by Tabatha Wood
It must have heard me coming up from behind, and it spun around so quickly it was almost a blur. When it saw me, it screeched, just like Cindy had. It had a similar growth on its head, although much bigger and longer.
It lunged for me. I had no time to think, only react. I stuck the metal pole out in front of me and braced myself. It ran headlong into the pole. The end entered just underneath its chin and emerged out the back of its head. I think I killed it pretty instantly. It twitched and shook, and thick yellow goo seeped out around the wound.
I couldn’t take the pole out, I had no choice but to just let the body fall with it still wedged in the head. I really didn’t want to. I wanted a weapon. The garden shed was just around the corner. I took the potting knife and the pruning shears, and put them through the belt loops of my jeans. I took the garden spade too. I was hoping to use it to try and lever off the padlock from the laundry room door.
I crept around the side of the house to the laundry room. I couldn’t see or hear any more of those things, but I couldn’t be sure. There was a small window at the side, slightly higher up than the door, and I climbed onto one of the wooden garden chairs to peer inside. There was a light on; the portable halogen floodlight we used when we were sorting out the clothes. I couldn’t see Katie and Jamie properly; they seemed to be huddled at the back. I tapped on the glass and called their names as loudly as I dared. They stirred a little but didn’t answer me.
I used the edge of the spade to force the wood around the lock. It was difficult but I managed it eventually.
I opened the door and saw the growths on their heads.
They were slower than the others had been. They seemed sleepy or confused. They staggered towards me. I had no choice. I slammed the door and wrestled with the picnic table. I blocked the exit and I walked away.
I left them there. I turned my back on my own family. I don’t know how to help them now.
I came here to the garage. It was the only place I could think of that might be safe. I locked the doors. I needed to keep those things out, and to keep myself from getting out. My head hurts and I feel sick. I vomited blood a little earlier, and I know what that means. My wife and kids are still out there. Or at least, something is. I suppose they’re not really my wife and kids any more.
I don’t want to become one of those things. I can’t do that. I don’t want to be responsible for hurting anyone. Even if it’s not really me.
I hope whoever sees this does better than I can. I hope you can either make it stop or find a cure. You need to find out who owns that burger place and get them shut down. Please, don’t let this happen anywhere else. To anyone else.
Cindy, Katie, James; I love you all so much. I’m so sorry.
* * *
“Good morning. My name is Doctor Wolbach, and I’m the Senior Research Scientist here at the Wellington headquarters of the Department of Evolution and Population Control.
“Thank you all for your time today. I do appreciate you coming down here so early and at such short notice.
“To recap: Subject 37419 was found in the garage of 87 Moorefield Street, Wadestown. Seven days after outbreak and final containment was complete. The Subject had apparently deliberately impaled themselves on a garden implement, and taken their own life.
“A mobile device was found next to the body with what you’ve just seen recorded as a video file. It appears that Subject 37419 had tried to upload this video to the internet, but thankfully the upload failed. The original file has since been deleted and scrubbed in accordance with DEPC company policy.
“We have a team of one hundred and fifteen agents scouring other online sources to find and delete all traces of other, similar files. Our AltNews and Deepfakes Department is working tirelessly to discredit any that we find.
“Subject 21785 was found in the garden of the property, also deceased, and apparently neutralised by Subject 37419.
“Subjects 37500, 37501 and 37502 were discovered inside the property. They were captured and taken for processing. Advanced stroma stalks were clearly visible.
“Tests are still ongoing to control the unwanted side effects of the usually very effective Boletus Aliena Ceremortium. Here at the DEPC our primary focus is always on careful monitoring and control. We constantly strive to ensure the department stays inconspicuous. Unfortunately, it appears that the fungus had mutated, causing unexpected results. Early reports show this was due to Subjects combining it with other ingredients, most likely a condiment of some kind. A new, more foolproof system is now being considered. I believe coffee is the most obvious choice.
“Any questions?”
Choices
We were connected only through grief, Freya and I. Nothing else in common other than our loss. Through message boards and posts online, we spoke candidly to others like us, of our feelings and our fears. Our words united us and strengthened us, just when we needed it most. Yet we knew nothing of our individual circumstances and experiences, our likes and dislikes, or how we had got to where we were in our lives. Our profile pictures showed only what we wanted to be seen; an echo of our real selves, smoothed out, filtered and enhanced. We always put our best faces forwards, hiding the cracks and the pain.
It was Freya who messaged me. A simple, “Hi” accompanied by a ‘wave’. I recognised her picture, I’d seen her comments on other posts. I’d seen her pose and smile in pictures, her arm around our mutual friend. I replied with a “Hi” of my own, added, “How are you?” for good measure. I saw the little bubbles at the bottom of the message window pulse and flicker; I knew she was waiting on the other side.
“I just wanted to say, I saw your post on his tribute page,” she started. “It was a lovely picture. He would have loved your poem too.”
“Thanks. I don’t really write that often, but I just wanted to try and put something meaningful, you know? Something maybe others could connect with too.”
“I understand that. There seems to be a lot of people feeling really empty without him.”
I waited for a moment. It felt strange, this conversation. Not bad or wrong, just odd. I didn’t feel ready to strike up a new friendship with a stranger, not over the loss of an old one. But I didn’t want to be rude either.
“There was just something special about him,” I typed back. “He definitely brought people together. I’m really sorry, I don’t have time to chat right now, but it was lovely to hear from you. Maybe another time.”
I deliberately left it as a statement rather than a question, to close the door on the conversation for now, but I suppose she read it differently to how I meant it.
“I’d really like that. Is it okay if I send you a friend request? I hope this doesn’t sound weird but I checked out your profile and you seem like someone I’ll get along with. I saw Pencarrow in one of your profile pictures. I spent some time there in the past. It’s one of my favourite places. I’d really like to go back to visit if I get the chance.”
I paused again. I never normally added people who I didn’t already know in some way. Either in real life or from other groups who I felt strongly connected to. I suppose I felt a little awkward. Something about her seemed somewhat needy, yet also vulnerable. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I looked at her profile picture again. She certainly looked normal, but who can really tell from a ConnectMe image?
“My page is pretty boring,” I typed back. “I don’t really tend to post much any more.”
This much was at least partly true. I didn’t tend to post anything publicly, and most everything else was filtered so only specific people could see it. My family saw very different content to my friends. Only Chris had ever really seen and known everything.
“That’s okay,” she replied. “I don’t post much either. I mainly use it to find people. To follow people. I’d really like to stay in touch with you. If that’s okay?”
She was being oddly pushy, but in a nice way. I leaned back from my laptop, thinking carefully. I knew that if I added her
I would most likely filter her out of my more personal stuff. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt. Maybe she needed me more than I needed her right now. Maybe she just needed to talk to someone about Chris.
My fingers danced over the keyboard, almost without my control.
“Yeah, sure.”
Seconds later a friend request popped up on my screen. I moved the cursor across the screen and clicked ‘accept’.
Immediately the system started showing us all the things that linked us: people we knew, places we had been, favourite movies and books. I was surprised at the few things we did have in common, and at the number of mutual contacts we shared. I was wrong. It seemed that it wasn’t just our late friend bringing us together, we shared a secret too.
I didn’t want to ask about it. Not really. Not because I wasn’t interested or that I didn’t care, but more because I had so much of my own baggage to deal with. I only had enough energy for my own problems most days. My ‘give-a-fuck’ budget was running very low.
She mentioned it first.
“We are in the same support groups.”
That was all she said at first. No elaboration or discussion, just a statement of fact.
“We are,” I agreed.
“What kind do you have?” She was so blunt, so immediately straight to the point, that I was quite taken aback. I surprised myself even more when I leaned in to reply.
“Breast. Metastatic. Stage four.”
She didn’t respond immediately and I was almost at the point of regretting being so open with a stranger, wondering what the hell I was doing, when the message window lit up again.
“I’m so sorry. That really stinks.”
I stared blankly at the laptop screen. The words faded and lost focus. She was right. It did indeed stink. Twenty-seven, single, no kids. One terrible and heartbreaking miscarriage and a failed engagement behind me, and now not much of anything to look forwards to. Most days spending my time stuck in bed, merely watching the world through a window as it passed me by.
I was safe, I was warm, and I was fed.
But I also had a terminal illness.
I’d made peace with it all months ago, back when I’d had enough of the chemo and the constant nausea and I realised that I could claim many victories in battle, but I was never going to win the war. I didn’t see it as giving up like my mother did, more just being realistic, being thankful for what I’d been given. I wanted to focus on the time I had left, not being stuck in a hospital, poked and prodded and drowning in pity. Waiting for the inevitable.
No, I hadn’t given up. I was just so very tired.
I’ll admit, when Chris went, I started to wonder if I was wrong, that maybe I should have fought a little harder. He had kept his dignity and made his own choices right up until the end. I respected that, even if I also resented him for it. I wasn’t certain if I would be given the chance to do the same. I knew it was selfish to be angry. I knew it wasn’t about me. Yet it hurt so much that he had gone and left me on my own. He had promised me that he would stay, would be there for as long as I needed him, and then he had cut that time short. I didn’t know how to process that, and I wasn’t sure if my decision meant I would go on to do exactly that to someone else; to my family and my friends. It was irrelevant now, much too late to change my mind.
The message window flashed again.
“Are you still there?”
I leaned in and typed a reply.
“Yes. Sorry. Just got distracted.”
“Sorry if I was a bit nosey, but I usually find it better to kick the elephant out the room straight away, you know? I hope I didn’t upset you?”
One side of my lip twitched in a half-smile, a quick flash of understanding. I knew exactly what she meant. None of us had the time we thought we’d have. Certainly not enough time to beat around the bush or avoid the truth.
The elephant.
Cancer.
Death.
“It’s okay,” I typed back. “You haven’t upset me.”
“Do you know how long you have left?”
This time I did feel aggrieved. That question was far too invasive coming from a stranger. Her bluntness, and matter-of-fact attitude, I could almost understand it, but that didn’t mean I had to engage with it, nor accept it. She was bloody rude.
I was annoyed. I chastised myself for being too trusting, but I didn’t want to be angry at her. Maybe she was struggling. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to be so forthright. I simply didn’t have the patience to talk about it any more.
“Actually, I have to go now. Sorry.”
I logged out quickly before she had time to respond. Her profile page still filled my screen. I moved my fingers over the trackpad, hovered the mouse pointer over the ‘unfriend’ button. I paused. I couldn’t quite bring myself to push it. I didn’t know why. We’ve all said strange things while trying to deal with our emotions. Suffered from the curse of ‘foot-in-mouth’. Maybe she simply hadn’t thought about how she would come across. Some part of me obviously believed she deserved a second chance.
My irritation gave way to amusement as I recalled what I’d typed. I hoped she didn’t take me literally. I chuckled to myself as I closed the lid of the laptop and slid it onto the bedside desk. I felt completely exhausted and my chest hurt every time I took a breath. I sank down into the pillows behind me, desperate for the relief of sleep.
Eric messaged me later that evening. Much later. It was almost 2 a.m. when I heard my laptop chime. That wasn’t unusual though. We all kept odd hours. Often sleeping through the days, sometimes battling long periods of insomnia.
“Hey. Just checking in. You alright?”
“Not dead yet,” I typed back. An old, black-humoured joke between us.
“Sweet,” he replied, as he always did.
“How’s you?”
“Oh, yeah. Good as gold, eh? I’m totally bloody knackered, I’ve got a mouth full of ulcers, and I’m stuck in the bloody dunny with constant shits. So, the usual.”
I replied with the ‘laughing out loud’ emoji.
It was Chris who introduced me to Eric, around nine months ago. They’d been online friends for years and I’d felt a little guilty when it became obvious that I had become a much closer friend to him than Chris. The youngest son to an Australian couple living in New Zealand, Eric was diagnosed with bone cancer when he was only nineteen. A pain in his lower leg becoming something much more serious. An amputation saved his life but destroyed his plans for a career in professional rugby. He had decided instead to teach sports therapy to fellow amputees, mostly through swimming and hydrotherapy. Just under a year ago he was diagnosed with AML — Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Most people would have been devastated, knowing what they would have to go through, anticipating the fight again; not Eric.
An eternal optimist, he treated his diagnosis like it was simply a massive pain in his arse. It was annoying and impossible to ignore, but as far as he was concerned he’d beaten it once and there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he would beat it again. I admired his confidence. It was one of the many things I liked about him. That, and he was pretty damn attractive. Cancer had taken many things from me, but it hadn’t made me blind.
“How was your day?” he typed.
“Yeah. Okay. Slept most of it.”
I paused. Thought. Added a bit more.
“I got a friend request from Freya today.”
“Freya?”
“You know, Chris’s friend. Dark hair, dark makeup. Always dressed in black.”
“Oh, her. Right. The hot Goth chick. I don’t think she liked me very much.” I felt a small prick of jealousy. Eric thought that she was ‘hot’. I told myself not to be so stupid.
“I’m not fully sure if I like her. She’s very direct. A bit rude really.”
“Yeah? I thought you’d get on alright. You Pommy’s are pretty blunt too, eh?”
It was a part of my life I sometimes forgot. I was an immigrant from the United Kingdom. A Pommy a
s he called it. Fourteen years had passed since I had stepped off the plane with my parents and started a new life. If I’d known then what I knew now, would I have even boarded it? If I hadn’t, I never would have met Chris.
My laptop chimed again.
“I talked to her over messenger once, but we didn’t have much to say. Nothing in common. I don’t think I was quite what she expected. And she had zero sense of humour.”
I smiled as I read. Eric quite often wasn’t what other people expected him to be.
“Well, you’re an acquired taste.” I typed back.
“What? I’m fucking delicious!” I laughed out loud for real then. He was right about that.
“So have I been replaced?” he asked me, followed by a winking face.
“Never,” I replied, adding a little face of my own, blowing a red heart kiss.
“Good. Cos Old Stumpy is always gonna be here for you.”
Of course, he had to add an eggplant emoji after that. Typical Eric. It meant nothing. Well, nothing much. He lived in Waikuku, a small town just north of Christchurch. I was four hundred kilometres away in Wellington. We’d never met, and probably never would, but the thrill of flirting kept us both sane. Helped us keep a grasp on normality. We were still living, breathing human beings, with hopes and dreams and impossible internet lovers.
Not dead yet.
“So. I’ve got a joke for you,” he typed. “A little blue penguin and a National supporter walk into a bar...”
I watched and read as he added to the setup, line by line. As usual, the punchline was terrible, filthy and hilarious.
We chatted about everything and nothing until the first rays of the morning sun started to glimmer behind my bedroom blinds. He signed off just before 6 a.m. and I fell back into my pillows and slipped into a fitful sleep.
I was awoken by a coughing fit in the early afternoon. I grabbed the water bottle from my bedside table and took a drink. Tried to ease the dry, scratchy feeling in my throat. Almost immediately, my bladder needed emptying. The bathroom was only next door, but even that short journey left me exhausted and sweating. I needed to shower and get changed. My mother would no doubt come round in a couple of hours. She never said anything, but I always saw the sadness and disappointment in her face if she arrived and I was still in bed or my pyjamas. She had promised me never to discuss my decision, but her eyes said everything her voice didn’t.