by RR Haywood
Wash. Remove the smell. She crosses the office to the water cooler and presses the blue lever down. Water trickles out. A steady but painfully slow flow that she paws at to splash into her own groin that she thrusts towards the water machine. It’s not enough. She grabs a paper cup and waits while it fills. She washes. Fills another and washes again. Twisting her neck to look at the office door and the immense banging coming from the doors to the stairwell.
‘Come on,’ she wills the water to pour faster and fill the cup. ‘Sod it,’ she ditches the cup and wraps her arms round the blue plastic tub of water on the top. A grunt and she lifts, pushing through her legs to get the nozzle free from the hole. It pops out with a wet sucking sound and she staggers back under the sudden weight. Water cascades out down her front. She grunts to lift it higher while trying to get her groin forwards under the flow of water pouring out. Round and round in a tight circle, trying to keep her balance while emptying the water tub down her legs. As it gets lighter so she manages to hold it with one arm and uses the free hand to rub the inside tops of her thighs to sluice the blood and clots away.
The tub drops and she runs again. Past the bloodied jeans and out into the corridor. The impacts on the main doors are so much louder now and as she runs to the far end she glimpses back to see them slamming open a few inches as the cable starts to give.
Synchronicity of movement and as she reaches to get through the last door in the corridor so he gets through the main door from the stairwell. She goes in. He comes in. She closes the door as he breathes deep to catch that scent of blood and runs snarling to the office.
She slides down the door. Heaving for air with a hand clamped over her own mouth to stifle the ragged noises of her breathing. This room is darker. Blinds on the window half turned to let only slivers of light through that create bars of silver reflected on the desk and chairs.
She reaches up, feeling for the handle then down a bit groping for a lock. A small sliding bolt is found by her fingertips and she gives a prayer of thanks for small mercies. She slides it home. A tiny metal bar that will give easily but it’s something.
Soaking wet and half naked but also now half clean and she scurries on all fours away from the door. Her naked arse poking up to be bathed in the bars of moonlight. A big desk at one end. The room must be the general managers. A quick look round and she realises there is no other way out. No other doors. Not even a private bathroom for the manager to use.
She sags, sinking onto her bare bum on the carpet while staring at the door to the corridor. Her heart races, her legs burn, her backache is immense, her head is pounding and she now wishes she had drunk some of that water. That thought makes her look down at her own groin. She’ll still be bleeding and without something to stop the flow it will keep coming out. She has to stop it. Plug it. What with though? She looks round idly as though expecting to see a box of tampons on the desk. She rolls over again onto all fours and crawls round to the other side and opens the first drawer. The light is poor so she gropes in, finding the usual stationary items. A stapler and hole-punch. Boxes of staples, drawing pins, paper clips. Pens, pencils. Old notebooks and pads. She goes through the two drawers then navigates round the plush swivel chair to the other two drawers and opens the top one. She reaches in, feeling while leaning up to peer over the desk. Noises outside in the corridor tell her the lot of them are now up here. Bangs and snarls sound here and there.
Her hand grips something. A circular tub that she pulls out and stares at. A flip top lid that she pops open to see the first cleaning wipe poking out the top. It must be for computer screens or keyboards but it’ll do. She pulls one out then more. Plucking them one after the other until she clutches several that she bunches and starts to shape.
The noises in the corridor grow louder. Closer. She works quickly, flexing and forcing the wipes into something that resembles the shape of a tampon. With a grimace she plunges her hands between her legs, finds the opening and shoves them in. It feels awful and she chokes the sob for the sheer horror of the situation. She pushes deep, worrying for a second of going too far but the blood flow cannot come out. She cannot smell like she did a minute ago. She will survive this night whatever the cost.
With another grimace she levers herself up onto her feet and looks at the only viable exit from the room. She twists the lever of the blind to open the slats. The room is instantly bathed by moonlight. She yanks the cable next, drawing the blinds back on their runners until the frame is exposed. One handle for a small push out window of an old style metal frame in keeping with the art deco style. She pulls it up and pushes the window open then leans out to look down at the sheer drop to the road far below. Not a drainpipe in view. Nothing. No bedsheets to knot together. No ropes to dangle. No escape plan now and the whole frenzied desire to live comes crashing to a halt with the realisation there really is nowhere to go.
In the office he finds the jeans first. Soaked in blood and sweat. He goes deeper into the room. Striding in with hands clawed into talons. Lips pulled back to show teeth ready to snap shut and bite through flesh. He snarls, growls and hunts the smells. To the far end and behind the last desk he stares down at the soiled panties with a hundred images pulsing through his mind one after the other. Memories that try and take grip to hold fast to be seen before they are pushed away by the infection that pumps him up with more rage giving chemicals.
He knows only fury now. He is consumed with the hunt. He will seek the prey and take it. He will kill it and destroy it. It will be torn apart for the simple audacity of trying to get away from him.
He goes back down the room. His feet sloshing on the water soaked carpet. The horde get through the doors and surge into the corridor, following the scent of blood into the office. He barges through them. Heedless they are his own kin folk for he knows only rage now. He shoulders them aside with ease and they scurry round his form to find the jeans and soiled knickers.
In the corridor he starts walking towards the end. His head twisting side to side in a physiological response to the hormonal rampage underway in his system. Every muscle strains, bulging to push the veins out through his skin. The injuries to his throat look worse as his skin mottles with a mottled crimson flush brought on by his heart jack hammering in his chest.
The others pile out behind him to charge across the corridor into the other rooms as they start the search for the one they know must be here.
He goes down to the end. His eyes flickering with intelligence that gets suppressed but within those flashes of intelligence he sees the wet foot prints tracking down the middle of the tiled floor. He stops at the last door and inhales. She is in there. He knows this. The infection knows this. He is the predator. She is the prey. She is a host to be taken. He will take her.
It’s done. Over. His immense strength explodes the door in one single blow that sends it flying across the room to smash into the wall at the other end. He charges in as she turns from the window. A thought crosses her mind to throw herself out and thereby have the dignity of choosing her own demise but in that second she catches sight of him in the moonlight. The first clear view of the man and she freezes in complete shock, her mouth dropping open. That second is all he needs and he’s there, ripping her off her feet through the air to land heavy on the solid wooden desk. She feels the monstrous strength in him and the ease in which she is lifted so high only to be brought down so easily.
He rages and snarls. The victory is his. He tries to howl but the awful injuries to his throat make the sound come out warped and low. He smashes his fists down onto the desk either side of his head. She screams and covers her face, bringing her bare legs up to try and kick into his body but the man is solid muscle. She kicks harder and starts hitting. Refusing to go out without fighting for every second of her life. He rages, pumped too far, too much and too full of snarling fury.
Another one runs in behind him. The father of the two children taken just hours before. The man turns and sends him spinning away with one arm
lashing out. Heather doesn’t see it but only the huge man blocking her from getting off the desk. She kicks into his groin, into his stomach and reaches up to grip the ragged flesh of his already damaged throat. He pays no heed but turns back to her with those awful red bloodshot eyes showing intelligence then wild animalistic hunger then back to intelligence. The images and memories pulse harder through his mind. The infection tries to rid them. To kill them and increase the chemical dump. He has the urge to bite. Bite then. He has the urge to rake and tear flesh. Do it. He sees a dog, a woman, a van a poster for a movie. He snarls and beats down with hard fists that fracture the wooden top of the desk. She screams louder, once more curling up in instinct to avoid the blows. Another one gains the office and runs in only to be hit so hard she staggers back into the window, her elbows and head smashing through the panes of glass.
The man goes back to his prey. He will kill her. He will take her. It will be done. You are hive mind. You are host. She is human. Take her. End her. Pass it into her bloodstream. His thick arms lift and come down to drive through the desk that breaks and splinters, sinking Heather down who drops the short distance to the floor to land amongst the broken shards. She screams again, cycling her feet to try and push him away but he sinks down with her. Snarling and shaking with pure unbridled rage that courses through his body.
‘NO,’ Heather screams, her voice cracking with fear and anger. She punches out, striking him in the face but he doesn’t flinch. She hits again, her lips pursing with determination to hurt this bastard before he bites her. She punches again and again, hurting her own fists. He stares down, seeing a woman. Seeing a person. Seeing a dog, a van, a poster, a young woman in pain who pleaded for her life for the men to stop. She hits his face. She hits his throat. His eyes flicker. The infection tries to give him pain but the rage inducing chemicals overpower everything else in his system apart from those images fleeting so quickly through his brain.
The obese man comes in. The obese man who can smell the woman and comes leading several from the horde. The obese man with the huge gut hanging down over his groin. The obese man who lunges greedily across the floor to join the feast underway to bite and rake and pass the thing inside.
The man turns, snarling as he runs into the obese man who is ripped up off his feet to be thrown bodily through the window frame that snaps from the impact of the heavy fleshy weight. The obese man sails down through shards of glass to explode on the hard road below. His head bursting apart like a melon.
Still Heather doesn’t see it. She sees only the violence erupting and the primeval fear of monsters that will kill her. She tries to rise to get up and run to jump through the window but the man dives at her. Driving her back down into the broken remains of the desk. She sinks screaming from his face baring teeth with lips pulled back but he twists away and runs at the next two members of the horde coming into the room.
This time she does see. She sees him hit the half-naked shit covered woman who is sent flying back out of the room with such force it knocks two more off their feet as they try and come in. The man turns back. He will kill her. He will take her. It will be done. She is human. Take her. He skulks forward, dropping to all fours and planting his hands either side of her head. In that second she stares up, into his eyes. Her nostrils flare in pure terror. Tears prick her eyes. It’s done. This is over. Her life will end.
‘Please,’ she whimpers and clamps her eyes closed. ‘Please…no….please…’
She doesn’t try and cover herself. She doesn’t fight now. She simply begs for forgiveness for any sins of this world to be left here when she passes to the next.
He looks. He stares. He rages and pulses and snarls but he hears the words. The infection drives harder. Forcing every cell in his body to do as bid.
Please. That word. The feminine voice. The way it’s said. The tone of it. The fear he can smell in her.
The rest come. The horde come. On mass they come to accomplish what the man refuses to do. They come snarling with rage and fury and lips pulling back to show teeth.
She feels him on her. That first touch and her gut twists. His hand grips the front of her top and clenches to bunch and grip. He stands, lifting her one handed from the floor and she goes up into the air held by a beast that turns his head to stare at the doorway now full of his own kind. His arm extends. Pushing her away from him. Off her feet and her own hands come up to grip his wrist. She stares wide eyed, staring at him, at his arm holding her off the ground without a tremor of exertion showing. She looks past him to the beasts converging to enter.
He stares. His eyes fixed on them and holding the thing they want away. His huge chest lifts and falls. His head fixed and that intelligence now holds. The images of the dog, of the van, of the poster now take root. His lips pull back. Their lips pull back. He snarls. They snarl. She stares, sensing something else is happening but too scared to realise what. She holds his wrist. Dangling from his grip like a ragdoll. His injuries look horrific, his neck all torn open. They come a step. Pushing into the room. She is lifted higher. His stance straightening. His back locking out. His head lifting higher and that snarl comes louder, defiant, daring them to come. A glimmer of hope shines in her heart. An instinct to live and survive no matter what. She reaches out, pushing her hands down his arm and instead of gripping hard she touches him gently.
‘Please…Paco….please…’ she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion of fear and terror and hope and a bad decision made that brought her here.
He feels it. He feels that touch on his arm. He hears that voice plaintive and terrified and a word that strikes the deepest of all. They hear it too and it sends them wild to charge in to take the host.
A jolt from his core that sweeps down his arm that opens his hand and sends her flying back over the desk into the wall. The second she impacts he turns fully to face the horde of his own brethren.
The first is taken down by an arm sent lashing out. A solid meaty impact that drops the elderly man instantly. The second is kicked back into the others then the man launches into them. A brutal explosion of violence of hands punching out that break jaws and noses. They charge in. Thick and fast with voices screeching in wild rage given hunger. One goes past him to be grabbed by the arm that’s snapped clean at the elbow joint and dragged back to be sent thrown into the others. Still they keep coming. They don’t have pain but he starts feeling it. The infection sends everything against him to stop his actions but the bloodlust is there. The urge to bite transmuted and turned into rage to fight his own kind. He is brutal. Pure strength and unrestrained violence that decimates them with ease. They don’t stand a chance. He sends another through the window to sink down with a wet splat next to the obese man. He strikes an old lady, snapping her head over so hard her spine is broken. One gets past and lunges to get to the woman at the back of the room. He gets grabbed by the hair as a child runs past. The child gets kicked into the side wall. A solid foot swinging from a solid leg that makes the child impact so hard the plaster and bricks falls off. Heather winces, grimacing and turning way at seeing the form of a child damaged so badly.
The one the man grabbed by the hair is flung aside as if made of nothing. Another one is grabbed, lifted and sent through the window. The second child taken today is sent the same way. Men, women and children with red bloodshot eyes and bared teeth get thrown through to build a pile of broken remains on the road below.
Those that remain turn on the man. They sink in to bite and rake at his flesh instead. The infection within him must be wrong. He must be turned again. He must be stopped. He fights harder, battering them aside as they lunge to bite and gouge at his flesh.
Heather would run but the doorway is blocked. She would do something but she sits cowering at the base of the wall seeing something immensely disturbing but in her heart, in her gut where that demand to survive lives she wants him to kill the others and then die himself. That man is Paco Maguire. The movie star. The Hollywood action man. His posters were
on the walls downstairs. It’s him. Paco Maguire. She recognised him the second he ran into the room.
If any doubt remained she watches as he grabs a fully grown man, stamps down on the back of his knee then twists the head to break the neck with the same movement she, and half the world, has seen hundreds of times. The trademark Paco Maguire move. The one he did in every movie. Stamp the knee and break the neck. The vain prick even tried to copyright the move. It was in the magazines and on the websites. The womanising misogynistic overpaid wooden acting twat who played the same part in every single movie. The hero who saved everyone. The hero who always got the girl.
That prick fights now. Bleeding and torn with his body on fire from every nerve being set alight in his body. That twat suffers immense pain that makes his body want to die right there to end it. That vain man fights and refuses to give in and he kills his own kind for a reason he doesn’t know and cannot understand. He is hive mind. He is not human. He kills them anyway. He snaps necks and sends them out through the window. He slams them into the walls to break their bones and rips them off their feet to be sent back out into the corridor.
He staggers, reeling from the pain searing through his body. She sees him flagging but rallying to lash out and drop one rushing towards her.
‘LOOK,’ she screams without knowing she was going to scream, to shout the warning of the woman lunging to bite his neck while he breaks the one gripped in his arms. He turns as the woman sinks in. Her teeth latching onto his arm and he punches down, killing her instantly. She drops but tears a chunk of his flesh as she goes down. He kills two more with almost drunken movements. Lashing and hitting with wild aiming and staggering on his feet. That manner of movement becomes a wounded animal. Pitiful and tragic but still he stays up. Still he fights the last few until they are taken down until finally he stands bleeding and wracked with pain amongst the corpses of his horde.
