Monsterland (An Apocalyptic Horror)

by Shaun Whittington

  Another blast could be heard, which made Gordon jump. Christopher had just shot James. Gordon was sure that it was because he had turned from the wounds he had sustained. This was confirmed when his wife, Angela, quickly got to her feet. Her eyes were bloodshot and she snarled in a way that made both Gordon, and especially Christopher, realise that she wasn't the Angela Horton of old, and now had a savage infection coursing through her body and had turned her into this vicious Runner.

  She quickly lunged at Christopher and whilst he stood in shock, too slow to act, she tore his throat out, the blood splashing all over his shoes. He didn't have time to scream. He just dropped the gun and fell to the floor with a deathly thump.

  Gordon had finally managed to push his own defunct attacker off of him, took the knife from its neck, and staggered to his feet. The thing that used to be Angela quickly twisted its neck in Gordon's direction, bits of her husband's bloody throat still being chewed, and ran at Gordon.

  He tried to use the knife again, but she was too quick. They wrestled on the floor and her strength frightened him. He didn't know whether she was stronger than him, or she simply had more aggression, giving her that edge. Suddenly she collapsed on top of Gordon, motionless. Gordon looked up and saw Joan standing above him with a brass ornament in her right hand, blood was dripping off of it.

  Gordon managed to get Angela off of him and noticed she was still twitching. She wasn't quite dead yet. Gordon was exhausted and went over to Christopher. He put his hand in Christopher's pockets and took out the extra shells. He then took the shotgun and reloaded it. He had used one before when he used to go clay pigeon shooting, and that was about it as far as his experience with firearms were concerned. Christopher's body then suddenly twitched, and his red eyes opened.

  "He's turned!" screamed Joan.

  She was right. He had turned, but what Gordon had noticed was that although Christopher had turned into one of these freaks, he was already dying. The blood continued to pump out of his throat and a half-snarl was released. The infected Christopher saw the two individuals, standing, staring at him. He tried to push himself up, but the lack of blood had weakened him, and then his body dropped back to the floor. He never got up again.

  Joan muttered, "Well, that confirms that they can die just like us."

  Gordon shook his head. "That's because they are human, just infected. I'm sick of repeating myself."

  "Well don't then. Miserable twat."

  With the pair of them in shock, their feet felt wobbly as they walked away from the scene. It was surreal beyond all recognition; there was five bodies in the living room, Angela had now stopped twitching, and the blood that covered the laminated floorboards of the living room seemed too much.

  Both persons were plagued with shock and Gordon went to the front door, opened it, then silently walked outside. He took a seat on the step, and rested the shotgun on his lap.

  Stammered Joan, "Wh-what the fuck are you doing? We need to get back in the basement."

  Gordon looked out into the fog. It had cleared a little, and he could just about see the road. After the violent melee that had just taken place, Gordon welcomed the quiet. Joan then tapped him on the shoulder, rather hard, trying to get his attention and snap him out of his temporary paralysis. She was convinced he was in shock. "Come on, Gordon. It's dangerous out here."

  "The window's fucked."

  "We should board it up."

  "What with? And what's the point anyway? You saw those things crash through the living room window as if it was made of paper. You saw what they could do on the TV."

  They remained outside and they both heard it, but Joan was the first to speak up. "You hear that?"

  Gordon nodded, stood to his weary feet, and got the shotgun ready.

  The light buzzing was slowly becoming louder. It was obvious that it was from a vehicle, but who could it be?

  Gordon then turned his attention to the left. There was another sound he could hear, but what was it? It sounded like the slapping of feet on tarmac, like somebody running, but it was hard to tell with the growing sound of the engine advancing from the right, and the thick fog wasn't helping matters either.

  Apart from a section of the road in front of the guesthouse, nothing else could be seen. Gordon seemed unruffled, unless it was the shock paralysing his feelings. Joan, however, could now hear both sets of sounds and seemed spooked.

  "Let's go inside," she tried to beckon Gordon. "We better see how Stripy John is. He went to the toilet."

  "He's probably hiding in there after hearing the noises," said Gordon.

  "I know."

  "Get him and go into the basement." Gordon spoke coldly; his demeanour worried Joan. Was he having a nervous breakdown? Why wasn't he frightened? Was he still in shock?

  The evening before he had broken down, now he had just escaped an attack and was now the bearer of a shotgun, waiting. For what? She didn't know.

  "I don't like the sound of those footsteps," confessed Joan. "Let's get into the basement."

  "Neither do I, but there could be innocent, unsuspecting people in the vehicle coming from the right."

  "Christ, Gordon," snapped Joan. "Stop being a fucking hero."

  "I'm doing this for me—for us." Gordon turned to stare at Joan, her face was quivering. "If the people in the vehicle are attacked, it'll produce more of those things, making our position even more dangerous. You think I want to be standing here?"

  Joan nodded. It was a great point; something she never had thought of. She then looked at Gordon who took a step nearer the road, hands shaking. This made Joan realise that Gordon wasn't at all superhuman; he was just as nervous as her, but he felt he needed to do this for the sake of himself and everyone else. It was a selfless thing to do, and she admired him for it.

  The groan of the vehicle to the right suggested it wasn't far away at all and from the left, the first Runner appeared through the fog. It twisted its neck to scan where it was and it appeared that the fog had confused and disorientated it like it would anyone else. It was only twenty yards away from them.

  "Oh Christ!" exclaimed Joan.

  Gordon lifted up the shotgun and held it at waist height.

  It clocked Gordon and Joan, snarled viciously like something from the cat family, and then ran at Gordon with vicious speed. He squeezed the trigger and the cartridge took some of the left side of its waist away. Blood hit the floor, and the creature squealed and fell, but it soon clambered to its feet.

  "Again!" Joan yelled.

  Gordon shivered with fright now and allowed it to get closer before shooting it in the stomach. It flew back a few yards and Gordon felt his shoulder twinge in pain from the gun's kickback. He was confident that this time it was dead, and put his hand in his pocket for more shells. He snapped open the gun to reload, but his eyes were drawn upwards where Runner Number Two appeared out of the fog.

  There's two of them.

  Before he had chance to reload the gun, the vehicle, a black jeep, finally came out of the fog on the right and took the Runner out.

  The jeep crashed into the bank on the right, and there was an eerie peacefulness that followed. Gordon then looked at the thing he had shot. It looked like the driver who was injured in the stationary car from the night before. Gordon then took a step forward and noticed that the thing that was hit by the jeep was the same woman that he tried to help the other evening. It was the man's partner.

  "We better check on whoever's in the car," Joan suggested with a quiver in her voice.

  Gordon and Joan walked off the premises, aware and paranoid that the fog could be hiding other nasty surprises.

  Joan sobbed, "What the fuck's happening?"

  Gordon had no answer for her and all he could manage was, "You okay?"

  She shook her head, dazed. "I don't know."

  Gordon shrugged, and released a brave smirk. "Let's check on the person inside, before any other surprises pop up."

  Chapter Twelve

 
Gordon and Joan stood in aghast at the black jeep, and then both sets of eyes turned to the body on the floor. Gordon briefly mumbled to Joan that the thing that had been hit by the jeep was the female passenger he attended to the previous night, but the other question was: Who was that in the vehicle?

  The driver of the jeep eventually got out the car; she appeared to be hysterical, and Joan and Gordon could now see why. She shut the door behind her and ran to the two individuals that were standing by the entrance of the guesthouse, the living room window smashed in to the left, and ignored the fact that Gordon was standing with a shotgun.

  "Help me!" the woman screamed, and pointed to her jeep. "My...my...son!"

  Joan comforted the woman as Gordon walked forwards and stepped onto the road, the woman on the floor still twitching to the left of him, and peered into the back of the car. A boy of seven was strapped in the back and was struggling to get free, but this boy had turned, and as soon as he clocked Gordon's face, it struggled even more to get free.

  The belt was still in its lock, and it was obvious this thing had no idea how to unlock itself and why it was unable to move. Gordon was certain that once that thing was free, the windows of the car may as well be made of paper. He then noticed that the passenger window nearest the boy had been smashed.

  Gordon then looked to the side of him and watched as the Runner that was hit by the vehicle continued to twitch on the floor. Gordon turned the gun around and slammed the butt into the side of the woman's head.

  Its twitching ceased.

  He then turned to the woman who was being comforted by Joan, and said coldly, "Your son. You know he's turned, don't you?"

  She nodded her head, but he could see she was unsure.

  He tried again. "Your son...he's infected. There's a virus spreading through the country..." Gordon then stopped in mid-sentence. "Was your son bit?"

  She nodded and struggled to speak through her sobbing. "I was driving away and...one of those...those...things smashed its head through the passenger window and...and...bit my Tyler."

  Both Gordon and Joan looked at one another.

  Said Joan to Gordon, "He's gonna get out of that car eventually, if we leave it too late."

  Gordon sighed sadly, knowing that the boy was going to have to go. But he didn't want to just do it and give the poor woman more trauma to deal with; he needed to explain to her what he was about to do and why it was absolutely necessary.

  Gordon walked up to her and before he had chance to speak, she cried, "You need to kill him, don't you?"

  "He's still human," Gordon tried to explain, "but he'll never go back to the Tyler that you knew and loved. He can't change back. If he gets out, he'll attack us. Then we change."

  Joan added, "We need to do this for the sake of saving ourselves and, in the long-term, others as well. Didn't you see the news?"

  Not answering Joan's query, the woman cried, "He's my boy. He's all I have left."

  Joan placed her arm around her comfortingly, and spoke, "We're sorry, but what Gordon has said is correct."

  "But how is this happening?"

  "Nobody knows." Gordon spoke up and constantly twisted his neck to the jeep, paranoid that the kid would eventually get out. "I was attacked myself last night. I barely made it, but thankfully I found this place."

  Gordon could then see the woman staring at his clothes; they were covered in blood. Noticing this, he tried to explain, "We've just had an incident, minutes before you turned up in your car. I'll explain later, but we need to go somewhere safe and we need to take care of your boy."

  Joan then said to the distraught woman, "You have no idea what we're dealing with—none of us do really, but take a walk into the living room, have a look around and see for yourself."

  "But don't touch them," Gordon instructed.

  The woman gave Gordon a strange look with her teary, bloodshot eyes, then nodded the once before slowly stepping into the establishment. Two minutes later, she returned, even more fretful than before.

  "That's what we're dealing with," Gordon sighed. "It'll take a while to sink in, but just imagine what the cities are going through. Believe it or not, we're probably in the best place."

  "I can't do this," the woman cried. "I can't cope with this."

  Joan added, "I know this is so fucked up and surreal, but you need to listen to Gordon."

  For two more agonising minutes they tried to explain to the woman, who had introduced herself as Sue, that her real son was never coming back. Gordon was growing impatient, because they were standing outdoors and were totally exposed.

  Finally, Sue nodded her head, and agreed that Tyler may as well be dead with the virus that he had. She tearfully said to Gordon, "Before you do anything, let me say goodbye to my son."

  Aware that one of those things could emerge from out of the dense fog, Gordon reluctantly shadowed Sue as she strolled over to her car to say her goodbyes to Tyler. The jeep's exterior had dents to the front where she had hit the Runner but, apart from that, it was still in working order. Both Gordon and Sue looked into the passenger window to see her once-son manically, and desperately, trying to get out of his seat, spitting blood from his mouth.

  Right away, after witnessing that scene, Sue knew that that wasn't her son. Her real son wasn't coming back; she knew he was beyond help.

  She timidly placed her hand on the passenger window and cried, almost falling to her knees. Gordon could feel the swelling in his throat and was fighting the tears himself at this heartbreaking scene. He looked to either side of him, aware that hanging around for longer than necessary was putting their lives at risk, and was fearing the worst as he stared into the fog.

  In his mind he envisaged one of those things running through the mist, as Sue pressed her face against the window and cried as she glared at her changed son. Gordon was in two minds whether to pull her back in case her son managed to get free from his seatbelt, but he refrained from doing so. He looked all around once more, scared shitless. He was holding the shotgun, but wasn't sure he could react in time if one of those things would come sprinting through the dense fog.

  Sue stroked the pane of glass and cried, "My boy. My poor, poor boy."

  Gordon looked over his shoulder to see Joan filling up. The 'farewell' was a lot shorter than Gordon had anticipated, and Sue turned on her heels and placed her hand on his shoulder and said, "I know he's beyond help. I know he has to be dealt with. Please, make it quick."

  She walked into the guesthouse and Joan disappeared inside with her, telling Gordon that she'd be back out once she had got the woman and Stripy John into the basement.

  When Joan finally returned, she sighed and asked, "So how are we gonna do this?"

  Unsure, Gordon said with little confidence in his voice, "I'll blast him through the exposed window, and then go back into the basement for a nervous breakdown."

  "This is so weird."

  "You ain't wrong."

  "The window isn't fully smashed through." Joan investigated the passenger window and added, "You'd get a clearer shot if I just opened the door and then...bam!"

  "Bam?" Gordon shook his head at Joan's choice of words. "Are you actually taking this seriously? That's a little boy in there."

  Joan placed her hand on the door handle and peeped over to Gordon. "You ready?"

  He shook his head and glared at the female. With her dark attire, her black leggings and T-shirt, she looked like an assassin. He was in similar clothing after his clothes from the night before were soaked. Joan's brown hair was kept obediently behind her ears and her face highlighted that she appeared more confident than Gordon. His face quivered in fright and his hands shook.

  As if she could read his mind, she looked and gave off a thin smile. "You want me to shoot and you get the door?"

  Gordon nodded, and looked ashamed. He looked inside the car to see the diseased boy still writhing in his seat. "I just can't do it. But I managed to kill some of them inside." He looked perplexed.

&nbs
p; "That was an instant reaction," Joan tried to explain. "You didn't have time to think about it, none of us did. This is different; this is a young boy."

  Gordon passed the gun to Joan and she accepted it with trembling hands. She had never fired a gun before, but then again, a few minutes ago she had never caved a person's head in either.

  "It's loaded," Gordon said. "The kickback isn't too bad, but—"

  "Let's just get this over with," she snapped impatiently.

  "Okay."

  After taking a deep breath in, Joan nodded at Gordon to open the car door.

  Gordon walked over to open it and Joan responded by raising the gun. In her head, the words: he's beyond help, swirled in her mind like cigar smoke and took a breath out.

  Gordon opened the door quickly and Joan squeezed the trigger. Gordon couldn't help but look, and the bang made his frame jump. The rear and the furthest passenger window were decorated in blood that flew out, decorating the inside of the car.

  Joan lowered the gun with one hand and placed her other hand over her mouth. She sobbed and Gordon shut the door and peered inside. The head of the boy was almost missing, and blood and brain matter was all over the interior of the vehicle. Gordon turned quickly and threw up on the road, the vomit hitting it with a loud splat. Wiping his mouth, he walked over to Joan and they both hugged.

  "We need to go into the basement right now." Gordon's tone was strong, but not threatening or rude. "We can't be standing out here for a second longer, especially if these things are attracted by noise."

  "Maybe we shouldn't have used the gun," said Joan.

  "I couldn't leave him. Imagine if he'd got out of the car."

  "We could have knifed him." Joan quickly placed her hand over her mouth, realising what she had said. She never thought in a million years she'd be having a conversation with a man she hardly knew about killing a seven-year-old boy.

  "And what if he managed to grab you, or bite you?"

  She never answered his query. She handed him back the shotgun, turned on her heels and went back inside the guesthouse, now heading for the basement. A beleaguered Gordon followed behind.