Apocalypse Cow

by Logan, Michael

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he called and jumped down from his perch, hoping he wouldn’t land in a ditch.

  His right ankle rolled as he landed and his knee pitched into a sucking patch of mud left over from the late-afternoon rain shower he had hoped would extend into a downpour and force the evening’s events to be cancelled. For once, the Scottish weather didn’t cooperate.

  ‘That’s all I need,’ Geldof muttered as he rose to his feet and shambled off in pursuit of the twins, his groping hands held out before him. It was bad enough he had come on this idiotic venture; now he would have to sneakily wash his trousers so Fanny wouldn’t suspect he had lied about going to study group with Nadeem. He almost had a heart attack as a huge shape loomed up out of the gloom before him. It was one of the twins. In the dim light it was impossible to tell which one.

  ‘Get a move on,’ Tony/Malcolm ordered, grabbing Geldof’s thin arm with a meaty fist and yanking him forward. ‘Are you up for this or not?’

  ‘Oh, I’m thrilled at the prospect.’

  ‘Good,’ the twin replied, his teeth forming a white crescent in the dark. ‘Because the targets are ahead.’

  They hurried on with an apparent disregard for the lumpy terrain. Stumbling over a hillock Geldof seized the opportunity to rub the foul-smelling mud on Tony/Malcolm.

  ‘Watch where you’re going,’ Tony/Malcolm said, and scuffed a slap across Geldof’s forehead.

  Somewhere up ahead a cow lowed. Geldof’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The other twin had stopped just ahead, around ten metres from a clump of dark objects lurking in the middle of the field. When Geldof arrived beside him, he made out the cauliflower ear.

  ‘Right,’ Tony said. ‘You first, Gandalf. Pick one.’

  Geldof stayed where he was. The cows’ combined deep breathing sighed ominously across the field.

  ‘How do I know they aren’t bulls?’ Geldof asked.

  ‘Because they don’t keep bulls together in one field, fuckwit,’ Malcolm hissed. ‘They’d be fighting all the time. Get over there and do it before I belt you.’

  Geldof took a tentative step towards the animals, which were so tightly packed that if he tried to shove one over it would just bump into its neighbour. That would suit him fine. As much as being a vegetarian annoyed him, he didn’t want an innocent animal’s death on his conscience. It would not satisfy the twins, though.

  As he drew closer, he noticed a shadow off to the right of the group. He veered away and crept towards it. It was a lone cow. Why it was standing on its own he didn’t know. Perhaps it had been exiled for chewing another cow’s cud or for failing to meet its dung-production quota. Geldof didn’t care. It was isolated from the herd and would do the job.

  He sneaked up on the animal from behind. As far as he could tell from the lack of movement, it was fast asleep. When he was ten feet away, a noxious odour crept up his nostrils. It wasn’t the normal smell of cow plop. This was sweet and cloying and left an almost physical sticky residue at the back of the throat. Perhaps that was why it was on its own, although Geldof had never heard of a cow with personal hygiene poor enough to offend its peers.

  He circled round to its flank, and jumped as a loud rumble rent the chilly night air. Geldof gagged as the air around him thickened. He held a hand over his mouth until the smell had died down, and glanced back. He fancied he could see four red points of light hovering in the air: the twins’ demonic eyes urging him on to murder.

  He turned his attention back to the cow, which was unaware it was about to face a frightening and possibly fatal shove. Geldof took a deep breath and held his hands out in front of him. He closed his eyes, counted to three under his breath, and then ran at the animal as fast as he could. His hands contacted skin, and he felt something give beneath them. The cow stayed upright. Geldof became aware of wetness on his hands. The give had not been the cow’s body moving with the blow. It was the skin parting. His hands had sunk into the cow’s body.

  Geldof felt the tell-tale signs of a lung-bursting yell building up. It didn’t get the chance to come out, though, for as he stared at the spot where his arms seemed to end abruptly above the wrists, something moved in the corner of his eye. He looked in the direction of the movement, and locked gazes with the cow. He was no expert on the facial expressions of cattle, but he didn’t need to be with this one. It made its feelings clear with a grating moo that vibrated up Geldof’s arms.

  The animal stretched its head towards him and snapped its teeth. Luckily, he was out of biting range. It tried to turn, and Geldof, with his hands still buried in its flank, moved with it. The cow kept turning, snapping all the while. Geldof kept shuffling. Long ropes of muscles clenched and relaxed beneath his fingers as he and the cow jigged in a tight circle. He almost lost his footing, and lurched towards the cow’s clashing jaws. Somehow he managed to stay upright. He felt a distinct loosening in his bowel area.

  ‘Help!’ he yelled.

  The twins did not reply. Geldof’s shout seemed to further enrage the cow, which began to move faster, like a dog chasing its tail. Geldof had never seen a dog actually catch its tail, and he didn’t want to hang around to find out if cows were better at that task. He jumped back, his hands popping free with a squelch. The cow bellowed. He turned around and pelted into the blackness. After the revolving dance, he had no idea which way he was going. Behind him, hooves thudded.

  He only realized he was running back towards the fence when he saw the herd of cows on his right-hand side. They too were moving, towards him. Geldof, not renowned for his athleticism, found reserves of speed he never knew he had. His legs skipped effortlessly over the rough grass and he flew past the twins.

  ‘Run!’ he screamed, not waiting to find out if they were following his instructions.

  Behind him, moos and bellows joined in a bovine chorus. The road shone silver ahead of him in the moonlight. When he got to the fence there was nothing tentative about his climbing. He leapt to the top, ignoring the barbed wire that ripped into his leg, and threw himself over to land in a crumpled heap on the other side.

  He pulled himself up onto his buttocks and turned to face the way he had come. A high-pitched squeal came from the field, growing louder like a kettle coming to the boil. Seconds later, the twins thumped to the ground beside him. Then the fence shuddered with numerous impacts. One of the cows thrust its head through. The barbed wire caught its eye, popping it open like a grape. It acted as though nothing had happened, and continued to push. More cows joined in, jaws snapping and eyes bulging. The wooden posts supporting the fence began to buckle.

  Geldof scrambled to his feet. He ran to where they had left their bikes, hauled his up and leapt on. He had to turn around and go past where the cows were threatening to breach the fence. The pedals moved with difficulty at first as he fought the resistance of his dynamo, and his headlight flickered on and off. The light illuminated the scene before him in nightmarish flashes. Cows strained at the fence as far as he could see, like an animated display of mounted heads in a hunter’s living room, their powerful necks squirming as they tried to push through. Many of them had open wounds, some old, some freshly ripped by the barbed wire. Dark blood seeped out like treacle. Their lips were pulled back. One cow bit off its own tongue, which fell to the ground with an audible plop.

  Geldof focused on the road, which dipped below him, as he gained speed. Soon he had left behind the line-up of raging cows. Even so, he didn’t stop pedalling until he reached the comforting sodium glow of a lit road on the outskirts of Bearsden. In the near distance, the wind turbine on the roof of his house was silhouetted against the moonlit sky. For the first time he was glad to see it.

  Only then did he chance a look back. Tony and Malcolm were maybe seven metres behind him. There was no sign of the cows. He coasted downhill, casting regular backward glances. His heart hammered in his chest as if he had just finished a stage in the Tour de France. The twins caught up with him, their faces pale under the street lights. Their normal
tough-guy sneers were gone. They looked like small boys in need of their mother to tuck them up in bed.

  The three of them pulled up outside the gate at the Alexanders’ house. Geldof threw his bike to the ground, unmindful of the noise it made, and held his hands up to the light. They were streaked with blood and small lumps of flesh.

  ‘My hands went inside it,’ he said.

  The twins clambered off their mounts and backed away. Tony looked over his shoulder at the hill and then back at Geldof. His lower lip trembled.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said in a flat voice, and wheeled his bike up the path.

  Malcolm stayed a few seconds longer, staring at Geldof’s hands, and then wordlessly followed his brother into the house.

  While Geldof’s legs burned from the exertion of pedalling, it wasn’t fatigue that made his gait unsteady as he pushed his bike towards the shed. His mind kept replaying the events: the mad dash across the field, the leap over the fence, the row of cows attempting to batter their way through.

  When the bike was locked up, he tiptoed inside. His parents were otherwise engaged in the bedroom, so he went straight to the bathroom. Under the bright strip light, the crimson streaks on his hands contrasted harshly with his pale skin. He scrubbed furiously, continuing long after the water had ceased to run red. When he had finally finished, some colour had returned to his cheeks. He removed his trousers, scraped off the caked mud as best he could, and inspected the wound from the barbed wire. It was little more than a scratch and the hole in his trousers was repairable. Geldof went to the kitchen and stuffed the damaged trousers into the washing machine, adding more clothes from the laundry pile on top.

  Finally, he retreated to his room and turned on the computer. He quickly found a story about the abattoir on the Glasgow Tribune website. It was a very different account from the previous day’s news report. The newspaper, quoting a ‘high-ranking government source’, was claiming al-Qaeda operatives had unleashed a bio-weapon that turned animals berserk, with the intention of disrupting Britain’s food chain.

  Geldof scanned other websites and discovered the tabloids had picked up on the story in sensationalist fashion. ‘Zombie Cows!’ screamed one. The headline gave him chills. For once the tabloids were right. The cows in the field had looked and behaved exactly like zombies – the more modern, speedy type rather than old-school shufflers. When he had devoured every single word in cyberspace, Geldof leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. Each article claimed the virus had been contained. Clearly it hadn’t.

  He considered going to his parents’ room and telling them the whole story, but he didn’t want to have to face his mother coming to the door naked and smell the pungent fruits of her lovemaking. Besides, she would never believe him. Instead he pulled on a fresh pair of hemp trousers, immediately prompting a bout of scratching, and descended to the living room. His fingers shook as he dialled 999 and asked for the police.

  A tinny female voice greeted him. Geldof paused, suddenly aware of the ridiculousness of what he was about to say.

  ‘I just got chased by a herd of zombie cows,’ he declared.

  The operator said nothing for a while. When she spoke her voice was frosty. ‘Do you know how serious it is to make prank calls? This is an emergency line. You could be stopping somebody in real need from getting through.’

  ‘This isn’t a prank,’ Geldof said. ‘I wish it was. Didn’t you read the papers?’

  ‘Yes, I read that nonsense. So did a lot of other people, apparently. This is the tenth call I’ve had this evening about it,’ the woman said, her voice rising in pitch. ‘I’ve had zombie cows, zombie sheep, zombie horses. I’ve had it with zombies.’

  Geldof tried to butt in and assure her he was quite serious. She cut him off. ‘I’m hanging up now. You can consider yourself lucky I’m not sending the police out to your house to give you a stern talking to.’

  The line went dead. Geldof stared at the receiver, and then trudged up to his room. His parents’ room had gone silent, so he threw himself down onto the duvet and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  He dreamed he was perched on a high red stool in Burger King, facing an enormous triple-decker burger dripping with mayonnaise, tomato sauce and melted cheese. Fanny was there too, but she was outside the restaurant, her face pressed against the window. She began to pound on the glass as Geldof reached for the burger. He merely grinned.

  This was a recurring dream, and at this point in the proceedings he normally took a massive bite and chewed theatrically as Fanny slid down the glass, her mouth open in a silent scream. This time, just as he was about to grasp the burger and cram it into his mouth, it began to twist and writhe. He recoiled, the action causing him to over balance, and flew off the back of his stool. The burger appeared over the rim of the table, staring down at him with a pair of glowing red eyes.

  He got up and ran across the restaurant, skipping over the bodies of customers being savaged by their lunches, but when he reached the front door it was locked. His mother stood on the other side with the key in her hand. Now it was his turn to beat the glass. Fanny swallowed the key.

  ‘You reap what you sow, Geldof,’ she said, her smile sad.

  Geldof turned and did his own slow-motion slide down the glass, his back squeaking on the panes. Twenty burgers, each one teetering on four tiny hooved legs, formed an ever-closing semicircle around him. Ketchup, mingled with blood, dripped from sharp teeth that had grown on the top and bottom halves of the buns. The first burger, the one he had been so keen to eat, reached him and, with a wink, sank its teeth into his ankle.

  He woke with his own scream echoing in his ears, and lay on the bed until his heart rate had slowed down. All thought of sleep gone, he swung his legs off the bed and stared past the orange street lights strung up the road to the dark hills just beyond the end of the suburbs. Somewhere out there, the cows were waiting. And they were hungry.

  6

  In the doghouse

  Lesley slouched at her desk, sluggishly typing up a story on road accident figures. It was the kind of dull piece she would normally churn out in an hour, but she had spent three on it. Even if the previous day had brought only redundancy, her motivation level would have been so low a cockroach would struggle to squeeze under it. But the tip-off was also pulling her mind away from the task at hand.

  She had played the recording at least ten times, constantly changing her mind about its authenticity. On the first listen, she heard chuckling in the background. On the second, the chuckles became rustling paper. On the third, she became convinced Professor Martin was Colin affecting an accent. And so on. She had to resort to quaffing a bottle of red wine to quell her buzzing mind and get some sleep.

  Colin’s scoop about the abattoir attack being a virus released by al-Qaeda had gone up on the website the previous evening, and was splashed all over the front page this morning. On the one hand, she could take the story as a sign the tip-off was real, since it matched the supposed fake information Colin was being fed. Then again, he could easily have slipped the terrorist angle into a fake tip-off to make her pursue the story.

  On top of that, al-Qaeda actually had claimed responsibility through an audio message on a renowned Islamist website. And the police had raided two mosques in the Shawlands district of Glasgow, arresting sixteen people. But al-Qaeda could just be opportunistically attaching its name to the incident to spread fear without having to go to the trouble of doing anything, and the government could just be looking for scapegoats, as Brown had intimated they would.

  It didn’t help that she and Colin had been exchanging looks all morning. Either he was looking at her to see if she had taken the bait, or he was looking at her because she was looking at him to see if he was looking at her to see if she had taken the bait.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. ‘Just make a decision.’

  She walloped the full-stop key, and then rose to go outside for a cigarette.

  ‘PMT?�
�� Colin asked as she stomped past his desk.

  ‘Go stick your cock in a blender.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then,’ he called after her.

  Lesley lit up in the alley, blew out a long stream of smoke and watched a stray tabby rake through the bin bags. The cat had unearthed three tins of Tennent’s Super Lager, a used condom and a jumble of shredded paper, but it wasn’t satisfied with its haul. It stuck its head deep between the bags. There was a squeak, and Lesley expected to see the little hunter emerge with a mouse between its teeth. Instead, the cat squirmed out and streaked down the alley. A rat the size of a rabbit burst from the rubbish, scattering the beer cans with a flick of its fat pink tail. It had cat fur stuck between its protruding front teeth. Lesley yelped and pressed herself against the wall as the rat raced off after the yowling cat.

  ‘I hate this city,’ she said, and took a long, mournful drag on her cigarette.

  Smoking usually helped her think, but the two packets she had puffed away in a nervous frenzy since the previous afternoon had only left her throat raw. She took another drag and let it out in a sigh that ended in a hacking cough. In her position, Charles McBrien wouldn’t have been smoking furtively in a seedy alleyway and worrying about whether he was having the piss taken out of him. He would have bagged the story or kicked Colin in the balls. Probably both. She imagined her father in his study full of journalism awards, which he had the maid from the slums of Mombasa polish each day so they gleamed, like his reputation, with a phone stuck to his ear and his lips kinked downward in disappointment.

  To hell with it, she thought. Let’s do it.

  Lesley threw her cigarette to the ground with the intention of grinding it out purposefully. It rolled away from her. In her hurry to stamp it out, she brought her foot squelching down on the condom, which she then had to scrape off on the step before hurrying back into the office.