The Darkness and Dogs

by Lanchbery, T. S.

  The moment the dog is out of sight, Lowell reaches back, grabs hold of his pack and thrusts it through the hole, leaving the back edge close to hold the fence up. He quickly pushes himself through after it, leaps up and throws himself against the wall in front. Squatting down to catch his breathe, he watches the woodland ahead carefully, staying in position for a long moment, eyes darting furiously, building his courage, and then he stalks purposefully around to the door at the front of the station house.

  Chapter Ten

  As he approaches, he notices that the door to the station house is slightly ajar, and advances warily. Closer up, he can see a policeman, long deceased and decayed far beyond any hope of identification, laid out on the inside, one arm extended and wedged into the opening. The hand that had once protruded outside has been torn off. The wrist is all that remained, and even that has been worn down to a skeletal stump by the dogs, and the wood all around has been scratched and mauled repeatedly as they have attempted fruitlessly to get to the rest of the body which lies pressed against the glass on the other side, thwarting any attempt to push the door open. Pressing one shoulder against the door jam, he thrusts with all his might. Nothing moves. He tries again, heaving until sweat begins to drip from his brow, but still the door doesn’t shift. Taking his sleeve, he wipes some of the thick layer of grime from the top window, and peers into the gloomy interior. Looking down at the body, he can see now that a short wooden pole has been jammed from the edge of the door above the corpse down to a low step at the front of the lobby, wedging the door tightly in place. Cursing softly, he walks slowly along the outer wall, checking each window in sequence. Each is shut tight and barred. Returning to the main entrance, he happens to glance up, and sees that the window above the door is unbarred. Looking around, his eyes quickly light upon a steel dustbin lying on its side at the end of the platform. Rushing over to it, he hefts it into the air. Although it isn’t overly heavy, he is so weak through malnutrition that he reels backwards under the strain, then, catching himself just before he topples over the edge and onto the tracks, he leans forward and staggers towards the door. At the last moment, he throws the bin with all his might. It sails low through the air, hitting the bricks below the window before clattering back noisily in front of the door. Lowell looks around nervously, then grimaces, lifts it up again and tries a second time, with much the same results. His energy is fast depleting, but every time the bin strikes the ground with a terrible crash, terror drives him on. Finally, on the third attempt he strikes the window, a satisfying horizontal crack finally appearing as clear evidence of his success. Again and again, he launches the bin upward, until, with all of his strength nearly gone, it strikes decisively true and crashes clear through the window. Alarmed by the volume of noise he has made he wastes no time, and, lodging one foot against a railing, he helps himself onto the door handle with his other foot, reaches up to grip hold of the ledge above and pulls himself up and half into the building. Broken and almost spent, Lowell shuffles his body painfully forward, small shards of broken glass sticking into his torso with each movement. Straining, he shifts his weight again until, he reaches the counterpoint, and then he hangs in midair for a moment before tipping forward and plunging headfirst into the room. As he falls his foot catches briefly on the window frame toppling him over and then he is down, one arm striking painfully against the floor on his landing, the rest of his fall softened with a sickening squelch by the putrid body of the dead cop.

  *****

  “In my entire life before the outbreak I never once saw a dead body in the flesh, or at least not a human one. I thought that I would have seen enough of them on TV though to be desensitized, but it turns out that that only really desensitizes you for watching TV, and not so much for the real deal. So much for the idea of TV warping the kids brains eh? The first one I saw was the old lady across the street. I’d watched from an upstairs window as she’d walked out of her house in a daze, looked all around in confusion and then just dropped down face first, never to rise again. For a long while I’d thought she’d got the virus, and maybe she had, but based on what I’ve seen since my money would be on a heart attack. Either way, that wasn’t the last body I saw that day, and for damned sure I’m desensitized now.”

  *****

  Chapter Eleven

  Lowell rolls out of the rancid remains and lies wheezing and heaving on the wooden floor, clutching his arm tightly to still the pain. As the agony in his limb gradually diminishes, and his breathing returns to normal, he begins to laugh: a desperate, hysterical gurgling that catches him unawares as it rises unconsciously from his belly. For eighteen years, he had visited this station almost daily to commute to his former job as an executive at Advance Aerospace. Back then the slightest blemish on his smartly pressed suit would have sent him spiraling into a blind panic. Now here he is, wiping the slime of a dead policeman’s corpse from a ragged jacket, and his only concern is whether he has alerted a pack of rabid dogs to his whereabouts while breaking in. If only his fresh-laundered former self could see him now.

  Still chuckling, he clambers to his feet, wanders distractedly over to the back window and gazes out at the distant skyline of what remains of his former town. Many of the buildings that used to be are gone, razed to the ground by fire, often intentionally, in the blind panic and wanton vandalism that had spread swiftly after the downfall. Still others are crumbling slowly to an organic death, as materials gradually perish, and trees force themselves through roofs with an imperial, unstoppable resolve. In the distance, he can see the steeple of St Paul’s church marking the far end of his old neighborhood. He had been married there, in a simple ceremony markedly at odds with so much of his former flash, executive lifestyle. But Beth had insisted, two hometown childhood sweethearts getting married in the church they had both attended all their life. She had said it was romantic, he had readily agreed, even if he maintained inwardly that the location was beneath him. He remembers leaving the church that day, the long corridor of smiling faces, the rictus grin of his new father-in-law, the enthusiastic hollering of Carter and Dunne as they launch clouds of confetti into the air and into the faces of the happy couple; his joint best men the only two who know that same confetti is in fact made of shredded evidence from the latest environmental complaint against their company… He stands staring into space for a long moment before his face suddenly darkens as other thoughts crowbar their way back in. The goofy, nostalgic smile that has stolen unbidden onto his face drops away as quickly, his mouth wavers briefly and then sets back into its familiar grim resolve. He clenches his fists hard, punches the wooden frame lightly and turns angrily from the window.

  Pacing away, he approaches the main door and quickly scans the surrounding area; still no sign of the dogs. Working quickly, he knocks the pole away from its position securing the door entrance. As soon as it’s off, he pulls open the door, rolls the cop’s body outside, slams the door fully closed and replaces the bar, driving it down tight with his heel, then tugs to test it is shut tight once again. Satisfied, he scans the room quickly. The main room is almost completely bare, save for a collection of faded timetables and two utilitarian steel benches screwed to one wall. The other wall is taken up with a row of ticketing booths, and a snack vending machine, the glass long since smashed and the contents removed. He approaches anyway - trying hard to keep his hopes in check - and then tentatively reaches in and feels around in the bottom of the machine – it’s empty.

  *****

  “Adjusting mentally was difficult, and re-calibrating myself physically was just as tough. To adapt to a life of survivalism from a position of wealth and convenience is no mean feat. To begin with, as long as I was able to keep away from the dogs, feeding myself was as easy as processed pie. At first I gorged on the perishables in the houses and shops I visited on the road. When these went bad a few weeks in I switched to tinned food. For the first few years, this sustained me well. I had been living in a commune of twelve good people who had surviv
ed the downfall. Together we stockpiled a huge collection of cans, piled sky high in an abandoned merchants yard. Back then, it seemed as if there might have been a chance, some slim hope still remaining that we would be able to build something lasting from the wreckage. We had even sown crops: yams, tomatoes, eggplant, onion, raspberries and avocado. Whatever seeds we could find, all sown wildly without a clue as to proper care or techniques. The important thing was the dream itself, and I look back fondly on that short period of naïve delusion. In the end, of course the crops failed, none of us ever knew why; and perhaps if we did then things would have turned out differently. As it was, we were driven to travelling further and further on our scavenging runs. As our food supplies slowly dwindled, so did our numbers. Three I saw taken by the dogs, another three left on supply runs and never returned. We were down to the last few tins when one woman returned to camp with a concealed bite. Driven by the cold certainty of banishment, and perhaps delusional that she might somehow survive, she chose not to tell the rest of us. By chance, I had been out on a sortie and didn’t return until the dawn the next day. By then, two lay dead and bloated and the others were sprawled out, shivering and crying softly where they had fallen. Without a word, and keeping my distance, I just took the last of the food, and set out onto the road. Ever since, my life has been that of a lone nomad. Never settling, living meal to meal on the edge of starvation, and ghosting away at the first vague hint of any other being.”

  *****

  If there is one thing that Lowell possesses now though, it is an ability to survive against the odds. He forces himself slowly to his feet, and looks all around: only one place left. He approaches the door to the ticketing area and pulls it open. Sitting knees hunched together on the floor at the far end is another body. The remains of a conductor, half of his head slumped forward against his chest, and the remnants of the rest of him liberally arranged up the wall behind. Lowell can well imagine his final moments, fear and desperation no doubt clouding his judgment as the dogs hurled themselves at the hurriedly barricaded main door. He had taken the easy way out. Lowell initially feels only pity as he surveys the grizzly scene but then a shiver of delight runs up his back and just a moment later is smiling broadly, his eyes agleam. Lying next to the body the gun is laying where it had fallen and, beyond that, and piled neatly into one corner, are the entire contents of the vending machine.

  Chapter Twelve

  As he surveys the unexpected bounty in front of him, Lowell can scarcely believe his luck. The hoard of chocolate, chips and other snacks represents more food than he has eaten in the past month. It is all quite stale, and some way beyond safely edible, but he doesn’t care a bit. He sinks to his knees, crawls over and begins to gorge himself, ravenously tearing at packets and tipping the contents whole into his mouth. Some of the food here he hasn’t encountered at all in all his days on the road, and he almost cries as he comes across a stash of Reese’s peanut butter cups hidden toward the bottom of the pile. He eats three packets in a row without pause, a dementedly contented smile accompanying the chocolate smeared across his mouth.

  After a long while, and by now feeling quite unwell for all of his excess, some sense at last comes to him. He doesn’t know when, if ever, he will have such abundance again, and knows he must ration it carefully. Splitting the supplies down into their types, he takes a quick mental inventory. Even after his insatiable, stomach stretching gluttony, he is still left with twenty-six chocolate bars, thirty-two packs of chips, and thirty-eight packs of boiled sweets, gummy bears and other assorted sugary treats. Another eighteen packs of nuts haven’t kept well at all, and he puts these to one side with the other items no longer fit for human consumption. Looking around for something suitable to carry his cache, he comes across a door that he has overlooked, leading out into a small staff area. He quickly ransacks this room too, finding no more consumables, but adds to his collection a new rucksack, which he fills with all of the good food. In a locker he comes across a collection of unopened employee uniforms, and helps himself to a smart new conductor outfit, replete with shiny brass buttons that please him more than they rightly should, and stuffs another into the bag for luck. Visiting the main lobby again, he brings the rest of his supplies into the staff room, locks the door from the inside, and, after arranging the rest of the uniforms into a makeshift mattress lies down with a deeply satisfied sigh. It is only mid afternoon but he is fuller than he has been for a long time, has on the first set of new clothes he has owned in years, and soon finds himself drifting into a contented slumber.

  In the early morning, he wakes, sweating profusely from what had soon transformed into a tormented sleep, populated by bizarre, sugar-fueled nightmares. He had dreamt that he was back at work in the boardroom, pitching a new device, an incredibly high- pitched sonic wave that would destroy all of the dogs in the world by luring them to jump lemming-like into a deep, dark void plunging down into the earth. Try as he might, none of his colleagues could understand his plan, and merely stared, unspeaking and gradually shrinking into shriveled mummified corpses before his eyes. Backing out of the office-tomb, he fled to a vast, empty warehouse, and began to frantically assemble the weapon from a plethora of minute parts spread out on a workbench. Fingers shaking, sweating profusely, he worked furiously to complete the machine, and then, as the device neared completion, he heard a furious baying in the distance and a furious rolling tidal wave of dogs poured forth towards him from every entrance. Scrabbling desperately he strained to complete his work in time as the dogs surged ever nearer, until finally, with just one small pin left to fit into place, he slipped, and watched as it tumbled in slow motion into space. Grasping frantically, he came up empty-handed, raised his head just in time to see the snarling wave engulf him from all directions, then as he saw the head of the mighty alpha emerge from the crowd, jaws straining towards his throat, he awoke with a start and shaking with fear.

  Struggling to his feet and staggering to the window, Lowell takes a deep draught from his canteen. His disturbed night has stripped him of the brief joie de vivre he had experienced the night before, and replaced it with customary dread. Outside, a thin drizzle now leaches from a leaden grey sky, obscuring all but the outer perimeter of Newmarket. Staring bitterly into the fog in the middle distance, he chews half-heartedly on a sullen breakfast of stale Onion Crunch chips that stick in his throat and set him furiously hacking and choking ‘til he is red in the face. Ten minutes later he readies his possessions, then spends a long time checking and rechecking that the coast is clear on all sides of the building. In truth, he is half hoping that he will see the dogs outside, so that he will have some excuse to stay where he is, if only for another day or two. To force himself to keep moving, he recites the list of requirements for his physical and mental survival over the winter; water, food, fuel, books. Of these he currently has one: food, and this hardly enough to last him even until the onset of the worst weather. He has to keep moving, and one significant new comfort to this end he now slips into his waistband in addition to his machete. The gun has five rounds left in the magazine. He has seen the dogs confronted by guns long ago, and at least then they had quickly learned to fear their retort. As he knocks the beam from its place securing the door, and eases himself outside, he has to hope that they have held on to that apprehension. As an afterthought, he reenters the station house, walks straight to the body in the ticket booth, and rifles through its pockets. His nose curls with disgust as he searches, but he quickly finds what he is looking for. Leaving once again, he locks the door, slips the key into his pocket, steps over the policeman’s body and sets off from the platform towards town.

  *****

  “Early on I found a gun on the body of a man by the side of the road. Evidently the gun hadn’t helped him much, as it was clear that he had been on the losing side of a desperate fight for his life. He was covered in bites, including a deep wound to the throat that looked to be the fatal injury. Scattered around his corpse were dozens of spen
t bullet casings, but no dead dogs. Chances are that he was ambushed from out of the undergrowth, and had only had time for a desperate salvo as he was ripped to the ground. The gun was some big, assault rifle type thing, and I carried it around for several weeks trying to figure out how to use it. I never did though, figured it was jammed or something. I just ended up dumping it as dead weight when I got so weak that I could barely walk. I did go back for it later when I had got a bit of my strength back, and never could find it. Maybe that was for the best. Chances are if I could have found it - and got it working again - then I would have ended up using it on myself. One of those day would have come around, as they did so often, and I would get to thinking about that moment again - that day - and having a gun would have made it far too easy.”

  *****

  Chapter Thirteen

  As he follows the path around the side of the station and through the side gate, he finds himself slipping into autopilot. His feet carry him unconsciously in the direction of his former home, as his eyes mist over with happy remembrances of what once was. For this reason he doesn’t notice that the gate is rusting and hanging limply from one hinge. He fails to see the weed-filled cracks engulfing the pavement on Station Road, or the burnt-out car embedded in the front of the liquor store across the street. He would even have missed the multitude of human bones strewn across the street if he hadn’t caught a small pile with his outstep as he walked, sending them skittling across the street to clatter noisily against a store shutter. The unexpected sound jerks him immediately from his dangerous reverie, and he leaps impulsively into a shop doorway and stands stock still, eyes scanning nervously up and down the street.