by Sean Deville
“The only man I ever loved is probably dead,” Gavin said virtually emotionless. “There’s nothing left for me now, and if it’s the end, I want it to be somewhere I know. If I’m going to die, it’s going to be here with my memories on my own land.” With that, he turned and went back into his house, closing the door behind him.
“I can’t decide if he’s brave or just fucking foolish,” Savage said, staring at where he had been standing.
“He’s given up, I’ve seen it before,” Croft said. “By nightfall, he will likely have eaten his shotgun.” Savage looked at him, shocked.
“Then we have to help him, take him with us,” Savage demanded. Croft looked at her. She was a doctor, so he understood where she was coming from, but he knew she still didn’t understand the true reality of the situation.
“No, we don’t,” he said coldly. “I know it sounds harsh, and I’m sorry for that. That being said, the reality is the only people who will survive are those who choose to fight. Even then, most of us will likely die anyway. Those who give up that fight need to be allowed that choice. We have to respect that because we no longer have the luxury of carrying people who can’t help themselves.” Croft put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” She nodded reluctantly. He looked her deep in the eyes, saw the tears forming, knew that she was holding it together, but only just. That’s all any of them could hope for now, to hold it together and somehow get through this. “Come on, time to go,” he said releasing her. She didn’t follow him, not right away, but stood a moment, watching the closed door, hoping that Gavin would come out. Millions had already perished, and she was nearly in tears about one man who she didn’t even know. Nothing made sense anymore.
Gavin watched through the kitchen window as the helicopter took off, the sky beginning to darken as the sun started its descent. Within moments, the helicopter was out of sight, the sound of its departure disappearing as it flew quickly away. He paused a moment lost in thought, then stepped back from the window and sat down at the kitchen table, his hand finding the shotgun that rested there. He had cleaned it three times today. All his preparations, all his readiness had come to nothing. He had failed to heed the most basic of warnings that had been given to him when he had been infected by the survivalist bug. At the end of days, do you really want to be left in the world that’s gone to shit? Do you really want to be alive when everyone around you is either dead or dying? A world without electricity, without medicine, without basic sanitation or law. Because that was what you were signing up for. Do you want to be alone in that world? Do you want to be the one to witness the world around you burn?
It would have been different if he could have shared the end with someone. At least they could have put up a fight together, been there for each other. He would have had something to live for then, something worth surviving for. But now, but now everyone was probably dead. The landline still worked, but nobody answered when he rang them, and oh how he had tried. His lover, his family, all likely consumed by the plague. And every hour of every day would bring the plague ever closer to what was supposed to be his safe haven. The barriers wouldn’t keep them out. Likelihood was they would find him and end him. He patted the shotgun, the decision already made. Now, all he needed was to act on that decision.
“Not yet.” Standing, he walked purposely out of the kitchen into the downstairs landing, grabbing his coat from a hook on the wall. The keys were in a dish, and he plucked them up and walked out the front door. That dish had been made for him by his niece, that sweet, innocent child who he knew would never see a dawn again through human eyes. If she wasn’t dead, she would be one of them, he was certain of it. Terrible images came to him of her feasting on his brother’s carcass, and he found tears forming in his eyes. It was too much, he couldn’t take this. Passing through, the door swung closed behind him. This time tomorrow, he would be dead; he had already made that choice. He had no desire to join the ranks of the infected. Best end it before that horror arrived.
He had chosen to release all the animals before he released himself from this world, and he made his way over to the chicken coop. They were unusually quiet, and as he came upon their enclosure, he saw why. Blood and feathers were scattered across the grass, a large hole ripped into the chicken wire to gain entry. What the hell had done that, and why hadn’t he heard them? It must have happened when the helicopter was taking off.
“What the fuck?” Something had forced its way in and slaughtered everything. He looked around, worried that whatever did this might still be around. What the hell could break through chicken wire like that? Part of him told him to go back for the shotgun, but that part was silenced when he heard the pained squeal of one of his pigs. The pig pen was around the side of the main farmhouse, and he ran as more pigs joined in the chorus of distress.
He saw them as soon as he rounded the house, but he didn’t know what he saw. They looked like dogs, Dobermans, but their bodies glistened as if skinned alive. And they were big, bigger than they should have been, their muscles distorted and grotesque. But the basic shape of what they once were was still visible. There were three of them, and two were chewing through the wire fence of the pig pen, wooden support struts simply snapping as mutant jaws closed on them. Then things got infinitely worse. One of the creatures turned its head and looked at him, its body turning to face him head on. It growled, deep in its throat. It sounded like no dog he had ever heard.
“Oh shit,” Gavin said, looking around frantically. There was a splintering sound as another wooden post broke, and then the whole fence collapsed, two of the beasts leaping into the pigs’ home. The pigs and piglets scattered, but the dogs were too fast, and two of the smaller pigs were wrenched from the ground, teeth biting into their necks, killing them almost instantly. The third dog took a step towards Gavin, and he moved to his right, the back door to his house a metre away. One of the larger pigs bolted through the break in the fence, and it rushed past the third dog, distracting it momentarily. Gavin took that as his chance, and he ran, hitting the door, flinging it open, slamming it shut behind him just as something monumental crashed into it. The wood of the door splintered, but Gavin didn’t turn to look. He made his way through rooms, heading for the kitchen. He heard something shatter, a window. Entering the kitchen, he turned to close the door behind him, saw the hellhound close on his heels and threw the door shut in its face. There was the sound of a collision and the door juddered. But it held, thank God it held. Minutes ago, he had already made up his mind to take his own life, but now he was running, trying to survive.
Something hit the door again, and again, and the frame splintered. This was just an internal door, held shut only by a thumb latch. The shotgun. Gavin grabbed it, knew it was loaded, checked anyway. He heard a pig run past outside below the window, and then that same window exploded inwards as something huge and black flung itself through. The thing landed clumsily, rolling several times, sliding on the tiled floor. It ended up in the corner by the fridge, and Gavin brought the shotgun up, fired at it almost point-blank range. The dog’s head exploded, black blood erupting all across the wall and the whiteness of the refrigerator. There was a crack, and Gavin turned to see the door breaking open. The third dog, the biggest of the three, was roaring forward at him. He barely had time to get the shotgun levelled in time and he hit the trigger just as it launched itself. The shot hit it in the abdomen, sending the dog backwards, its innards exploding. Gavin felt cold wetness land on his face, and he wiped the death away from his eyes with his sleeve. The dog landed twitching but useless, and, with shaking hands, Gavin opened the breach, ejecting the spent rounds. He fumbled for the open box of shells on the kitchen table, heard the bark from somewhere outside the property, and knew the last dog was coming.
One moment, it could sense its brothers, and the next, they were gone. The infected dog took a deep swallow of the pig meat it had just bitten off and turned from the dying animal it was feeding off.
The pig lay panting, its legs kicking feebly as it quickly bled out from the neck wound that had brought it down. The dog sniffed and licked its bloodied maw then barked. There was no bark in response. The man, they had gone after the man, and men had sticks that killed. Giving the pig a final nudge with its snout, the dog turned and stealthily moved towards the house.
It couldn’t sense its brothers, but it could smell them. It knew right then that it was now alone, and it whimpered softly to itself. A normal dog would have run off into the forest, but this wasn’t a normal dog, and the other smell was so enticing, so inviting. The man, the prime meat, the thing it had been created to kill was in there. No pig could even compare to that. The dog made its way to the shattered back door and stepped hesitantly inside. Both scents were stronger now. The smell of death and the smell of man. It had to feed on the man, had to now that its brothers were dead. Something within it made that unavoidable. So it grew bolder, its nails clicking on the tiles as it worked its way through the human construction. It heard something crack shut, heard some other human sounds, and came upon the kitchen. There stood the man over the bodies of its brothers. One of them still twitched, the virus trying in vain to repair the wounds. It looked at the writhing form and then back at the man, saw it was pointing something. Then there was a roar, and the dog felt something hard and hot hit it clean in the face. In its dying seconds, the dog heard the man walk over to its twitching brother and there was another explosion. And then it was dead.
Gavin stood for several moments, numbed by what had just happened. Christ, he hadn’t seen this coming. He had always thought it would be an economic crisis or a war that would see the end of things. Even a flu pandemic, but not this new reality. Not a zombie apocalypse. How the hell was he even supposed to believe in the natural order of things when monsters now stalked the Earth? All that sacrifice, all that anguish and rejection just so he could find himself trapped here, and now with nothing but his own tortured mind as company.
There had only been three dogs; he was sure there had only been three. Listening, he heard nothing but the natural sounds of nature and his own ragged breathing. He put the shotgun down, saw his hands shaking, felt nausea rise up his throat. Within seconds, he was on his knees, vomit streaming out between his teeth, shock hitting him like a brick wall. He felt it pour up and out through his nose, felt the burn at the back of his throat as the acid ejected itself from his body. He threw up again, tears streaming down his face, and he let out a roar of anguish.
“FUUUUUCK!”
The nausea subsided, his body shaking. It took a minute to compose himself, and he pulled himself up onto unsteady feet. His vision blurred momentarily, and blackness began to creep into his eyes, but he inhaled deeply and willed it away. Shaking his head, he staggered over to the sink and put his head under the cold tap, the water blissfully flowing over his scalp and face. Then he saw it. Blood, why was there blood in the water? He washed his face with his hands, saw more blood. Shit, he was covered in it. He pulled his T-shirt away from his body, saw the red stains and the small lumps of flesh that had adhered to the cloth. He yanked it off and threw it away in disgust.
“No, must get clean,” he said to himself. Using the dispenser by the sink, he squirted copious amounts of anti-bacterial hand wash into his hands and smeared it over his head and scalp. He lathered it and turned both taps on full. It was a big kitchen sink, and he again easily put his head under the tap, trying in vain to wash the carnage away, ignoring the fact that the water was now getting too hot to be comfortable. Hadn’t they said on the news that you could catch the infection from bodily fluids? The soldiers had come and then the soldiers had left and then hell had followed. The dogs had to be infected—it was the only thing that made sense.
“No, no, no, not like this,” Gavin pleaded. Grabbing a towel, he dried his hair and his face. Had he done enough? Had he got to it in time? His face and scalp itched. Was that from the cleaning, or was it the virus worming its way into his body? Panic won, and he dashed from the kitchen down the corridor and into the downstairs lavatory where a mirror met him. Leaning on the sink, he pushed his face up close, tried to find any canine remnants on his face or in his blonde hair. He didn’t see anything, and looking at himself in the mirror, he said a single word.
“Shit.” And that was when he saw it, the black spec on one of his front teeth. The blood was in his mouth. That was when the cramps started, doubling him over. Collapsing into a foetal position, he felt his innards flip, and fire exploded in his head. His right arm shot out in spasm, smashing against the toilet porcelain, and he thought he heard something break. But the pain in the rest of his body was so great he couldn’t tell. Gavin vomited again, this time not due to adrenaline overload, but because the virus wanted out, wanted to spread. He tried to crawl, he really did, although where to he had no notion. With herculean effort, he got halfway out of the lavatory before his body just gave out. There was a tearing sensation deep within his abdomen and his bowels erupted. Right then was when Gavin almost died. But he didn’t. As the hours progressed, he would wish he had eaten that shotgun after all.
17.01, 16th September 2015, Plymouth City Airport, UK
Captain John Gallagher stepped out of the maintenance shed and looked out across the once-abandoned airport. Well, abandoned apart from hundreds of soldiers and the over one hundred and fifty Challenger 2 battle tanks that were parked on its asphalt surface, some of their engines still running. It had taken several hours to make ready the tanks from their base in Tidworth and wait for their crews, some of whom never turned up. In formation, it took several more hours to traverse the civilian-laden streets and roads to get to this point. Much of their journey had been over fields and through deserted villages. Deserted of pedestrians, not of fear. When faced with an obstacle, the choice was often made to go over rather than around, walls, fences, and cars crushed underneath as the tanks retreated away from where the infected would be heading to. Now, they were idle as they were refuelled with their precious life-blood.
There were more than just tanks, of course. There were dozens of Scimitars and Warriors, all waiting for the re-fuel trucks to deliver the vital diesel, without which they were effectively useless. He didn’t like the fact that they had fled, abandoning the country east of them, but those were their orders. And in hindsight, he could understand them. The infection was spread across the country. Even several squadrons of one of the world’s most powerful battle tanks would have been useless against that threat. No, the plan was to centralise the remaining forces in one place, project the power where it could be projected. He understood the logic, just didn’t like the feeling of defeat that came with it.
He wasn’t in charge here. There were people much more qualified for that. He hadn’t even seen combat, still a virgin when it came to facing an enemy on the field. But his men seemed to think he was competent, which was usually a good indication. They didn’t give him any grief at least, and he knew some of his peers didn’t have that luxury. On the drive over, seeing the carnage the armoured convoy created, he wondered just how long morale and discipline could be maintained. These men had abandoned families and friends. They had abandoned dozens of vehicles due to there not being anyone qualified to drive them. Desertion, reprehensible in war, was probably understandable in the present situation.
With the obvious exception of the infected, his biggest fear was the diesel supply. Would NATO be willing to re-supply them given the quarantine? Probably not. The nearest refinery in Plymouth had been sucked dry, the tankers travelling under armoured convoy. Even now, according to the rumours, there were teams of conscripted civilians siphoning diesel out of every car they encountered, and every petrol station was being drained. Armoured vehicles were to be the main ground weapon in the coming battles. And they needed sustenance. The beasts needed feeding.
19.04, 16th September, 2015, The Irish Sea
The small fishing boat had left Liverpool under the cover of darkness. The five people
on board were hoping they could evade the quarantine and escape to the relative safety of Ireland. Normally, the boat’s captain wouldn’t have wanted to come out in this kind of weather with children on board, the sea very choppy and the winds picking up, but he felt he had no choice for his family.
He had not been the only one leaving the Liverpool docks, and some of those other boats still showed on his radar, spread out to give everyone as big a chance as possible. Surely, the quarantine couldn’t catch everyone. I mean, how many Navy vessels were out there? Should he encounter one, he would just turn back and try again from a different direction. The captain didn’t quite understand the realities of what the quarantine meant, despite the very obvious warning that had been broadcast across the BBC emergency channel. That was just scaremongering, and this was still England. People still had rights.
It was several seconds before he noticed the new radar contact. In fact, there were two of them, both to the west of his position. That meant he had already been seen, the Navy’s radar much stronger than his own out of date model. Should he turn back, or try and bluff it? Would they really turn him away? Was there a chance that, on proving there was no infection on board, they would give him free passage? He thought about asking his wife who was below with the children, but he didn’t want to leave the wheel, not in these squally seas. A particularly large wave suddenly hit his boat, and he fought for control of the boat. When he next looked at his radar, he noticed that some of the refugee boats to the north had disappeared from the screen.
