by Ryan Casey
He took in a sharp, shaky breath. Let go of Sam’s hand and turned back to look over the fence. “Nothing a plaster won’t sort out. Sure Simon will have some. Come on.”
He stood up. His own leg twinged a little with pain as he did, but he could get by. A bandage, a few beers—nothing that a good bit of beer couldn’t sort out. Besides, he’d only have himself to look after soon. None of this looking out for other people business to give a shit about.
The way he liked it.
“Can’t we stay here a bit?” Jenny asked. She was still sat down, cross-legged, so bizarre-looking in her dusty, bloodied elephant PJs. “It’s nice here.”
Jack looked around. Looked at the field, the grass charred with the intensity of the sun. Felt its heat glaring down on his skin, warming it up and giving it that burning smell that usually holidays only brought on. Listened to the sound of silence in the place of birdsong, sirens and helicopters far in the distance.
He saw the roofs of the houses in Fulwood just up ahead.
“Come on. We’ll be with Simon soon.”
He started walking in the direction of the houses.
He couldn’t argue with his daughter. It was nice here.
***
The closer they got to the houses, the closer the screams and the shouts seemed.
Sam and Jenny followed Jack closely. They walked through a field that led behind the houses at Barnacre, where their stepdad Simon lived. Up ahead, a play area usually packed with smoking teens and young parents pushing their kids on swings was abandoned.
“Come on,” Jack said, scanning the trees, listening to the sound of the breeze and the rumbling of engines. “Keep close.”
The kids didn’t say much as they cut through a little side alleyway and out onto the street adjoined to Barnacre Close. This street, filled with modern detached houses, looked empty of people. There was a smell of burning in the air from somewhere in the distance.
Jack brushed his tongue against his teeth, tasted a dullness in his mouth caused by cigarettes, which he could do with right now. “Which number does he live at?”
Sam and Jenny held hands. Looked from side to side at the empty-looking detached houses, the cars on the drives, the abandoned little pink bicycle with stabilisers toppled beside the road.
“Kids? Which one does he live at?”
“Umm…” Jenny said. “Seventy-nine. Seventy-nine. Just round the corner.”
Jack nodded. Tried his best to avoid eye contact with his children as he got closer and closer to Simon’s place. He didn’t want to make that bond. He didn’t want to make that connection.
He didn’t want them to see their dad in his eyes.
“You’ll have to come meet Simon. You’ll—you’ll have to come with us. Help us.” Sam’s little voice went from apprehensive to excited.
They turned the corner. Jack kept his eyes on everything, turning his head in every direction like he was a human waltzer ride. “I think I’ll give that a miss,” he said.
It was creepy, wandering down this moderately wealthy suburb. It was too quiet. Much quieter than Broughton had been. Jack wondered if maybe people had just fled. Left their homes and got out of here.
But why would they do that? Surely not everyone would leave their homes, right?
“Simon’s not gonna believe what happened to Mum,” Jenny said, a sadness in her voice.
“What… what did happen to Mum?” Sam asked. “Will we see her again?”
“‘Course we won’t see her again. She’s dead.”
Jack turned around. Faced the kids. They stopped in their tracks as he did.
He was burning up inside. He wanted to say something to them, but he wasn’t sure what. But the realisation was dawning on him now. The realisation that Candice was dead. A girl he’d once been really into, dead and gone.
Just like that, her world was over.
“Let’s get a move on,” Jack said, turning back around and leading the kids along the road without saying anything.
They got further down the street. Sound of motorbike engines rumbled in the distance. Jack looked at the towering, empty detached houses, their well-kept gardens, ornaments in the windows. Suddenly felt very claustrophobic, trapped with nowhere to go. Coming here was a bad idea. It was a bad idea. Should’ve just driven away without the kids. Should’ve just—
“There’s Simon!” Sam shouted.
Jack and the kids slowed down. Sam smiled, pointing and waving ahead.
There was a man right in front of them standing on his driveway. He was wearing a black leather jacket, had wispy black hair, and blue jeans.
Jack couldn’t tell whether he was smiling, or…
“Simon,” Sam called. He started to jog towards him. “Mum, she’s—she’s gone, Simon.”
Simon’s neck twitched to the side.
Jack saw his glazed eyes.
“Sam, come back here right now.”
Sam slowed down.
Looked over his shoulder at Jack, confusion on his face.
“But it’s… it’s Simon.”
When he turned around again, Simon was running full-pelt at him.
And he wasn’t alone.
SIX
“Come here. Quick!”
Jack clenched hold of Jenny’s hand as Candice’s partner Simon and the other glazy-eyed people ran after Sam. The sleepy Barnacre Close was suddenly amass with life, and not of the kind Jack wanted to come across any time soon.
“Sam! Quick!”
Sam stood staring at the runners coming in his direction. Stood in his little Chelsea shirt, frozen, as people scrambled over the fence at the side of Simon’s detached house. Men, women, children, all of them with their eyes glazed, all of them looking absolutely furious.
For a split second, Jenny squeezing his hand tightly, Jack thought about just running away. About finding a car and getting the hell out of here.
But no. These were his kids.
He had to protect his kids.
He jogged forward. Jogged right up to Sam and grabbed his hand, Simon running at him from the other side.
“Come on!”
Sam was still rigid as Jack pulled him away, but his little legs started moving eventually. They ran down the street. Ran, the sound of panting and snapping teeth behind them, of footsteps getting closer.
Jack’s heart raced. He looked to his left—a woman in the window of her house, blood all over her hands as she bashed at the glass. He breathed fast. Breathed fast, squeezed his kids’ hands tightly as he moved as fast as he could down the road, the footsteps behind him unstopping, relentless.
There was screaming on this road now. Screaming, struggling. Windows smashing. So people had been home all along. Something had happened in the space of time it took Jack to get from the top to the bottom of the street.
Somehow, the residents had woken up.
Or whatever was inside them had woken up.
Jack dragged his kids along, Sam crying and looking over his shoulder.
“Don’t look back.” He didn’t want to say much. Wanted to conserve his energy. He looked at the mouth of the street. Looked at where it opened out onto the main road, at the trees the other side of it. “Into… in there.”
Jack didn’t look left or right as he ran towards the exit from Barnacre Close. He knew there were things happening, though. More angry people fleeing their homes to join the chase. More enraged, speedy glazed-eyes looking at him, looking at his children.
He breathed steadily. Tried to ignore the footsteps, so close behind. Tried to ignore the animalistic pants of his pursuers. Tried to focus on the trees at the other side of the road.
And then Jenny stumbled and brought Jack to a turning halt.
When he saw what was behind him, the reality of this new world hit him.
There was a woman lying on her lawn. Three men were ravaging her insides, tearing open her stomach and ripping out her wormlike intestines.
She was still alive, still sc
reaming.
At the other side of the road, a man was beating another man’s head into the solid concrete of the pavement. Beating and beating and beating until his terrified face was nothing more than a bloodied pulp.
Further up the street, an Alsatian backed into a corner, fear in its eyes, its frantic barking drowned out by a pile of angry bodies.
Four of them were still running after Jack and his kids. Four of them, including Simon. One of them, an old-looking guy, had a long, sharp knife in his hand. He had his eyes solely on Jack, slaver dripping from his mouth.
Jack yanked Jenny back to her feet. Turned around, pulled his kids along towards the trees across the road, even though Jenny yelped with every step.
He stopped when he crossed the road. Stopped just briefly, looked either side. Completely clear. Although judging by the Toyota Celica crashed into the brick wall a bit further down the road, judging by the silhouettes in the distance, it wouldn’t be clear for long.
He looked ahead. Looked at the trees behind a grated fence.
“You kids need to get up there first. Get yourself over—”
“But my… my foot,” Jenny said.
Jack looked back at Barnacre. The four runners still coming their way. Not far off now. Fifteen seconds and they were dead.
He crouched down. Looked at Jenny’s right foot. Shit, there was bruising there. Twisted ankle, something like that. Not what they needed right now.
He moved over to Sam. Lifted him up, not even thinking properly, only thinking about how to get away, how to get his children to safety.
He lifted him as high on the fence as he could. “Grab on. Pretend it’s… it’s a climbing frame or something.”
Sam grabbed on. Winced a bit as he climbed, came close to slipping a few times, but he was on.
Jack looked back around. Just two runners now, including Simon, two of the others distracted by a man fleeing his house, ambushed by his own screwdriver-wielding wife.
Jack looked Simon in the eye. Looked at the old guy with the long, sharp knife trailing slightly behind.
He stepped in front of Jenny. Took a deep breath.
“Stay behind me no matter what.”
And then he pulled his fist back.
Let Simon get within inches of him.
Hit him right between his eyes.
He heard something crack when he made contact with Simon, knocking him to the ground. Jack’s knuckles stung like mad. But he didn’t have time to think. Didn’t have time to dwell.
He threw himself at the old guy with the knife. Dodged the knife as he swung it at him, grabbed his frail old arm and tried to bend it, tried to do everything he could to get him to release the knife.
The old guy panted. Panted hard, as Jack stared him in the face. Snapped his teeth at Jack, made animalistic noises.
Jack kept his cool. Kept holding on to his arm. Kept on bending it, bending it, bending…
The old guy let out a yelp.
The knife dropped to the road.
Jack lunged for it. Fell onto his front trying to get it. Rolled over, just as the old guy pounded down on him, and…
He felt the blood from the old guy splatter over his chest before he realised what he’d done.
He held the knife tightly. Held it, propping up the weight of this struggling old guy, whose eyes were glazing ever more by the second.
He watched the anger grow in his face. Watched his nose twitch. Listened to his animalistic cries intensify as he swung his long-nailed hands around Jack’s face.
And then, for a split-second, Jack saw something in this old guy’s eyes.
He saw humanity. He saw sadness.
As the animalistic cries became the raspy noises of a person’s last breaths, he thought he saw tears.
And then he heard a girl’s scream.
He pushed the old guy away. Swung around.
Jenny was on the ground on her back.
Simon was on top of her, pressing his thumbs into her eyes.
Jack felt a rage burn up inside him. He lunged towards Simon. Grabbed him by the scruff of his leather jacket.
“Fuck you, Simon,” he said.
And then he rammed the knife into the back of Simon’s neck.
And then again.
And again and again, Simon bleeding out over his stepdaughter.
When Jack was sure he was dead, he pushed Simon to one side, the knife still wedged inside him.
Jenny looked up at him with wide eyes. Her little lips shook; her elephant pyjamas were completely covered in blood. Behind the fence, Sam looked on, similarly wide-eyed, staring at Simon’s dead, twitching body.
There was a noise up the street. The noise of tires screeching. A smell of burning coming from Barnacre Close, along with screams, shouts, alarms.
Jack put the knife in his pocket. Held out a bloodied hand for Jenny.
She just looked at it, frozen, unmoving.
Jack kept it there a few seconds. Kept the option there, his daughter stuck on the ground with a twisted ankle, covered in her stepdad’s blood, filled with the memories of her mum’s disappearance.
He sighed.
“Come on, you. Let’s get you over here.”
He crouched down and lifted Jenny up. Scanned the fence, saw a little opening further down the road, which they’d have time to sneak through now they weren’t being chased.
He turned around. Looked at Simon. Looked at the blood, the gore, painting Barnacre Close. Looked at the little pink bicycle, toppled over at the end of the road.
And then, with his daughter in his arms, he walked to the opening in the fence.
SEVEN
“Ow!”
“Ssh, Sam. Stop being such a girl.”
Jack and the kids crouched in a little dirt opening amongst the trees. A bed of twigs covered them as they sat in the soil. Every now and then, Jack heard people shouting on the road, but they were far enough away, out of sight for now.
“You can’t call me a girl when you aren’t even walking.”
Jenny blushed a little at this.
They’d climbed over the fence, Jack had carried Jenny along, and then they’d stopped, all in need of rest. Sam’s hand cut from squeezing out of the car had flared up and was causing him quite a bit of pain.
Just what Jack needed right now.
“Let’s take a look at your hand,” he said.
Sam looked at his sister. Same wide-eyed expression he’d had on his face when Jack had stabbed the old guy with the glazed eyes, when he’d stabbed Simon to death.
Jenny looked back at him, same expression on her face.
Jack scratched the back of his neck. Cleared his throat. “Kids, you… what you need to understand is what I did back there, I… I had to do it—”
“But Simon wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“That wasn’t Simon,” Jack said. His voice was sterner. He stared Sam intently in his eyes, desperate for the kid to understand.
He looked around. Looked at the trees, the sun creeping down as evening approached. Smelled the crisp freshness of the woodland as the cooler air surrounded them.
The woods were deathly silent.
Jenny shuffled closer to Jack. “If… if it wasn’t Simon, then who was it?”
Jack pulled his phone out of his pocket. He’d been so caught up in all this crap that he’d never even thought to check it. He could read the news about what was going on. He could locate some of Candice’s relatives—find somewhere to drop Sam and Jenny off.
No service on the phone. A large crack across the screen, which he must’ve got from the car accident. Dammit. At least it didn’t look like he’d be needing a phone for a while anyway.
“I don’t know what it was,” Jack said. “I… I’m just as confused as the two of you.” More screeching tires. More shouting, squealing, screaming, all way in the distance. Jack lowered his voice. Got closer to Jenny and Sam. “But what I do know is… is the world out there, it’s dangerous. We need to get awa
y from here. Get somewhere safe.”
“Where’s safe?” Sam asked.
Jack gulped. Tried to work out a plan of action in his mind, but all of those involved a car, and the motorways were blocked, and the roads were suicide. “I don’t know yet.”
Sam and Jenny hardly looked impressed.
“Let me take a look at your hand,” Jack said, looking at Sam. “And your foot,” he said, turning to Jenny. “Need to be in tip-top condition if we want to stay safe. We might need to run at any time.”
Jenny and her brother looked at one another. After a few moments of deliberation, it was Jenny who offered her leg up. Showed off the bruising on her right foot.
Jack reached over for it. Felt a little sick inside as he touched it, examined the wound. His own daughter’s little feet. He’d held them when she’d been born. Held them, counted all her toes to check they were all there, that she was perfect.
She still was perfect.
“Looks like you’ve just twisted it badly. Now I know it might hurt, but a good few hours of rest and then walking on it should do it good.”
He let go of Jenny’s foot. Couldn’t face looking in her eyes.
“You. Sam. Let’s take a look.”
Sam was a little more reluctant, but he put his hand in Jack’s after a few moments’ hesitation, after a few more reassurance-seeking looks at his sister.
Jack winced. There was a deep slice right in the middle of Sam’s hand. Only small, but enough to cause some serious pain. There was dirt on his hand, too. Dirt and soil.
“Ouch,” Jack said. He looked Sam in his eyes. Saw that apprehensive little toddler in his face from all those years ago. The kid who’d rather stand at the side and watch the other nursery children play than join in. A dream kid, Candice had said. Barely cried at all.
“Is it bad?” Sam asked.
Jack closed Sam’s palm. “It’s… we’ll have to get it cleaned up. Just make sure you don’t get too much dirt in it. I don’t want to be prodding at it with my bloody sausage fingers while they’re all dirty. But we’ll get it cleaned.” He wasn’t too sure how he was going to follow through on that promise.