The New Capital

by Kolin Wood

  THE HUMAN ZOO 2

  The New Capital

  A Tale of Post-Apocalyptic Horror

  By

  Kolin Wood

  Cover art by Kristyn at Drop Dead Designs

  Edited by Terri King at Terri King Editing Service

  The Human Zoo 2 – The New Capital

  Kolin Wood

  Copyright 2017 Kolin Wood

  The Human Zoo is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, situations, and all dialogue are entirely a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not in any way representative of real people, places or things.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permissions of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews

  WARNING: This book contains scenes of strong horror and violence.

  ‘Where but in the very asshole of comedown is redemption: as where but brought low, where but in grief of failure, loss, error do we discern the savage afflictions that turn us around: where but in the arrangements love crawls us through’

  —A.R. Ammons

  PROLOGUE

  It was a little after five a.m. when the first voices called out from the bridge. The crows had already finished their morning songs and were now silent, shivering underneath dark feathers, high in the windows of the surrounding decrepit buildings.

  He opened his mouth and drew in a sharp, damp breath that bit right into the heart of his ravaged lungs, shocking his eyes to open. The pain caused him to groan, but he only produced a weak hiss; like an old snake showing off battle colours when faced with its last encounter.

  The cardboard box that covered his body was wet through and its corners hung down around his curled form like a misfired square of clay. The old, hole-ridden blanket that coddled him was sodden, its waters warmed from his body heat and fresh urine.

  He didn’t move; he simply lay there. His brain, still active, betrayed by the state of the rest of his body; last night had been an endless merry-go-round of pain. His eyes watched as a rivulet of condensing water formed at the corner of his cardboard covering and slowly began to release a drip every two or three seconds. As he observed through swollen eyes, he wondered if the water itself realised that it was being separated; molecules torn apart by the cruel force of natural gravity. Everything was torn apart down here. The drips fell in slow motion and their remnants splattered his cratered face, exploding on impact like bodies splitting at the base of a tall cliff.

  A cough rattled up through his body and forced itself from his throat in a rough-sounding bark, spittle and sputum coating his dry, cracked, and sore-covered lips. His stomach felt squeezed from below, as if a huge hand was wringing him hard around the waist, forcing another mouthful of hot bile from his throat and down his cheek. The dark liquid spewed forth, hitting the cardboard beneath and pooling in the imprint that his head had made. He watched it for a second; a long, thin line of spittle connecting him with the ground below.

  Perhaps today would be the day. Perhaps today the meat would come. The beast that lived in his belly was awake again and ripping at him from the insides.

  It took a further five attempts before he finally managed a deep breath. His heart rate slowed and his breathing calmed as his throat and lungs began to willingly accept help from the cold air. The scarf-like covering that had once protected his mouth and insides from the daily threat of plague death was long gone. Huge pock marks lined his skin; burns and sores, each one testament to the harsh realities of the new world in which he lived, were now a living billboard upon which people cast their first judgments. Or at least they used to. Nobody saw him anymore. He, however, watched everybody. From where he slept he had a good view of the bridge. He’d watched people come and go for days; they were mostly on foot, but the odd car or truck also passed, spitting black smoke into an atmosphere that was surely breathing a deep sigh of relief.

  Winter had been an unforgiving mistress; and now, even with the arrival of the summer, his bones ached with a penetrating cold so deep it infected his rib cage and held his heart in an icy grip. It left his skin feeling numb, almost as though he was wearing a suit made of somebody else.

  His stomach twisted as realisation set in; another night down here, without meat, and he would surely die. Around him, the sound of splashing as the rats, monstrous and swollen, fat on the fortune of a fairly unhindered existence, slipped and slithered about their daily undertakings. Apparently, before the culling, you could be in an English city and never be farther than three feet from a rat no matter where you were. Now, the once hunted legions of the detested had been given the time to multiply and strengthen their ranks. He lived with them, on them, allowed them to slip and slide over him without alarm.

  A shout from the gate was followed by the sound of chains rattling through slatted hoops, as the large, wheeled entrance way rolled aside. Calling upon the last of his strength reserves, he pushed up painfully, not stopping until he was resting on his haunches. On the bridge, he could see that two guards had been posted either side of the huge gate. Both wore green, army fatigues and luminous vests, and carried rifles. Between them—arms moving with the animated confidence of a boss—stood the man in black, his obstruction into the city walls.

  For years, the meat had been regular, even sometimes daily, and he had feasted; living plump and fat like a king. Meat of all different textures and tastes, shapes and sizes. Some of it was tough to bite and sinewy to chew, and then there were other, smaller pieces, that were plump and soft, which popped between his teeth and slid down his throat like a fine, fillet steak. The thought of his mouth brimming with blood brought a fresh stab of pain that hit him like a sharp blade in his guts.

  Today he had to eat.

  His legs began to tire as he pushed like a combine harvester, clearing a passable channel through the sludge with the top of his head. Untold nasty’s coated his hair and neck; mixed, foul tasting juices of things best unknown, dripped down his cheeks and seeped into the corners of his mouth. A slip sent him headlong into the top of an open bag, the contents of which splattered his face, causing him to gag and wretch again.

  He stopped, attempting to gain his bearings. Before him, the huge fence rose up out of the filth; its thick, corrugated panels supported by steel beams and topped with barbed wire.

  With the fence on his right, he moved off again, more slowly this time, careful not to draw attention from the bridge. As he pushed and swam, the exposed parts of his skin burned and he squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the partially empty chemical containers out of his path.

  After a further ten minutes of arduous sliding, he spied what he was looking for. The fence panel was a dull red—different from the others which were all painted a sober tone of grey. Cut into the bottom corner, a white piece of plastic jutted out. A constant stream of steaming, amber liquid flowed, cascading down from the edge and producing a frothy halo in the soup beneath

  He was now almost directly under the bridge. Above him, the sound of laughing and the clattering of tables sounded as the guards readied themselves for their inspection of the morning trade. He froze, his hands resting against the cold, slippery surface of the panel; he couldn’t be too careful, not this close. Normally, he would not risk it, but the man in black had left him no choice; he had to eat—the beast in his belly was wide awake and commanded it to be so.

  Once confident that he could not be seen from above, and as silently as he could manage, he pulled back the panel and slid himsel
f into the ditch beyond. Ahead of him lay a vast, new wasteland of filth and slurry. He found himself in a huge, white, plastic half-tube, which cut a channel straight through the middle of the steaming mess. At the far end, a large, bus-like vehicle rose up at an angle, blocking the street. A steady stream of fluid flowed towards him, covering his face and body. It was tangy and pungent but warm, and it facilitated his movements as he slithered farther in.

  Finally, the New Capital beckoned.

  1

  Juliana remained crouched, peaking out just enough so that she could see the compound area to the back of the building. The Jeep took off at a pace, its red lights soon obscured by the mist and the sound of the engine lost in the swirl of the wind. Every single ounce of her being wanted to give chase, to hunt the evil fucker down and put an end to his life, but she knew that she needed to realign her hatred… for now.

  Her house was located not more than two miles from the prison. It had kept prices down and had been the one of the reasons for them to remain in the area. If she concentrated, she could still picture it—the squeaky front gate, the path lined with flowers and solar lights… home. She swallowed hard for composure as her vision stretched to include the sticky, glutinous patch of black blood soaked into the carpet by the front door. At the time of her kidnapping, she had closed her eyes to avoid seeing Michael’s face—a decision that was proving to be the right one.

  The wind whipped her hair which stung the fragile skin on her hollow cheeks. Her lungs—finally swollen with sweet, unpolluted air—yearned for the release of a horror-filled cry but she could not bring herself to do it; not yet. Somewhere out there in the dark was her only son, the one that she had left alone in a world full of monsters. John needed her to be strong.

  Juliana readied herself for the journey. She pulled the thick jacket tight around herself, repulsed by the thick, tacky blood that had turned wet on the sleeve of one arm. The cold bit at her legs and fanned the bottom of the thin gown as it crept up her thighs and brushed across her nakedness, making her feel exposed. The boots—many sizes too big—flapped against the tarmac as she walked, their worn leather tongues laced tight just above her thin, bony ankles.

  With one last look back towards the doorway at the entrance of the prison, she pushed away from the wall and set off across the expanse of car park, the once-black asphalt now a blanket of rotting leaves piled together into dunes of varying heights and sizes. The blackness of the space pushed in on her as she walked. Choosing to skirt the larger piles and stick to the wind-made trails, the dry foliage crunched like warning bells under her boot-heavy feet.

  Once across, she cut through a space in the hedge and ducked down low in a ditch by the road. The carriageway was desolate; congested with the empty wrecks of burned and rusted cars, many of which were partially covered by leaves. She remained still, listening hard. No voices, no engines, no animals; nothing but the whoosh of the cold evening wind and the skittering of loose foliage on the road.

  The next two miles were hard going. As the temperature continued to drop, the freezing air burned at her lungs and made her breathing tight and shallow. Even given the punishing fitness regime that she had put herself through daily for most of her incarceration, the cell in which she had been housed was little more than four metres across, ‘yard time’ and exposure to the elements had been non-existent. Still, the exercise that she had been able to do had allowed her one benefit; her muscular athletic body had not held the same allure as those of a softer and more bosom appearance it had seemed.

  The once-white road signs that still existed were now grubby and hard to read, but Juliana knew the route by heart, and as she got nearer to home, she picked up the pace. Ahead of her lay the abandoned wreckage of the school her son used to attend and she stopped and glanced in through the smashed gates. Litter had gathered in a mini-tornado next to the crumbling brick pillar of one wall and she watched it momentarily before it moved off across the playground with its barely legible, multi-coloured markings. The sight of the abandoned school building, with its smashed windows and broken doors, brought fresh pangs of doubt. Somehow seeing it here like this made the situation around her seem even more real; a place of such discipline and order had become a stark symbol of broken innocence.

  How many children had perished with the disease? And how many since? Is Johnny still alive? And if he is, what had he had to endure?

  She wiped the cuff of the jacket across her nose and turned away from the scene, immediately picking up the pace once again. Only two more streets to go.

  The closer she drew to her home, the more nervous she became. Given the length of time that she had been gone, did she really think that he would still be there? And even if—by some work of God or bloody miracle—he was, would he even remember her? Would he forgive her?

  In an attempt to change the tactic of her mind, she cast it back to Doyle and his desperate, and somewhat pathetic, attempts to befriend her. What had he hoped to achieve, sneaking around at all hours, bringing them pens and paper or the odd, half-eaten meal? Did he really think that they should be grateful to him for affording them less than their basic human rights? That they owed him something? Fuck him. He deserved everything that had become of him. Within those walls anyone—rapist, killer or not—was equally as guilty as the rest. Doyle had chosen his path and been laid to siege by the consequences; too bad. Pity was not an emotion that she would pander to any longer. The anger had the desired effect in fuelling her body and caused her to lengthen her stride. She pushed on.

  Soon, the street that she had once called home lay before her, cut open like a broken body. The contents of the houses on either side were spread like rotten entrails spilled out onto the pavements and into the road. All were derelict and open to the elements; smashed windows and fractured doors keeping nothing but the most mundane of the weather out. She froze, taking in the scene.

  The abandonment here felt unnatural, fraudulent like a train graveyard. She stopped outside the first of the houses on the street and strained her ears, trying her best to hear above the faint but consistent howling of the wind, for any signs of life that might be hiding in wait in the darkness. Still nothing.

  With a fresh urgency to her step, Juliana made her way along the litter-strewn pavement, pausing occasionally to glance up a shattered footpath or into a broken doorway, imagining the ghostly faces of some of the residents that had once been her friends and neighbours. The street had been quiet in the first few weeks following the outbreak. Many of them had fled before the worst of the looting started; affable families with a second family home tucked safely away from the madness of the city. Had her own family been in the position to afford such a luxury, then they too would probably have done the same. But they hadn’t and had therefore made the decision to stay and take their chances. It had been the worst decision of their lives.

  She stepped off the pavement and looked up. Her stomach dropped. In front of her, an overgrown path of red block-work led up towards the hulking shadow of her old family house. She was finally home.

  Her hands shook as she covered her mouth and surveyed the devastation. Like all of the others, the house had been totally destroyed; its ruined contents littering the garden, items obviously considered of no value to the looters left to rot in the rain. A broken clothes horse—its bent metal struts poking like robot ribs from beneath the mud. The old, metal Brabantia dustbin from the kitchen lay on its side in the weeds, the top blackened from fire. Things which had once held a place of pride in a home, now no more than pieces of scrap in the rain.

  Tears—held back for so long—now fell freely as she pushed open the rusted gate and stepped into the carcass of her once much-loved front garden. The gate hinges creaked loudly but she paid it no heed. She walked slowly up the path, scanning the decay, picking out various pieces with her eyes. They were such silly, little things, but every one of them now lay tainted with the grief of her lost family.

  With heavy legs, she made her way up t
he slippery stone stairs to the splintered frame of the front door.

  The door itself was now missing. The once plush, deep-pile, cream carpets—which had been laid by her request throughout the bottom floor many years ago—were now blackened tapestries of dirt and mould. Along the walls, huge swathes of green damp ran from the floor to the ceiling—most of which had caved in—and was now blocking the corridor with mulch and rubble.

  She stood up straight and stepped back as panic fluttered. This was no longer her home. In fact, right now it was hard to believe it could ever have been anybody’s home. Still, she had to see inside.

  John, baby, where are you?

  With a deep breath, Juliana swallowed hard and stepped through the broken entrance. Wind blustered through the smashed windows, the shards of glass like diamond teeth, glinting in the occasional moonlight.

  She avoided the black patch of carpet by the front door and moved straight down the hall towards the kitchen. Inside the room, the devastation continued. Most of the cupboards were missing, having been forcefully ripped off the walls. Anything unusable and remotely breakable lay in pieces on the floor. The large American fridge-freezer, once her pride and joy, had been pulled over onto its front and now acted as a centre piece to the destruction.

  In the lounge, an upturned, plastic, milk crate bearing the messy remains of a fireplace encompassed the middle of the room. The smell was a mixture of damp and acrid, burnt plastic. All around the blackened hearth lay empty cans, plastic bags, and other discarded refuse. In one corner, a filthy, damp-looking rug had been set down for somebody to sit or perhaps sleep upon.

  Somebody has been living here, she thought as the hairs on her arms rose up and her heart thumped like a bass drum in her chest cavity.