The Infected Chronicles (Book 1): Origin

by Andie Fessey

  The short, red lines appeared slightly wider, the skin surrounding them white and wrinkled.

  Resisting the urge to touch it, as much as it irritated him, he pulled his sleeve down.

  I’ll put some antiseptic and a plaster on it when I reach home.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was a strange, sombre evening in the pub, the regulars not engaged in their hearty banter, most of the talk during the evening, being about the dreadful attacks occurring further into the city.

  The police were yet to release any names, but the pub fell rife with gossip and speculation. The doors closing on time as normal, gave Eve some relief.

  Thank god there is no stay behind tonight.

  She wanted to curl up on the sofa and watch a light- hearted movie before going to bed, so she did not have to think about what occurred in the city that evening.

  Stumpy being the last to leave the as usual. The routine soothed and comforted her, knowing he was around when the doors were finally locked for the night.

  “All done Eve,” he called, from across the lounge.

  “Cheers Hun,” she replied, smiling.

  As he opened the doors to leave, in walked Alex, her son’s best friend. Her terrier ran to him, yapping as it scampered around his feet.

  “Alright Stumpy?” he asked.

  “Hiya Alex,” he replied.

  He looked across at Eve sighing, hoping she could have locked up and gone straight to bed.

  “Brad asked me yesterday to come around tonight to shoot some pool.”

  She informed Brad countless times, she did not like them being down here after they locked up for the evening, but would justify their after-hour’s activities by thinking to herself he was not out there roaming the streets.

  Unlike his father at his age.

  Though her physical bruises faded a long time ago, the mental scars of their abusive relationship always remained.

  Brad was, thankfully to her, asleep in bed, when the violence against her was at the worst.

  She underwent years of abuse from her ex-husband, usually when the demon drink flowed inside him.

  He would do anything to cause an argument, accusing her of having affairs, when all along it was him being unfaithful, though she made excuses for his behaviour to keep the peace at home.

  The rare times the police were called after hours at the pub by her, were the occasions when he became a bit too handy with his fists, though always clever enough to hit her with body blows, never her face.

  Charges were not brought against him.

  She did not possess enough strength at the time, standing tall, but not as tall, nor as large, nor as strong as him.

  Things eventually came to a head, after a large function for a fiftieth wedding anniversary at the Anchor.

  Half way through cleaning up, Stumpy remaining behind to help as usual, she slowly ascended the stairs to get her slippers, realising she’d been wearing her high heels for over ten hours, explaining the burning and throbbing pain in her feet.

  She was only half way up, when she saw the figure of her husband, standing at the top.

  “Who’s down there with you?” he slurred, so she knew he was under the influence.

  “Just stumpy, he’s helping me tidy up. There are party popper streamers everywhere. Lynn will go mad if she comes in to that mess in the morning.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me bitch,” he said, his voice rising, “it’ll be one of the nobheads you’ve been shagging behind my back.”

  Here we go again.

  About to tell him to stop being so pathetic and to get off to bed, he pushed passed her, knocking her off her feet, sending her tumbling down the steps to the bottom.

  Pausing, he looked down at her, lying on the floor at the foot of the stairs.

  “Gerrup, you stupid slut,” he slurred, “you stink like a cheap whore. Let’s see who you’ve got that fucking perfume on for eh?”

  Kneeling forward, he pulled her blouse open at the top, ripping the thin fabric wide apart.

  Pushing his face into the cleavage of her large breasts, he took an exaggerated sniff.

  “It’s only my ‘Miss Dior’,” she said through shards of pain, attempting to defuse the situation, as he never went this far before, “you know it’s my favourite perfume. I only wear it for.”

  Before she could continue or stand, he grabbed her by her long, dark tresses and began dragging her along the ground, to the bar.

  “Let’s go see who good Lady Eve Peterson is shagging tonight shall we?”

  Looking up at the vile man forcibly dragging her through the dimly lit small bar room, she was filled with dread.

  Nobody knew about the regular beatings and mental abuse she endured, since shortly after Brad was born.

  But her dark, hidden secret was about to become known to one of her closest friends.

  The rest of the night passed in a blur.

  Stumpy immediately, upon hearing what occurred on the stairs, telephoned 999, the police arriving at the pub within minutes.

  Stumpy bravely tackled her ex, ending up with more bruises than he ever admitted to her.

  Her ex found himself arrested, thrown into the rear of the police van and taken away.

  Stumpy insisted she visited the hospital to get checked out.

  Too distraught to argue, they journeyed there in a taxi, whilst one of her other friends stayed at the pub, to watch Brad.

  After returning to the pub a few hours later, several cups of coffee were consumed, as she confessed all of abuse she endured behind closed doors for years.

  “You have to press charges Eve love,” he pleaded.

  “I will, I promise, I really will agree to press charges this time,” she replied, trying not to let her voice break, but hurting when she saw the bruises upon her friend’s face.

  “I hope so Eve, because you won’t be on your own. I will come to court with you if it comes to that.”

  It felt as if a huge weight was lifted from her shoulders.

  She didn’t have to attend court, once her husband knew she was prepared to testify in front of a judge, he pleaded guilty, resulting in him being sentenced to eleven months in prison.

  During the time, in addition to her divorcing him, her solicitor applied for and was granted a restraining order, to keep him away from her and their son once he became released.

  As far as anybody else was concerned, he packed his bags and left.

  Only Stumpy, Brad, her legal team and the police knew the truth.

  If any of her more ‘colourful’ regulars discovered the truth, they would have ensured he disappeared from the face of the earth permanently.

  “Is he up?” Alex asked.

  “No idea Hun,” she replied, “shouldn’t you be at home with the door locked? You’ve seen what’s been going on this evening.”

  “Nah. Me Dad has dropped me off and I’ll bed down in Brad’s room if it’s alright with you?”

  Alex staying overnight occurred on a regular basis and it would give Brad company, as well as having somebody else there with them.

  “Yes, it’s not a problem Hun. He is in his room, go straight up.”

  He made his way upstairs to the second floor of the three-storey building, where Brad’s bedroom was located, the terrier yapping around his feet.

  Stumpy bid her goodnight, saying he would see her in the morning. He closed the door behind him and she placed the bolts across, ensuring nobody else would enter. Switching off most of the lights, leaving a couple of lights over the pool table on, she made her way upstairs.

  Alex knocked on Brad’s bedroom door. Upon receiving no answer, he pushed the door slightly ajar.

  The room, as normal, smelt of sweat and in darkness.

  “You awake Brad?” he asked the figure lying on top of the bed.

  “Yeah,” Brad groaned, “I’ll get up now.”

  Alex entered the room, as Brad slowly rose.

  “Fuck, you look like shit,�
� Alex exclaimed.

  “I feel like shit.”

  His head banging, cold shivers running throughout each part of him, he felt like vomiting.

  “How’d the fishing go last night,” Alex asked, placing himself on the edge of Brad’s bed.

  “Shit,” Brad replied, sitting up to look at his friend.

  “Fucking hell you really do look like shit. Have you seen your eyes? They’re fucking bloodshot as hell. You on drugs or something man?”

  Standing up, Brad rubbed his eyes with his hands. Squeezing the bridge of his nose gently, it felt his sinuses were swelling up and his throat burnt.

  “I’ll go set the table up,” Alex said, “do you want me to get you a Coke or something?”

  “Yeah, I’ll just have a piss then I’ll be down.”

  Alex returned downstairs, whilst Brad made his own way, shakily, into the small bathroom.

  His legs felt they were weighed down with concrete, each step causing his calves and thighs to ache.

  He stared in the mirror over the toilet, as he relieved himself, even this act, painful, finding his urine boiling hot.

  I really do look bad.

  His skin paler than normal, his freckles more pronounced than normal, his eyes were bloodshot, set amongst dark shadows and he swore his veins were thicker, protruding on his face.

  I look like a fucking vampire.

  Returning to his bedroom, he threw on the first top at hand.

  Walking down the stairs, each step aching, he felt nauseous and dizzy.

  If it gets worse, I’ll have to tell Mum.

  Watching a movie on television, Eve found she was unable to concentrate on it.

  Even though it featured one of her favourite actors, she felt her eyelids becoming heavier, as tiredness engulfed her whole body.

  Eventually deciding to call it a night, she made her way from their first floor living room to her bedroom on the third floor. Falling asleep, the moment her head hit the pillow.

  Alex, setting up the pool table, stood next to it, placing chalk on the tip of one of the cues.

  “You breaking, or do you want me to?”

  “You can,” Brad replied, taking the glass of Coke from a nearby tables nearby, downing it in one.

  “Thirsty?”

  Brad let out a loud belch.

  “Yeah,” he replied, walking to the bar.

  Leaning across, he poured himself another glass before returning to the pool table, where Alex already broken the racked balls and was now in the process of potting another ball.

  Their games of pool progressed for another hour, all the while, Brad feeling the tenacious banging in his head worsening.

  He felt extremely cold, though knowing the heating in the pub remained on.

  Their terrier, Rascal, sat in one of the corners, began yapping.

  “Shut up Rascal, please,” Brad called to it.

  Continuing to yap, its high-pitched yelping painfully penetrated his ears.

  “It’s really on one tonight, isn’t it?” Alex said, glancing at the yapping dog.

  “No idea what’s up with him,” Brad replied.

  Feeling nauseous, he felt bile in his throat.

  Shit, I’m going to puke.

  “Nipping to the toilet,” he managed to say, hurrying to the gents.

  The dog continued yapping, darting around his feet, following him into the Gents.

  “Go away Rascal,” he said.

  Entering one of the cubicles, he closed the door over ajar behind him.

  Kneeling over the cistern, a moment later, he vomited into the bowl.

  Looking down all he could see, the sight of crimson blood, diluted but still darkening the water.

  Before his mind could process this information, he vomited again.

  He felt himself burning up, his throat burned as if on fire, the pounding in his head raging and it took him all his strength to not scratch at his own eyes to stop the incredible itching sensation.

  The terrier continued its relentless yelping. Placing his hands on his ears to shut out the infernal yapping, he closed his eyes.

  “Mum.”

  It would be the last thing his conscious mind would remember, as he felt himself drifting into an eternal darkness.

  Alex could hear the continual, yapping of the dog from where he stood, leaning over the pool table.

  Horrible bloody thing.

  After a while, the sound of a high-pitched yelp came from the Gents.

  Brad must have kicked the little bastard.

  Sniggering, he leant across the table to take another shot.

  Several minutes passed and Alex continued potting one ball after the other.

  He knew himself to be good, but wanted to get better at performing trick shots.

  Lining the balls up, he concentrated on getting the right spin on this shot right, when he heard the Gents door close over.

  Concentrating on the shot, he knew he would get it right this time. Slowing his breathing down, his right arm slowly pulled the cue back and forth, as he steadied his aim.

  “Watch this Brad,” he said, pulling his arm back, “I’ll have it this time.”

  He pulled his arm back, but never managed to complete the shot.

  He would never play another shot again.

  He felt the pain in his spine as Brad leant over him, his fingers digging through his polo shirt, into the base of his neck, his nails breaking the skin immediately, he quickly clawed his nails deeper into Alex’s back.

  With an unnatural strength, his fingers pulled the sinew of muscles away in one movement, as he leant forward to dig his teeth into the exposed wound.

  Alex did not have a chance to scream through the excruciating the pain.

  Eyes widening in shock, his face adopted a grimace of pure agony.

  His arms flailing, he tried to remove Brad from his back. Managing to grab hold of his hair, he tried to pull him away, but could not budge him. All he received for his efforts, a thick handful of hair.

  He reached to grab at his friend’s arms, but before he could grip his arm, Brad bit deeply into the top of his spinal column, yanking his head, bone, muscle and gristle in-between his clenched teeth.

  Falling, his head banged against the leg of the pool table.

  Paralysed and lay spread-eagled, he could only stare in silence as Brad chewed on the morsel in his mouth.

  What’s he? Why’s he? Why can’t I scream?

  He noticed a pool of liquid forming in-between his opened legs, as urine pissed through his tracksuit bottoms onto the hard floor.

  Glancing down with his bloodshot eyes, Brad also noticed it.

  He slowly approached Alex, kneeling between his legs, his crimson orbs staring intently at its goal.

  Alex’s eyes opened in terror, and then closed them for the last time, as Brad placed his head between his spread thighs, biting straight though his tracksuit bottoms, ripping his groin apart with his bare teeth.

  Now, he finally screamed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gloria eventually arrived at the entrance to the underground carpark housed beneath the offices of the Liverpool Planet newspaper.

  Located in the centre of the city, it stood as a large, imposing glass and sombre grey edifice, testament to modern architecture.

  The traffic was horrendous as she travelled through Derby Road, one of the main arterial routes to the City Centre from the north of the city, listening in horror and morbid fascination, to the reports coming from the local radio station, of the other violent attacks.

  She sought out the pass, hanging on a lanyard around her neck. Swiping it across the scanner located on the post near to the entrance barrier, the yellow barrier rose.

  Driving down the small ramp leading into the carpark, she noticed a few of her colleague’s cars remained parked there.

  Locating a vacant space, she navigated her little hatchback in without incident. She could not afford to place another insurance claim for one of her infa
mous ‘prangs’, her colleagues ribbed her mercilessly over.

  Locking her car, she headed to the elevator at the other side of the carpark, when the elevator doors opened.

  Rory, one of her colleagues, hurried out, his hand in his pocket rummaging to locate his car keys. Looking up and noticing her, he waved before running across to her.

  “Bloody hell Gloria, have you seen what’s going on out there, it’s bloody crazy?” He asked, reaching her.

  “I’ve been listening to the news on the radio on my way here from the Children’s Club incident,” she replied.

  “How did it go?” He asked.

  “Got it all on here,” she replied, raising her mobile phone and waving it in front of his face.

  “Nice one,” he replied, grinning, “Dee has told me to go cover the train story. I’m on my way there now babe.”

  “What train story? I didn’t hear anything on the radio about it.”

  “A report just came in of some passengers on a train being attacked by some other passengers. I’ve got to get my sweet little arse over there asap. Well done on your story,” he said, nodding at her phone, “maybe see you later eh?”

  She gave a small wave as he hurried across to his car.

  The tyres of the little BMW squealed, as he quickly reversed from his parking space, driving to the exit barrier.

  Walking across to the elevator, she stepped inside, taking a deep breath on the journey to her boss’s floor.

  The doors opening as it arrived, she stepped into a corridor, the walls painted a harsh shade of white and upon which hung several pictures depicting local scenes.

  As she walked to the door leading to the office, one of the side doors opened.

  “Oh, hi Gloria, are you working late as well?” her boss’s personal assistant Tara asked, stepping into the corridor.

  “Looks like we’re all pulling a late one tonight,” Gloria replied, noticing the pile of paperwork in her arms.

  “It’s all overtime I suppose.” Tara replied, smiling.

  Walking together along the corridor with, she held open the door to Tara’s small office, beyond which lay her bosses own office.

  Crossing the room to her desk, Tara placed the pile of paperwork on it.