by Hartill, Tom
“I’m sorry mate I was just, it doesn’t matter, I’ll just…”
Alan makes a noise that sounds almost like a growl and starts moving towards me. As he staggers forward, he stretches out his arms and gnashes his teeth together. He keeps doing that, biting, snapping, the clicking sound they make is profoundly awful. My bladder feels full and heavy and I am very scared now, of what has happened to Alan and what it might mean. I retreat into the kitchen, but he follows me, more urgently, with that shuffling lurching gait.
“Alan what the fuck?-”
He grabs me around my upper arms and pulls his face towards me, and for a bizarre second I think he’s going to try to kiss me, then his teeth snap shut again, inches from my nose. His breath reeks, he smells rotten, hideous and I shove him backwards as hard as I can. He staggers into the wall.
“Did you just try to fucking bite me?!”
He doesn’t answer, but starts coming towards me again. I stand nearly a foot taller and a good few pounds heavier but he doesn’t seem to care. I’m angry now, as well as scared, and if he tries to do that again I’ll have to hit him.
“Alan for fucks sake, what are you doing? Stay the fuck back or I’ll knock you out I swear to God.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me, but keeps coming, making that horrible noise all the while. I look for something I can throw at him, just to get him to stop or at least slow him down. The closest thing is the kettle which I grab with my right hand.
“Right just back off or I’m gonna-”
He lunges at me and I swing, more in surprise than any kind of calculated blow, but it’s a heavy kettle, fully metal, and I catch him hard on the side of his head, knocking him over.
I see a spurt of red from where I’ve clocked him and my stomach does a somersault.
“Oh fuck me, Alan I’m sorry I-”
Alan steadily lurches upright. He does nothing to acknowledge his injury even though blood is now running freely down his face. The blood is strange though, it seems too dark, too thick. He starts that horrible moaning growl again and my fear turns to terror. Alan is no longer my friendly, if somewhat annoying, downstairs neighbour. He’s a monster, and he wants to kill me.
Fuck that, he wants to eat you!
That bloody voice again. Alan surges forward, fingers grasping and I have time to notice that his fingertips seem have taken on a blue-ish tinge before they are hooking into my shirt, and his face is lunging for mine.
I somehow get my left arm up and between us but as I step backwards, I trip over the patio doorway and land on my back with Alan on top of me. His face is millimetres away, the stench of him filling my nostrils making me want to gag. I think I’ve started screaming and right now it’s all too easy to imagine those bloodstained teeth sawing through the flesh of my cheek.
I realise I still have the kettle in my right hand, and I drive it hard into his temple. The first blow rocks him, splattering Alan’s blood onto my face. I press my lips tightly shut- I don’t want to swallow that shit- and hit him again. The second blow dislodges him and we roll over, me on top this time. He is still grabbing at me, snapping at me, thrashing his bleeding head from side to side like a wild animal. I pin him with my knees and use both hands to bring the kettle down onto his forehead. As it hits home, I see a flap of his scalp peel back, exposing the gleaming bone beneath, and I feel my gorge rise, but I don’t stop. I am half mad with terror and I just keep hitting him over and over. I bring the kettle down again and again, smashing his nose to a pulp, shattering his front teeth, until I hear a crack, almost like porcelain and Alan suddenly stops moving.
My arms are trembling and the base of the kettle is covered in gore and something that looks a little like porridge. I have a second to realise that I’m looking at Alan’s brains- his fucking brains- and I fling the kettle away, wiping my hands frantically on my shirt. I scrabble backwards, sliding across the patio on my backside until I’m against the garden fence. Alan is not moving.
Alan is a fucking mess.
Oh God. I’ve just killed a man.
My cereal comes up in a rush, and I vomit onto the paving. I suppose that I’m in some kind of shock but right now all I want is to get out of here. I get to my feet and head for the side gate.
What about the keys to the van?
Shit shit shit! That’s the whole reason I came down here in the first place to get those keys. Can I take them? Kill a man then steal his car? That’s what this is now, a murder/robbery. I am a murderer.
Or maybe not.
I mean, it was self-defence right? He would have killed me if I hadn’t…
Hadn’t what? Caved his head in? He’s got thirty years on you. Who do you think is going to believe that?
Oh fuck me. I feel like I’m going to be sick again. I run back upstairs and lock my door. I sit with my back against it, my head in my hands. I am trembling. I know that there is no way on earth I get away with this. I’ve seen enough CSI to know that any police force in the world could find enough evidence to nail me to the fucking wall.
I have to turn myself in.
I walk shakily to my phone and dial 999.
The ‘engaged’ tone sounds in my ear. I dial again.
Same thing.
What the hell is going on? I go to the computer to Google my local police station but the internet’s still down. I dig out the Yellow Pages instead and find the direct number. I realise as I’m doing this that I’m crying. I dial the number. It rings for almost a full minute before someone picks up. It’s a woman’s voice, clipped and a little fraught. I can hear voices shouting and phones ringing in the background.
“Hello?” She says.
“H-Hello, is this…the police?” That sounds so weird out loud.
“Yes do you have an emergency?”
I swallow, and hesitate.
“Hello? Sir?”
“Yes- yes I’m still here.”
“Do you have an emergency?”
I take a deep shaky breath. “I’ve just…I killed someone.” There’s a few seconds of silence. “I said-”
“I heard you sir, please explain to me what happened.”
“Well I went to speak to my neighbour, he lives downstairs and I- He- something was wrong with him, he attacked me and I hit him with- I was defending myself, you know and-” My throat closes and I feel a sob hitch in my chest. “And I-”
“Sir?” She interrupts.
“Y-yes?”
“Did he bite you?”
“I……What?”
“Did he bite you?” She repeats louder.
“Er, no he didn’t, I mean, he tried to but I-”
“Did he scratch you, or break the skin in any way?”
“No I don’t think so…”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes I’m sure.”
She pauses for a moment. “Sir I’m going to ask you a question now that may seem strange but I need you to answer. Did you kill your neighbour with a blow to the head?”
I am bewildered. “Yes.”
“Did you destroy the brain?”
I think of the gore on the base of the kettle and I nearly retch. “Yes. Yes I did.”
“Then Sir, what I need you to do is return to your residence and lock your doors. Do not attempt to reach friends or family.”
“What? Aren’t you sending someone to-”
“Sir! In the current circumstances I do not have the time or energy to waste on repeating myself, do you understand what I’ve told you?”
“Er yeah I guess-”
“Good. If personnel become available I’ll try to send someone out to you. Until then, remain indoors.”
“Ok but-” The call ends. I take a second to realise that the officer never asked for my address.
What the fuck is going on? Something very bad is happening in London, if not everywhere.
Though on the plus side, and by the sound of things, I might not be going to jail.
I still need to get in touch wit
h Tess. If she’s at home, I can take Alan’s van, but if she’s at work, getting to her might be impossible. If only I could talk to her!
I have to go back downstairs and get Alan’s keys, a prospect that, whilst it doesn’t exactly fill me with joy, no longer seems impossible. I guess bashing someone’s brains out is easier to come to terms with once the police have told you it was the correct thing to do.
God that sounds pretty fucking awful.
I weigh up my options. A large part of me (most of me actually) wants to do exactly as I’ve been instructed, to barricade myself in my flat, keep watching the news and wait for this to blow over. From the sound of it, what’s happened to Alan is happening to a lot of people.
Why did she ask if he bit you?
I suppose that’s how this…thing, this disease is passed on. Alan had a bandage on his hand didn’t he? When was he bitten then? Yesterday? Two days ago? How long does it take to turn you from a pleasant old man into a homicidal maniac?
I guess it doesn’t matter, the important thing is, don’t get bitten by one. How many of those things stand between me and Tess? How many are now roaming the streets of London, chowing down on the remaining populace?
Christ.
But I can’t stay. I need to know if Tess is alright, and my flat’s not exactly built for a siege. My current supplies amount to bread, beans, cereal, a questionable onion and assorted booze. Not exactly the best scenario for waiting out an epidemic.
The van it is then.
I change the tissue paper in my sock, it’s pretty saturated with blood, but hell, I’ve seen worse today. The bleeding seems to have slowed anyway, but it stings like hell and still hurts to walk on. I think of the first aid kit on Alan’s kitchen counter. I take my phone, keys and wallet, and head out the door. I take one last look at the flat, I guess it might be a while before I’m back here. I don’t take any extra clothes, I have stuff at Tess’s if I need it, and her place is a better safety prospect than mine.
I head outside and through the alley into Alan’s garden. He’s still on the ground where I left him, his head at the centre of a rapidly congealing pool of blood. I’m sickened, but a little relieved. I was half worried that he wasn’t dead after all, that he’d be up and about, ready for round two.
I gingerly step past his corpse and into the kitchen. I see his van keys on a hook on the wall and put them in my pocket. I take his first aid kit into the sitting room and dig out some antiseptic cream and a fresh bandage. I go to take the cap off the tube of cream but I stop myself. There is a splotch of Alan’s infected blood on it. I throw it away instinctively. I run across the hall into the bathroom to wash my hands and catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I start laughing, I can’t help it. The entire left side of my face is covered in Alan’s blood. I hadn’t remembered to wipe it off.
And I was scared of getting it on my fingers. Ha!
I try to remember if I’ve licked my lips since killing Alan and find I can’t remember. I don’t think I’ve swallowed any blood but who knows? I use one of Alan’s towels to wipe most of it off, then wash off the rest in the sink. There’s a bit in my hair but I get it out as best I can, the hairs near my temple are left with a reddish brown tint.
I go back to the living room and finish bandaging my injury, sans antiseptic, and flick on Alan’s TV. A news reporter, a middle-aged guy in shirt and tie is talking frantically into the camera.
“-barely containing the situation, we’re hearing reports that people are being killed in the hundreds, that some of them are being partially-… partially eaten. The police are trying to contain the situation as best they can but I don’t know how much longer they can hold out. We saw an army helicopter overhead about twenty minutes ago but whether the military can be deployed in time to stop this- this virus is anyone’s guess. I don’t know how long we can stay here but- What?”
The camera man is yelling and points out of shot.
“Oh my God-” The reporter falls backward as a larger man, mouth dripping blood barrels into him. He sinks his teeth into the guys face and rips a chunk of flesh away as the reporter screams. It’s so loud and high-pitched that it sounds almost feminine. As he pulls frantically away, his face is caught in shot, and I can see his teeth and tongue through the hole in his torn cheek. Then the camera falls and all I can see is the reporters legs drumming against the tarmac as the creature attacking him bowls him over. The feed abruptly cuts back to the studio.
The anchorwoman is close to tears, her hands are shaking as she tries to sort through papers.
“We ah…seem to be experiencing technical difficulties… we are- are trying to find the locations of the aid stations being set up in the city centre….The underground is now closed and public transport is heavily disrupted so those of you trying to get home should…er…should go to…. I’m sorry I don’t…er…” She touches her ear piece. “We are now going live to a statement from the secretary for health, Peter Henshaw.”
The screen cuts to a press conference and a small man with grey curly hair and an ill-fitting suit is gripping the lectern in front of him so hard he looks like he might snap it in two. As he talks he sips frequently from a water glass beside him.
“At present it appears that London and surrounding areas are in the grip of some kind of new and previously unheard of disease. We believe it to be a new strain of rabies virus, that induces extreme and…homicidal aggression in those infected.”
A storm of questions from the assembled press greets this statement;
“Is it airborne-?”
“Is it true that people are being eaten alive-?”
“How are the government containing this-?”
“Can they stop it-?”
“Is there a cure-?”
The secretary holds up his hands for silence. The room quiets down until only the clicking of cameras can be heard. “We believe that the virus is not air or waterborne, however it can be transmitted by contact with the infected, specifically via bodily fluids. The most common source of infection we’ve seen is from bites. Now, as to whether people are being eaten I think that is probably a little far-fetched based on the…ah…”
He takes a long drink and wipes the perspiration from his forehead.
“The government has brought in various branches of the military to assist the police in the apprehension and containment of those infected, and we believe we will have managed to diffuse the current situation inside 24 hours.”
Another furore from the press, he raises his voice to be heard.
“I MUST STRESS, that people should no longer seek help at hospitals within the city as these areas have now become inundated with those in need of treatment. If you or someone in your family has been bitten, treat the injury as best you can at home and quarantine yourself. We are sending search and rescue sweep teams through every borough so leave a note on your front door if you or your household have been infected, and someone will come to you. Avoid the city centre, stay at home and do not attempt to reach friends and family in other parts of the city. That is all, thank you.” He leaves the podium so fast that he’s almost running, heckled by dozens of shouted questions, requests for clarification and a considerable number of jeers. As the feed cuts back to the studio I flick off the T.V.
Shit
Things are getting worse. People are dying, lots of people and those that aren’t are being turned into deranged cannibals. The odds of me reaching Tess are getting longer by the minute, and despite what Mr Henshaw says, he looks like a man who knows that pretty soon, what he says won’t matter.
I have to get moving. I head out of Alan’s flat (through the front door this time, I’d rather avoid looking at him again if possible) but before I get out of the building I realise it’d probably be wise to grab something I can defend myself with. Unfortunately, the only weapon I have any experience with is a kettle, and that somehow seems impractical.
I go back into Alan’s kitchen and search his cabinets. I fi
nd his tool box, and after some consideration, select a sturdy-looking claw hammer. As an afterthought, I also take a large kitchen knife out of the rack by the sink. I feel a little silly now, carrying these, but I’d rather look like a dick then be eaten alive by infected crazies. I head out into the street and spot Alan’s van. As I walk towards it I see a curtain twitch. A middle age woman, still in a dressing gown is watching me suspiciously and as I turn towards her she hurriedly pulls the curtain across.
There’s worse out than me today love.
I open the door to the van and climb inside. The doors are stuffed with old pamphlets and magazines, I’m pretty sure I see a porn mag in there which makes me feel weirder than anything else I’ve seen today.
Ol’ Alan liked to get his jollies on the move it seems.
The absurdity of this idea crashes over me in a wave and I start to laugh, hysterically until the tears are streaming down my face and I’m slapping my hand on the dashboard. The thought of cheerful, harmless old Alan jacking his wrinkly old crank to Mayfair on a Sunday afternoon drive is blackly funny and I can’t help myself. The thought of seeing him in the hallway and knowing he-
I stop laughing abruptly. I won’t be seeing him in the hallway, today or any other day. I won’t be seeing him because Alan is lying on his patio with his head smashed to pieces and his brains drying in the sun.
