The Story Collection: Volume Two

by Matt Shaw

  I worry about what I’m going to see out there. What the hell am I going to find when I do hit the streets? Can my mind cope with the horrors that, undoubtedly, wait? I hope so. At least I’m mentally prepared. At least, I think I am. How does one prepare for occasions such as this? Only so much the films can teach us. This is real now. Need to make sure I’m mentally prepared for it or else I’ll freeze as soon as I see something bad.

  I stepped away from the window and walked back onto the landing where I slumped, against the wall, at the top of the stairs. I slid down the wall until I was sat on my arse - head back against the wall. What am I doing? This world is not the place for someone like me. I’m not cut out for it.

  No choice, I have to be.

  This is my life now. I have to make it work.

  Already came to the conclusion I don’t have the courage to take the easy way out. More’s the pity. Stop it. Stop it now. Need to get out of this negative thought pattern. Stuck in here, looking at these four walls, thinking about what I’ve lost.... it’s not doing me any good. Sending me crazy. Need to get out of here. Need to make my move. Go out and find a new life. Chancing it with a group of people - whoever I find who’s still breathing - it has to be better than spending the rest of my life living in solitude and regret. If the people I meet turn out to be murderous well, so be it. Job done. I’d sooner go out like that then get taken out by one of them. One of the biters.

  Yes, tomorrow I leave. Tomorrow.... tomorrow.... what day is it tomorrow anyway? I stopped and gave it a thought for a few seconds. Monday. It’s Monday tomorrow. Perfect. New week. New week. New week.

  New start.

  A fresh start.

  It couldn’t be more perfect. Tomorrow is the day I leave the house - definitely. That decision is made now, no turning back. Need to make sure I’m ready though. Pack some stuff and get it downstairs - ready to run it out to the car in the morning. The car? Is it still there? I heard the looters driving off the other night - when I went to the shed... was that my car? I hope not. Wouldn’t surprise me if it were - with my shitty luck.

  I stood up and ran through to the main bedroom where I opened the window and stuck my head out. Leaning round I could just about see into the car park. Just about see the roof of my car behind the prick’s fence. Good, still there. Hopefully they didn’t syphon the fuel from the tank or do any damage which may prevent it from running properly. Hopefully. I’m half tempted to sneak out there and make sure everything is okay but... still scared about drawing attention to myself.

  I need to avoid contact for as long as possible.

  The longer I put contact off - the more chance there is I’ll be ready for it.

  Stop thinking about contact. Concentrate on preparing things for the morning. Leave as soon as the sun comes up. Hopefully the rain would have stopped by then and the clouds cleared away too. My first day on the streets, I think I’d rather it was a bright, sunny day. Less chance of anything sneaking up on me and catching me by surprise.

  I walked over to the cupboard, against the far wall, and opened the double doors. A quick light of a candle to help illuminate what’s inside and what I’m looking for.... ah ha.... sports bag. I purchased it a few months ago when I foolishly joined the local gym after I had a guided tour. I only joined the damned thing, in the first place, because I fell in love with the swimming pools. They had both an indoor and an outdoor pool. Jacuzzi to die for, steam room... even a nice bar which served cheesy-chips at a bargain price - at least, bargain considering the cost of everything else in the fucking building. I regretted signing the gym’s contract as soon as the money left my bank after the first month. A complete waste of money. As for the sports bag - I thought, if I had the right kit, I’d have more incentive to actually go to the gym but - it wasn’t to be - I still rarely bothered to go. And now I had simply spent more money on something else, the bag, which hardly got used either.

  When I became redundant from my job, in the office, last month my wife took pleasure in reminding me how stupid I was with money. The gym membership being the first thing she picked up on. Sadly - not the only thing she pulled me apart for. I told her, at the time, that she wasn’t helping but I think it made her feel better - blowing off a little steam.

  I threw the bag onto the bed, having placed the candle on the side, and opened the zipper all the way only to be hit by the musty scent of old gym socks which had obviously been left to rot. Proof, at least, I used the gym on one occasion. I wish Jenny were here to see this.

  I picked the bag up and emptied the contents onto the floor, in a messy pile. Don’t think I want to be touching any of that lot. I’m kind of surprised the socks didn’t try and bite me too with how rotten they smelt. Have to say, I’m even more surprised I hadn’t smelt them through the bag. Jesus Christ. Had Jenny been here now - she would have been going ape-shit now. She always was annoyed at how frequently I failed to put dirty clothes into the laundry bin.

  Now empty, I dropped the bag back onto the bed and sat down next to it. All this talk of leaving the house and packing bits to take with me - I’ve come to realise, I have no idea what to take with me....

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I took the final bag down the stairs, by candle-light so as not to trip, and dropped it by the front door - just to the side so I could open the door without getting caught up. When the time comes to run out - I need to be able to do so without the danger of tripping myself. After all, I have no idea what’s going to be out there. Or who. Could be fellow survivors desperately looking for help. Could be looters waiting to rob me blind or could be them.... shuffling around looking for flesh to feast upon. Definitely don’t need to be tripping up.

  I think that’s everything packed now.

  I’ve got bags of food and all the bottled juices I had in the house - various flavours including orange and summers-fruits. Upstairs, in the bathroom, I tipped some of the juices - from each of the bottles - down the sink. Not loads... just enough so I could dilute what was left with some water. Not sure how easy it will be to find water out there and I’m pretty sure it’s not good for you to drink undiluted juice. Resourceful and not wasteful, I think. I hope. Should last me some time - I think there’s about six bottles in total.

  The food bags contain my usual sort of diet - the chocolate bars, which will undoubtedly spoil as soon as the sun comes out, packets of biscuits and crisps, including the shitty cheese and onion variety. There’s also tins. Spaghetti and sausages, naturally, sweetcorn, processed garden peas, soups varying in flavours.... I even remembered to pack a tin opener. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world had I forgotten, though. I’ve packed enough knives. One of them would be sharp enough to cut the tins open, I’m sure. Still, doesn’t matter, I remembered the opener. Better with one of those anyway. Easier. Save my strength for any fight or flight moments I encounter - and I’m sure I’ll be encountering them.

  Another bag of clothes. This was a little harder to pack. I wasn’t sure how important they’d be. I mean - worst case scenario - I could always rob them from stores I come across.... very worst case scenario, as long as the bodies aren’t fucked up too bad, I could always take them off anyone who failed to survive. It’s not as though they’ll be needing them, or missing them. I packed a weeks worth of fresh underwear. Figured I could change them every few days. In all the films I’ve seen featuring this scenario - you never see the characters stopping everything to get changed. They always wear exactly the same thing - day in, day out. But then, maybe that’s because they die too soon to have to worry about it?

  It doesn’t matter, my decision is made. I’ll change every few days. Bathe when I can. Although, thinking about it - is that a good idea? Smelling fresh - clean - will that attract the others to me? Will they smell the life flowing through my clean body? Again, in the films, maybe the survivors don’t change because the stench of dirt and stale piss helps keep the dead at bay. Helps them blend in as though they’re also one of the horde? It’s certain
ly worth considering.

  Okay, I’ll wash when my skin feels sore and not before. Anything to keep the fuckers at bay. Another plus side is that, if I stink, even the looters won’t want to come near me.

  The clothes I’ll go out wearing were harder to choose. It’s hot as Hell out there but I still opted for long sleeves. I even chose gloves too - which are still on the bed - next to the clean clothes I’ve prepared. I’ll put the gloves on just before I leave the house in a few more hours. I want to be as covered as possible for if I come across any trouble. I don’t want any infected blood getting on me. I don’t know how it works - for all I know, that could be enough. Can’t risk it. Won’t risk it.

  As for washing, I’ll give myself a clean before I go too. Could be the last time I manage to find clean, safe water for a while. These past few days, I’ve kind of let personal hygiene slip. It hasn’t been important - only been me here so no one to offend with the smell. I’ve been ignoring the facial hair as well. Beard is already itchy so I’ll have a full, wet shave before I leave too. I’ll have enough on my plate, outside, without having to be distracted by an annoying itchy beard.... in fact, no sense putting it off - I’ll do it now, along with my wash.

  A quick check to the bags, by the door again, and I was satisfied. They won’t be in the way when it comes to leaving. I turned away from the door, holding the candle that had previously lit my path, and caught sight of an old newspaper lying on the leather settee. The front page story hinting the end was coming. Unlike the films - these stories didn’t blame viruses escaping from government, or military labs and they didn’t pretend Hell was full. They simply blamed bath salts - purchased off the Internet.

  Sadly, the power went out the day the newspaper came - the last to be delivered - so no one has been able to step forward and deny this is the cause of the shit storm outside. For that matter - they’ve not been able to confirm it either. Unless they have let another report out and I just missed it because of the power situation.

  I picked the paper up and held the candle close to by. When I first read the report - stories from around the world which involved people ingesting bath salts and then going on killing sprees.... even eating people’s faces off.... attacking people... the level of violence - I just thought it was bullshit. Journalists playing with artistic license in order to sell more papers. But then, that evening, Jenny left and didn’t come home again. My mind started to worry and wonder ‘what if’. Soon after, I ventured into the front garden, my intention to go and find Jenny, and heard a strange noise - felt a strange feeling rush through me... unease. I rushed back in and locked the front door. I knew what was happening. The papers reported an early hint of it but - that night - it all kicked off.

  How it all spread so quickly though, I don’t know and I probably never will know. The initial outbreak caused by people eating bath salts containing chemicals harmful to us. The secondary outbreak, I guess, caused by people being bitten by the first group. Even so - the majority of the stories were in America. How the Hell did it get over here so quickly? It doesn’t make sense.

  And neither does the idea of Americans choosing to eat bath salts.

  I read through the report once more. It shared stories about a homeless man, named Ronald Poppo, having three quarters of his face chewed off by another man named Rudy Eugene. Police kept shouting for him to stop what he was doing but, in the end, they shot Rudy dead after he growled at them like a wild animal.

  Another story, in the article, referenced a lady named Pamela McCarthy. She did bath salts and attacked her own son who was only three years old.

  And another story - Carl Jacquneaux bit a chunk out of the face of his ex-wife’s new lover, Todd Credeur....

  Apparently, on the same day as Carl’s attack, another man named Brandon de Leon had to be restrained in a Hannibal Lecter-style face mask when he tried to bite off the hands of the police officers who arrested him. He was even screaming at them that he was going to eat them.

  Wait a minute, I continued reading, what’s this?

  The newspaper article suggests the bath salts, although consumed in America, were bought off the Internet from a site in England. Maybe the infection was already here - already rife on the streets - before it got to America?

  Shit.

  At least that would explain how it took a hold of society so quickly. The infection was already here. We did it. We released it. England. We’re to blame.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Brushing my teeth, I couldn’t help but think about what the victims of the bath salt attacks must have been feeling. Having someone, who appeared to be human, chowing down on a piece of you. How does your mind get round that? Trying to fight someone off as they tear you into pieces. What must Jenny have gone through - when it was her time? I spat into the sink.

  I don’t know if eating bath salts really is the cause of this. I don’t even know if I believe we, the English, are the ones who manufactured the end of the world but - I do know - I feel horrible. I wish I could turn the clock back to when all of this kicked off. Wish I had left the house with Jenny. At least, whatever happened to her, we’d have been together. And, whilst I’m wishing for the impossible, I wish we hadn’t had the argument in the first place. Just another stupid row. Had she not stormed off - and she only left the house because I refused - the whole damned thing would have already been forgotten and we’d have moved on. It’s what we did. Just as I have grown accustomed to hearing the neighbours banging around next door, when they were alive they had grown accustomed to the sounds of Jenny and I sparring with each other. Hell, the whole cul-de-sac was probably used to our shouting matches. But they were nothing ‘normal’ couples didn’t do from time to time. Show me any married couple who doesn’t argue with one another occasionally.

  I dropped my toothbrush into a food bag, after rinsing it clean under the running tap-water. Just because the world’s gone to Hell it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try and stay on top of oral hygiene.

  Don’t want my mouth stinking like I’ve been eating rotting bodies.

  The sun looks as though it’s come up, outside. Definitely seems brighter on the other side of the frosted bathroom window. Good. Was starting to think this night was never going to end. I leaned over to the bath and blew the candle out, which I had place on the side. No need for that anymore. Bright enough to make out what I’m doing. Soon time to go. A quick shave, throw my clothes on and that’s me done.

  Funny - having a shave before I leave the house for what could be the last time - even when everything was okay with the world, I rarely bothered to have a full-on shave. Instead, I preferred a quick trim with an electric beard-trimmer. A full-on shave never really suited me. Made me look too young, I thought. And it was a pain in the arse maintaining the fresh, clean cut look. Since losing the job, seemed pointless too. Don’t need to be smart to go and sign on. Always promised myself a proper shave, if I ever got another job interview. Important to give a good first impression, I feel. That doesn’t matter now. No need for a job for me anymore No jobs for anyone. Other than survival. Wouldn’t say that’s a job. That’s more of a task. A necessity.

  I ran the razor-blade under the running water and started to hack away at my feeble-looking beard. All these years, since puberty, and I still can’t grow a proper beard - my body, instead, only managing a patch-work attempt. Again, not important anymore. Not that it was ever that important, thinking about it. It didn’t take long before the hair was gone. A quick glimpse in the mirror - I don’t look as young as I used to. The stress of the situation obviously taking it’s toll on me.

  Ah, well. That’s the least of my worries now. Don’t need to look young anymore. Certainly not interested in meeting any members of the opposite sex. Even if I was over Jenny, which I’m not, I don’t think now is the right time to try and start dating new lady friends. Not whilst the world is being over-run by crazy.

  I dropped the razor into the bag, with my toothbrush, and tied a knot in the opening.
Don’t want them falling out, in the sports bag, and getting messed up in my clothes.

  Do I bother with aftershave and deodorant? I thought.

  I don’t see why not. I’m gone to this much effort to make myself presentable for the horrors out there, I may as well go the final stretch. A few dabs of Gucci’s ‘Envy’ on my cheeks and a generous spray of Lynx under each of my armpits. At least I’ll smell good for them, if they do manage to corner me.

  I don’t bother putting the aftershave, or deodorant, with the clear bag containing the razor and the toothbrush. Today was the last day of luxury for me. From here on in - I’m only carrying what is entirely necessary. Besides, out there, when I’m running from point to point.... fighting the Horde off.... I doubt very much that I’ll be stopping to worry about whether I’m smelling bad or not. In fact, truth be told, I probably wouldn’t give a fuck.