Backing slowly out of the room, he hesitates at the door, and examines the woman’s face for a long moment, squinting to see if perhaps he can recognize her after all. If he had once known her, any chance of identification is now all but impossible from looking upon the grotesque, distorted, visage that her agonizing death has bestowed on her, and he rules out venturing any closer to the body to search for any possessions that might give him some other clue. Resigning himself to the fact that he will in all likelihood never know, he stares sadly for a few more moments and then paces thoughtfully out of the room, moves to the bottom of the wooden ladder that leads up into the attic, and begins to climb upwards, taking care to move as stealthily as possible in case there are any further surprises awaiting him up above.
Chapter Twenty
“Still, even now, my memories of that day remain so clear. I woke up with no idea how long I had been lying there. At first I was afraid to open my eyes. Afraid the dogs would still be waiting, afraid to move or open my eyes and discover the extent of my injuries, but mostly afraid at what I would find lying next to me. I knew at once that she wasn’t okay. The simple fact that I was still lying on the cold lobby floor told me that much, otherwise she would have already moved me somewhere comfortable, somewhere she could tend to my wounds. I had strained to hear anything that would indicate I was still in danger but could hear nothing inside the building, just an unbroken cacophony of barking, screaming and gunfire assaulting me from without. Eventually, I plucked up the courage to roll over on one side, only to roll straight back as a terrible pain in my right leg overwhelmed me, accompanied by the sudden realization that I was lying in a large pool of what could only be blood. It took me minutes to build up the courage to attempt to right myself again and to actually look down and see the extent of my injuries, but when I rolled myself again I soon discovered that the pain in my leg had subsided greatly. Gathering myself together I had counted down from ten and then lifted my head and opened my eyes. My first thought: the pool of liquid I am lying in is not blood. Second thought: how the fuck did I get outside? I cannot express the relief that I felt at that, instantly I assumed that it must have been her that moved me there. But then, as I jumped up to stare through the door into the lobby, and looked all around for her, it didn’t take long for that relief to turn back into a frantic panic. There were so many bodies. Maybe a half dozen bore signs of having gone down fighting the dogs - who would have thought a couple of poodles could do so much damage? The rest had evidently managed to overpower the animals, but now either lay bloated and already dead from the disease or else moaning and gradually inflating in its final stages. I scanned each body in turn if she wasn’t there then where the fuck was she? In the end, it didn’t take me too much longer to find out. I moved from window to window around the block three times looking for any trace of her before I had found myself outside of the lobby once again staring through at the scene of carnage and desolation inside. I had already looked repeatedly, and been relieved to see no sign of her out there when something caught my eye; a bright yellow piece of material lying sodden, draped along the floor outside of the elevator. The color was so distinctive that, even before I saw the indistinct shape lying half obscured in the gloom, I just knew. A moment later I found myself standing outside of the elevator door, my shirt folded up and over my mouth, my face reddening as I risked only the smallest breaths through my makeshift mask. As I hesitantly approached, I didn’t recognize – no, I refused to recognize – her. I dared to hope that it would be somebody, anybody, else, but then I saw her singular yellow scarf discarded in the blood to one side, I saw the section torn off by savage teeth, matching that which danced in the stream from the air conditioning unit on the wall. I saw the terrible injuries that the dogs had inflicted all over her body. I couldn’t bear to turn her over, to see her lifeless eyes or the damage they had done to her beautiful face. I had seen enough already to last me a thousand nightmares. Before I left I took the sheet from a hospital bed that lay on its side outside the door and carefully covered over what remained of her body, then turned and walked away from the hospital without looking back. I was in shock, my mind refused to focus, refused to confront whatever had just happened, all I knew was that I had to get away. Even with all of those emotions, all of that inner turmoil, my impulse was to get away from the dogs. The fear of them that I have always held has overridden everything else, every other urge or consideration, and I guess that’s the reason I’m still here today.”
*****
Reaching the hatch at the top of the steps to the attic, Lowell slowly lifts the crown of his head over the edge and glances around the room, straining to see in the dim, dusty light, and remains in place until he is satisfied that there is no one else around. Climbing the final few steps, he braces his arms against the sides of the hatch and heaves himself up. Inside, wooden crates have been piled all around the sides of the room. Muttering a silent prayer, he approaches one at random and lifts the lid. Peering inside, he is confronted by countless carefully stacked tins of powdered milk. His first instinct is to tear one open and spoon the dry contents into his mouth, but instead he balances the lid back on top and moves onto the next box. Here, he finds a large quantity of canned fruit, the next holds tins of assorted vegetables, and the one after that dried pasta. He moves silently from crate to crate, his eyes open wide, taking stock of the enormous quantity of food that is stored here. It is clear that the group who lived in the house have been very busy, probably since the first days of the outbreak, and it seems likely that they have managed to stockpile the vast majority of edible food still left in the town; an industriousness that overwhelms Lowell with both admiration and trepidation at the thought of them returning to find him rifling through their treasured supplies. Walking over to the other side of the room, he begins to investigate the last remaining boxes, all but a couple of which are also filled to the brim with supplies.
Each crate that he opens triggers a fresh exclamation of amazement, as well as an accompanying crescendo of stomach rumbling, but the last box but one causes him to freeze instantly in place. A long moment of strained stillness follows, eventually interrupted by a strained choking sound as he begins suddenly to break down and cry, huge teardrops cascading from his face and splashing into the box. With trembling hands, he reaches inside and with great reverence lifts free a tin of corned beef. In a trance, he drops to the floor, struggling to pull free the attached ring opener as he falls. At length he gets the can open and shakes it desperately until the large cube of processed meat slides out with a rasping sigh and quivers into his hand. Devouring it in seconds, he repeats the process four times in quick succession, throwing aside each empty can with an ecstatic abandon before reaching up to pluck out another and replicate the procedure. Eventually satisfied, Lowell lies on his back rapturously; flecks of meat and beef jelly liberally covering his mouth and shirt, and then stays there, burping softly with satisfaction for several minutes. Reclining supine, he finds that he is exhausted, as a combination of the stress of the day, the half-light of the attic, and a fuller stomach than he has experienced for months weighs heavily on his eyelids. Struggling to his knees, he strains to keep his eyes open, and reminds himself that he is in dangerous territory, to fall asleep here would be foolish, and much as he would like to rest he knows he must keep moving.
Chapter Twenty-One
He wakes with a start, and as he sits bolt upright the sound of the front door of the house slamming shut and the murmur of a multitude of voices fills him with an instantaneous sense of dread. He has no idea how long he has been asleep, but what light there had been in the loft is almost gone, and dwindling further by the moment. Moving as quietly as possible, he springs into action. First, he grabs the empty meat cans and piles them out of sight behind one of the rearmost crates, and then he stalks around the room, replacing the lids of each of the boxes in turn and wincing as each clicks shut. As he does so, he removes a couple of each of the tins from inside, plac
ing them behind the box as he works. Once this is done, he recovers his bag from where he had left it near to the hatch and piles in as many of the tins that he has taken as possible. He manages to get all but a couple to fit, and he places those leftover alongside the empty tins he hidden behind the crate.
With everything straightened out, he creeps to the edge of the hatch and strains to hear the people down below. By the sounds of it they are all still on the ground floor, and there seems to be an intense discussion underway about something, but try as he might he isn’t able to make out what they are saying at such a distance. After several minutes, the row rises in intensity, culminating with a bright flare from below, as a lantern is ignited that carries up the stairs and casts long shadows through the opening in front of him. This is followed a moment later by the sound of footsteps stomping closer and starting up the stairs as the sound of a woman’s voice shouts distinctly across those of the others; “I - we - need to know whether she is still alive, so I don’t really give a fuck what else there is to do, it can wait” Lowell hears the muffled tones of a man saying something in response and then the woman’s reply comes back loud and clear from the landing below the hatch; “No, if it was you I wouldn’t give a flying fuck, Walter, but she’s my fucking sister”.
As the sound of the footsteps stomping angrily up the stairs grow ever louder, Lowell slowly lowers himself until he is pressed flat against the hard wooden floorboards and lays still, his breath caught in his throat. As the woman reaches the top of the stairs, her pace falters, and he hears her stop briefly before slowly walking forward toward the door in which the dead woman’s body lies. There is another long pause as she musters the strength of mind to enter the room, a knock, another pause, and then the sound of the handle depressing and the door swinging hesitantly open. Raising his head a fraction to peer down the ladder, Lowell is just in time to see the back of the woman’s heels disappear into the room. Almost immediately, he hears the first tentative sounds of grief from within the room; a series of stifled sobs and then a low, tortured moaning that rises in pitch and intensity to climax as a long, loud unbroken wail. After a few moments of this, the voice of the male interlocutor cuts in sharply with a harsh, hissed warning that carries up the stairs and briefly stills the sound of the woman’s mourning before it resumes at a slightly softer frequency.
Lowell listens intently, trying to make out the substance of another stifled debate on the ground floor and then quickly drops his head out of sight as he hears incensed footsteps pacing from the living room, up the stairs, and on into the room containing the woman. After the door is closed, the sound of wailing is cut instantly short, a few sharp words are exchanged on both sides, and then a quiet sobbing resumes, accompanied by a more measured, consoling tone. This continues for a few moments before the door opens and he hears the pair return to the hallway. All is still for a moment, and, risking a quick glance, he sees them standing below, locked in an embrace, the woman’s shoulders shaking with the obvious distress that still convulses her body. Her face is only just visible, with the majority buried in her companion’s shoulder, and he feels a deep empathy for the familiar, agonizing sorrow seared into her expression, and feels ashamed to be spying on such a personal moment for these strangers. As he begins to lower his head out of sight the embrace ends, and the woman’s partner turns her gently away from the room, placing one arm around her shoulder to shepherd her towards the stairs. As they turn, Lowell peers down and freezes, his stomach leaps and twists and the blood drains from his face as he finds himself looking down upon the face of the man he had seen in the picture earlier that day; Walter, the man who had doomed Beth and all of the others by his cowardice.
Every one of Lowell’s instincts scream at him to pull his gun free and shoot him where he stands, or to leap down and throttle him with his bare hands, but the murderous rage that envelopes him is overwhelming. As he watches his nemesis walk across the landing he wills his body to react, to seize this unexpected opportunity for revenge before it is too late, but his hatred has paralyzed him. Finally as he sees the pair reach the top of the stairs the sudden realization that he might never have this chance again sends his body into autopilot. Without any conscious effort, his arm reaches out, moves mechanically to his belt and yanks the gun free. He hoists himself up onto one knee and raises the weapon, leveling the sight onto the back of the retreating figure in front of him, draws his breath in and holds it as he carefully matches the rhythm of his foe as he descends the staircase. His finger eases onto the trigger and holds, waiting for the perfect moment. As he sees the man reach the middle of the staircase he begins to gently squeeze his finger, only to release a moment later as the man pauses halfway down. Through the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears, it takes Lowell a long moment to realize what has caused the delay, and then he hears it again; a child’s voice softly calling out to the woman on the stairs from the living room. He stays locked in position, the barrel of the gun still trained tightly on his enemy’s skull, but unsure now of how to proceed. Then, the sound of the child calling out again breaks his resolve completely. The woman fights back her tears and calls out a choked response; “stay where you are honey, we’re coming down”, and before he can react the pair have walked to the bottom of the stairs, turned the corner and in a moment are out of sight.
Lowell stays as he is, gun pointed at the vacant staircase, silhouetted in the loft opening for several minutes whilst his brain struggles to come to terms with the events of the recent past and the surge of emotions that have accompanied them. His hatred has not dimmed, but the shock of hearing the child’s voice has jolted him back to consciousness, and returned to him some sense of the danger of the situation he is in, and of how reckless it will be to go charging in guns blazing. He will not risk a firefight with a child in the house, with no idea of how many others still remain downstairs, and also unaware of the character of the others. Instead, he consoles himself that, now he knows where to find Walter, he can take his time, formulate a plan, scope out the house and the group that lives within and return when the time is right to exact his revenge.
Having settled on a plan of action, Lowell returns his gun to his belt, retrieves his bag filled with its bounty of canned food and settles in to wait until nighttime and a chance to slip away. He hears little more from the group downstairs for the next hour or so apart from a muted, respectful chatter as they mourn the passing of the infected woman. He tries to pick out individual voices, to get some idea of how many he is dealing with, but is unable to tell for certain. He guesses from the beds he has seen that there are no more than ten or so people living here at the most, but knows that is far too many for him to take on alone and unprepared. His mind returns to the wide array of weapons that he had seen in the armory, and he determines that he will grab himself a rifle with a scope on his way out if he gets the chance: perhaps that can be the way to get his revenge from a distance without risking his own life or that of the other innocents.
For several hours Lowell stays in position just beyond the loft hatch, waiting for the household to retire. In the dim light of the roof space he soon finds that his eyes grow heavy once more, and his legs ache from pressing against the hard boards that line the floor. Eventually, as his eyelids begin to drift down for the hundredth time, and he feels sure that he will soon surrender to another dangerous slumber, he hears the muffled sounds of those on the ground floor shuffling about as they prepare their sleeping positions, and a chorus of yawning goodnights are exchanged with those heading up to the first floor. The realization that the moment of Lowell’s escape is nearly at hand snaps him back into a state of alert readiness, and he quietly begins rubbing his legs awake in preparation for his flight. A moment later, he spots a darting flash of light from a torch at the foot of the stairs, followed immediately by the sound of several heavy sets of footsteps ascending. He feels sure that one of those approaching will be his nemesis, Walter, and instantly his thoughts return to conjuring some w
ay to dispose of him without any risk of alerting the others. He is in the process of imagining creeping silently into his bedroom in the night and throttling him in his sleep when he is hit by a recollection that sets his nerves on edge and panics him to his core, as he remembers the smashed photograph and pool of blood that he has left in Walter’s room.
Peering over the edge of the hatch, Lowell sees that the group on the stairs is about halfway towards the top, and that he has at most about thirty seconds before the alarm is sounded and they will begin to search the house for the intruder. Casting his eyes around the loft space in a panic, his gaze falls onto one of the crates that he knows to be empty. Scared of wasting even a moment, he begins to crawl as softly as he is able towards it, and then stands up and grips hold of the lid. As he does so, he hears a loud exclamation from below, quickly followed by an urgent shouting as the bloody mess he had made earlier is discovered. He tugs urgently at the cover, wincing as it creaks and then comes free. As soon as it is off, he lowers his rucksack to the bottom and then hooks one leg over and lifts himself inside. There is just enough space for him to contort himself within with difficulty, with his knees pressed close to his chest and his head stooped downwards. As he lowers himself in he holds the lid aloft, resting it in place and then scrabbling for some place to grip it from the inside. Finding a crossbeam running across the center of the lid, he struggles for a purchase and then pulls as hard as he can, exhaling with relief as he is finally able to pull it all the way down until it secures tightly in place with a clunk. This complete, he holds his breath for a moment and strains to listen to the chaos unfolding within the house. Down below, it sounds like the search is in full swing; as footsteps pace urgently up and down the stairs and from room to room, accompanied by the ominous sound of a multitude of weapons being passed out from the arsenal, loaded and cocked ready for discharge. At this, Lowell reaches with difficulty down to his belt, retrieves his own gun, eases the safety free and lifts it upwards to rest gently on one knee. No sooner has he done so, than he hears the ladder to the loft begin to shake as someone tries, and fails, to ascend without detection. A second later, a flicker of light plays across Lowell’s crate, briefly illuminating several cracks down its side. Inside, he holds his breath, and resists the temptation to lean forward to attempt to peer through one of the narrow openings. After a few moments of silence, he hears a low murmur and then the sound of another person coming up the ladder. There is another pause, and then the sound of the two searchers cautiously padding around the room. After a minute, and seemingly satisfied, the two return to the middle of the room, and he strains to make out another low conversation that takes place;
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