she wasn't very steady on her feet but at least she was up and moving about. I knew she wouldn't leave me alone here.

  I can tell that she's still very ill, mind. She doesn't look well and she smells. But that's nothing that a good soak in the bath won't cure. When she's ready I'll run her a nice hot bath. I say run a bath, but I'll have to bring some water up from the stream at the bottom of the garden and heat it up on the little camping gas stove we keep in the kitchen for emergencies. The taps have been dry for the best part of two days now, and there's no gas either. I don't know what's happening. Still, Mum's getting better and that's the most important thing. I'm sure there are other people whose condition is improving too.

  She's really been shaken up by all of this, has Mum. She's not herself at all. I've had to shut her in her room to stop her wandering off. She just keeps walking around and she won't sit still. Come to mention it, she won't even sit down in her chair or lie on the bed. I keep telling her that she needs her rest but she won't listen to me. I expect she just needs to keep moving for a while after being still for so long.

  I've felt so scared and worried for the last couple of days but now I suddenly feel much better again. Everything is okay. I knew that Mum wouldn't leave me. It's just after lunchtime and I've had to tie Mum to the bed. I didn't know what else to do. She just won't stay still and relax and I'm frightened that she'll do herself even more harm if she keeps on like this. I know it's not right, but what else can I do? There's no-one to ask for help or advice. I keep telling myself that it's in Mum's best interests to be firm with her. If she keeps wandering off then who knows what might happen? I could find her halfway down the road or worse...

  I didn't need to tie her down tightly. She's still not got very much strength. I went out into the back yard and took down the washing line. I couldn't think of anything else to use. I put Mum back into bed (I had to be quite forceful and hold her down while I did it) and wrapped the line right around the bed and the bedclothes. Since Dad died she's only ever had a single bed. That meant I could wrap the line round her a few more times. I left it quite loose because I didn't want to hurt her or upset her. She can still move but she's not strong enough to get out of the rope and get up.

  I keep telling her that I'm doing it for her own good but I don't know if she can hear me.

  I walked into the village this afternoon. I didn't like it there. Some of the people who got ill around the same time as Mum also seem to be getting better. They were walking around too. There were some of them who were still lying where they'd fallen. Poor old Bill Linturn was still sitting in his car, dead to the world.

  The people who were moving were just like Mum. They didn't look at me or answer me when I spoke to them. They scared me with their blank looks and grey skin. I got out of the village as quickly as I could. My place was at home with Mum. I ran most of the way back to the cottage and locked the door behind me.

  More good news! Mum seems to be getting better every day. I still can't get her to eat or drink anything but when I went in to see her just now I'm sure she turned her head and looked at me. When I spoke to her she reacted. I think she recognised my voice. She tried to get up but I told her to relax and take things easy. She's still trying to do more than she should. She won't lie still now. She's wriggling and twisting on the bed all the time.

  She's getting stronger by the hour and I've just had to tighten the ropes.

  I think she's going to be all right!

  JACOB FLYNN Part ii `Bewsey?'

  Flynn opened his eyes and looked up in tired disbelief at the figure standing swaying in front of him. It was Bewsey. But it couldn't be, could it? Two days ago he'd stood in this very spot and watched him die. It was impossible. Over the last forty-eight hours Flynn had been forced to consider so many impossible thoughts and possibilities that one more didn't seem to make any difference. He decided that he was hallucinating and buried his face in his grey, prison-issue pillow. That was the most plausible explanation he could think of. He'd hadn't had anything to eat or drink for more than two days, the rest of the world had either somehow been destroyed or had inexplicably disappeared, and he'd been trapped in a ten foot by seven foot cell with only the corpses of his former cell-mates for company. What was left of his mind was obviously playing tricks on him again.

  Bewsey's clumsy corpse staggered across the tiny room, tripping over Salman's dead body and knocking into the small bookcase next to the sink, sending its contents crashing to the ground. Flynn sat up as the unexpected thumping and clattering rang out around the cell. This was no hallucination, much as he quickly wished it was. He pushed himself against the wall and into the shadows and watched from the relative safety of his dark bottom bunk as the body awkwardly dragged itself around.

  For a while he remained completely still, almost paralysed with fear. Then, very slowly, he inched forward so that he could get a better view of what remained of Bewsey. The dead man's face was cold and expressionless, his eyes empty and unfocussed. The corpse obviously had very little control over its numb, unresponsive body. It simply shuffled across the floor until something prevented it from moving any further forward and then, more through luck than judgement, turned and shuffled back. Salman, by contrast, still lay where he had originally fallen, face down in a pool of dark brown, congealed blood.

  `Bewsey?' Flynn hissed anxiously, not sure whether or not he actually wanted to attract the bizarre figure's attention. The lack of any response to his voice was strangely reassuring.

  Still shell-shocked from almost forty-eight hours of silence, fear and isolation and mentally exhausted from searching constantly for the answers to countless obviously unanswerable questions, he moved forward again and cautiously swung his feet down from the bunk. Bewsey didn't react. The corpse continued to aimlessly move around, colliding with walls, furniture and, eventually, with Flynn himself. He instinctively lifted his hands and grabbed hold of the body to prevent it from getting any closer.

  `Bewsey?' he asked again. `What the fucking hell is going on? I thought you were dead...' Flynn stared deep into the dull and clouded eyes of the corpse. They were covered with a milky-white film of sorts and it was clear that they were unseeing and unfocussed. He let the body go and watched as it tripped off again in another direction before turning and tripping back towards him. No wiser and no less terrified, Flynn crawled back onto his bunk and pulled his covers tight around him.

  Less than two hours had passed before he decided that he couldn't stand it any longer. Bewsey's body just never stopped, not even for a second. It
continued to shuffle about aimlessly and lethargically. It was the noise and the constant movement that Flynn was finding hardest to handle. Why didn't Bewsey just lie down and stay dead like Salman? He couldn't take it any longer. He had to do something about it.

  Creeping anxiously forward again, Flynn climbed off his bunk and looked around for some kind of weapon or implement with which he might be able to disable the corpse. He had finally forced himself to admit that this definitely was a corpse moving to and fro in front of him. How could it not be? How could someone lie motionless and without breathing for two days and not be dead? Mind you, he thought wearily, how could that same person now be moving again?

  It was no surprise that the prison cell contained very few items which could be used effectively as a weapon. In fact, all that Flynn could find was the jug they used to pour drinks of water from. Long since empty, the plastic jug had a hard base which, if he used it with enough force, might just be strong enough to use to batter the body into submission. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed Bewsey by the throat with one hand, raised the jug above his head with the other, and then brought it crashing down in the middle of the dead man's face with brutal force. He lifted the jug away again and saw that, despite being a little more bruised and bloodied, the lifeless expression had not changed. He lifted the jug and brought it down again and again and again...

  It wasn't working. It didn't matter what he did to Bewsey's body, the dead man didn't react. He continued to move relentlessly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Flynn was even there.

  Increasingly desperate, Flynn let the body go and then turned and dragged his bunk bed into the middle of the cell, swinging it round through ninety degrees so that it formed a barrier across the width of the small room. With mounting disgust he grabbed hold of Bewsey's body again and pushed and shoved the man's clumsy remains over the metal frame of the bed and out onto the other side, successfully confining the cadaver. Keen to separate himself from both of his dead cellmates, he then did the same with Salman. The second body was stiff and inflexible and was difficult to move.

  Tired, Flynn leant against the cell door and peered out through the bars, hoping to catch sight of someone (anyone) else in the oppressive semi-darkness. He could see movement in other cells across the landing, but when he called out to the men over there they didn't respond. He assumed that they were in the same unnatural and inexplicable condition as what remained of Bewsey.

  He could hear slow, heavy, dragging footsteps approaching. A figure emerged from the shadows at the other end of the corridor. He couldn't tell who it was at first. As it gradually came into view, however, he could see that it was one of the prison officers. In fact, he was sure it was the officer he'd seen dead at the bottom of the staircase. The dead guard lumbered towards him, its head hanging heavily to one side. Although tired, frightened and confused, Flynn immediately realised the importance of seeing this body. The officers had keys and, if he could reach them, then for the first time there was a real chance of him escaping from the cell.

  Suddenly more alive and alert, Flynn watched the dead officer intently as it approached. Then, when it was almost level with the cell door, he stretched out his arm between the bars and attempted to grab hold of it. The tips of his outstretched fingers brushed the side of the corpse's sleeve, but not enough for him to be able to get a grip. His heart sank as the body stumbled past and out of reach again.

  The prison landing was clear and without obstruction, leaving the dead officer free to continually stagger from virtually one end to the other. Flynn watched the body's every move like a hawk. Eventually, some four and a half hours after he had first noticed the corpse, he was finally able to catch hold of it. He managed to slide his fingers into the creature's shirt pocket and, once he had a grip, he was able to pull the comparatively weak figure towards him. Once close enough he then grabbed the cadaver in a neck lock and, straining to reach and having to fight to ignore the pain and discomfort as he stretched and forced his free arm through the bars, he tugged and yanked and pulled at the body until he was able to reach its belt and keys.

  Half an hour later he was free. INNOCENCE

  It was almost fun to begin with; a game, an adventure. But now he's had enough. He doesn't like being on his own anymore. He's scared, he's hungry and he's lonely. He wants everything to get back to how it used to be before it happened.

  Dean McFarlane is seven years old.

  The day before yesterday, as they were walking to school together, Dean's mother dropped dead in front of him.

  `Dean,' Mum sighed, `you've only been back at school for a couple of days, how comes you've got yourself in trouble with the teacher already?'

  `She don't like me,' he answered as he followed his mum along the garden path and out onto the street. They were late setting off for school and Mum was annoyed. He'd been dragging his feet all morning and he seemed to have slowed down again now that they were finally out of the house and on their way. Even though she was seven months pregnant his mum marched along the road at double his speed. `She picks on me,' he whined pathetically. `She lets Gary and them lot get away with anything. I never done nothing and she blames me when...'

  `What do you mean, you never done nothing?' Mum snapped, stopping and turning round to face Dean. `What kind of a way to talk is that? If you never done nothing, then you must have done something...'

  Dean looked at her and screwed up his face. What was she going on about now? She didn't believe him, did she? She didn't even want to try and understand. Anyway, he decided, he didn't care what she said because he knew Miss Jinks was picking on him and he knew that he was going to get Gary Saunders back as well at lunchtime or afternoon break because he'd got him into trouble yesterday afternoon and...

  `When I tell your father what you've been up to,' Mrs McFarlane warned, pointing her finger accusingly at her son, `he'll kick your backside.' She turned and began to walk again, still talking. `You know what he's like, he just won't stand for this kind of behaviour. I suggest that you...'

  She stopped talking mid-sentence.

  `Mum?'

  Mrs McFarlane stopped walking again. Suddenly she was standing in the middle of the pavement looking straight ahead, pulling that kind of puzzled, almost angry face that she pulled when she was out shopping with Dean and she couldn't remember what she needed, or when she didn't know which way to go, or when Dean's baby brother growing inside her started to kick and move. Expecting her to start walking again, Dean went a few steps further forward before stopping and turning back when he realised she still wasn't moving. She was still stood in the same spot, looking frozen and lost. Now she was rubbing the side of her neck and she looked like she was in pain.

  `What's the matter, Mum?' he asked again. Mrs McFarlane looked down at her son but didn't say anything. She couldn't speak. The pain in her throat was getting worse. Her eyes were suddenly watery and wide with unexpected shock and sudden, searing agony. She dropped her shopping bag and it tipped over onto its side. Dean immediately crouched down and began to quickly gather up her spilled belongings, still looking up anxiously into her face.

  `Dean, I can't...' she began to try and say, her voice a quiet, strangled whisper. `My throat is...'

  Without warning she fell to her knees directly in front of her son. He jumped back in fear. Suddenly at eye level with him she began to retch and gag violently. The inside of her throat had swollen rapidly and already her windpipe was almost completely blocked. In seconds blood began to trickle freely from brutal lesions which had ripped open at the back of her mouth. Her head hung forward and she dribbled, spat and coughed a long, sticky string of bloodied saliva onto the grey pavement. Reaching out for her son she spluttered and coughed again and began to choke.

  `Mum...' Dean whined with tears of panic and fear rolling down his cheeks. He shuffled back along the ground away from her, scared and confused by what was happening. He scrambled up onto his feet and looked around for help but he couldn't see anyone else n
earby. If he could just find another grown-up who could help... He looked for Mrs Campbell who lived three doors down at number seventeen � she was always sat looking out of her living room window. If she could see what was happening then maybe she'd come out to help him and...

  Clutching her stomach in agony, Mrs McFarlane groaned, screwed up her bloodied face, rolled over onto her back and then began to spasm and twitch. Now sobbing with helpless terror, Dean crouched back down next to her and grabbed her shoulder, trying desperately to hold her steady and to make her stop throwing herself about. He was scared that she was going to hurt herself or the baby. Her eyes were still wide open and she stared at him with an expression on her face which frightened him more than anything he'd ever seen before.

  And then it stopped.

  As quickly as it had started it was over and Mrs McFarlane lay motionless on the ground. Her eyes were staring up into space and her mouth hung wide open. A pool of dark blood was gathering around her frozen face.

  Dean shoved her and shook her and tried to get her to respond but she wouldn't move.

  I knew straightaway that she had died because I kept shouting at her to wake up but she wouldn't. I kept shaking her shoulder and shouting into her ear but she wouldn't move. I tried to clear up some of the blood that was on her face. I got some tissues out of her handbag but I just made things worse and got her in even more of a mess. She'd got blood in her hair and inside one of her ears and I couldn't get that out either.

  Grandad Johnson told me once about the time he'd saved a man's life when there had been an accident. He said you had to make sure the person who's hurt is breathing before you do anything, and he showed me how to do it. He said you could feel for a thing like a little heartbeat on their wrist or their neck, or you could just listen to them breathing. I couldn't remember exactly where to hold Mum's wrist so I just listened to her instead. I put my ear right next to her mouth and listened and listened and listened but I couldn't hear anything.