Hungry Hearts

by Gary McMahon

  “Please,” he said, not really knowing who he said it to, just repeating the words, like a mantra. “Please.”

  Finally he was able to move. He forced his feet onward, sliding them across the tiles. They made a horrible whispering-swishing sound, like a knife blade slicing through the air.

  Gun held out, he kicked the door all the way open, watching as it slammed against the wall, the handle leaving a dent in the plaster. Darkness forced its way out of the apartment, enveloping him. He smelled the coppery aroma of freshly spilled blood.

  A whining sound came to his ears, startling him as it rose in pitch, and it took him several seconds to realise that it was coming from his own lips, his dried-out throat. He swallowed; the spit hurt on its way down his oesophagus.

  Let her be okay. Let her be alive and waiting for me.

  Clomping along the hall, feeling heavy and lacking in any kind of grace in his movements, he rounded the sharp corner at the end of the entry passage. The living room beckoned like an opening fist. Darkness squatted like beasts in the corners. Reflected fire limned the edges of the window frames, turning them a shade of umber. Shadows inched along the floor towards him.

  Sally was stretched out on the floor, face-up, her arms flat and her hands lying limp at her sides, as if she’d been laid out to rest in a peaceful position prior to a dignified funeral. She was wearing a pair of old blue jeans, faded at the knees, one of his ripped gym sweatshirts, and her feet were bare. There was blood on the floor, near her head. It looked black in the dim light, like a puddle of tar, or crude oil.

  Rick felt the room tilt; it spun like a fairground fun ride. Nausea built within him, filling his gut with heavy bile. It rose slowly up his throat and edged into his mouth, finally bursting, hot and bitter, between his clenched teeth. The hot puke spattered and rolled down his chin, staining his clothing, but he ignored it. His eyes burned. His hand shook. The gun went off, puncturing the silence. He stared at the gun, at his finger still pressing down on the trigger. It took a substantial amount of mental effort to take his finger away and lower the gun.

  There was no one else here: he could see that. The apartment was empty. But for him. But for Sally, sweet dead Sally. Whoever had done this – whatever kind of opportunistic murderer had broken in and destroyed his life – was no longer present; only his or her workmanship remained.

  His gun hand dropped to his side, still hanging onto the weapon. He would not let it go; the pistol’s work was not yet done.

  Moving across the room, he went to her, kneeling down at her feet and caressing the cold skin, rubbing the hard nub of her ankle, his hands travelling slowly upward, towards her thighs, her waist, and her flat belly. He paused there, palm open across her tiny taut stomach, trying to summon some remnants of warmth through the frayed material of the old sweatshirt.

  None came. So he moved on, running his fingers along the nape of her neck, gently stroking her chin... then, at last seeing what was left of her face, he stopped, unable to go on any further.

  As Rick suspected when he’d first seen her body, Sally’s death was not the result of a clumsy attack by the reanimated dead. No, human hands had been at work here, and they had done their worst.

  The skin of her face had been inexpertly peeled away from the bone, laying bare swathes of smooth red muscle. Her nose was gone completely, sawn off with careless hands wielding an unsuitable blade. Her hair was bloody, hanging around this horror-mask in tatty crimson ropes. Her skull was flattened into an oval, mashed and elongated by the force of whatever blows had fallen onto her unprotected head; the bones had un-knitted and returned to their separate shards, like the soft, as yet unformed skull of a newborn baby.

  No bite marks. These wounds were thought out, orchestrated, despite being messily executed.

  “Oh, God. What have they done?” His breast felt like it was filled with a thousand tiny metal balls; he found it difficult to breathe as they rattled around in his chest cavity.

  His reluctant hand hovered over Sally’s ruined face, her tattered features, a mile of open space concentrated into an inch of air between his sweaty palm and her brutally ravaged flesh. He held it there, shaking, as if trying to counteract an unimaginable weight. Then, soon, he began to realise that the hand was caught fast and he could not shift it. He struggled against whatever held it there, but the dead weight of Sally’s passing was simply too much to resist.

  So he waited. And eventually the weight lifted, moved on, allowing him to release his hand from the tender trap.

  He wailed like an animal, raising his head to the ceiling, reaching out beyond the structure of the building and into the sky and the stars and towards the cold dead light of the white-faced moon. He realised that the moon was death, too: a stark dead planet where nothing stirred, no life existed. He felt like he was sitting deep inside a crater on that moon, ensconced within a hollow formed by his own grief, and if he did not attempt to move he might remain there forever, trapped in this perfect moment of absolute loss.

  Sobbing now, Rick dragged Sally’s body up onto the sofa. One hand still held the gun, so it was difficult to manoeuvre her lifeless form. He struggled, pushing and tugging and finally shifting her, pulling her on top of him as he collapsed onto the cushions. He sat there with her poor flensed face in his lap, the stripped lips pressing against his crotch. He stroked her matted hair, singing to her in a language no other human lips had ever formed, not once in the entire history of mankind’s grieving.

  Rick was no longer aware of the passage of time. He had no idea how long he sat there, cradling his wife’s torn head. He stared at her candyfloss hair, then at the shiny gun; long moments spent examining each, trying to come to a decision. He put the barrel of the gun in his mouth, feeling it click against his teeth and rest on his tongue. Then he took it out again, setting it down on the cushion but not quite yet ready to let it go.

  He raised his hand and put the gun in his mouth again. Took it out. Repeat. Pause. Then repeat.

  Again.

  He thought of the song that had been playing the night they’d first met, pumping out of the jukebox of a boozy little joint up in Newcastle: Solitary Man by Neil Diamond.

  Again.

  A Solitary Man: that’s what he was now, all right. Solitary. Alone. Left behind.

  Again.

  He tried to recall the words to the song, but all he could think of was the rhythm of the music, the way it had become the smooth, calming heartbeat of the whole wide world as they’d danced to the song in the middle of that half-empty bar, no one else on the dance floor that wasn’t even a dance floor at all, just a wide empty space near the back of the room. Dancing, together, for the first time...

  Then, achieving some kind of final insight on that ratty two-seater sofa, Sally’s dead head resting in his unresponsive lap, he carefully placed the tip of the shaking barrel against his wife’s smashed skull, his quivering, bloodless finger resting heavily on the trigger.

  The lights came on, shocking him and bathing everything inside the room in an almost unreal level of illumination. The television hissed static. Over on the dining table, Sally’s laptop clicked loudly and emitted a single loud bleeping noise before once again falling silent.

  Rick stared at the gun.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE BUZZ WAS fading already, so soon after the kill.

  Daryl walked along the garden path, heading back indoors to come down from the emotional high he’d experienced when he’d murdered Sally Nutman. After so long planning the kill, dreaming and fantasising about it, he had finally stepped off the edge and done it.

  It had felt good. It had felt strange. It felt... what exactly did he feel now, after the fact? Initially, immediately after the white-heat pleasure of the kill, he’d been energised beyond belief, but now all he felt was a quickly receding warmth and the distant memory of something good.

  It was strange how soon the thrill wore off; he could barely remember what it felt like to have her fresh bl
ood on his hands.

  He went inside the house and locked the door. Outside, during his journey back, he’d been more afraid than he had been on the outward leg of his little jaunt. Hiding from the slightest sound, edging stealthily through back gardens and along lonely back alleys, he’d felt the tension in the air like an impending scream: yells, gunshots, roaring engines. Police helicopters whirring overhead. Mad – or dead, or both – men and women running through the streets, all baying for blood.

  Now, once again behind closed doors, he took a moment to steady himself. His mind was racing; the thoughts inside were vague, blurred and blood-red. Before tonight he’d been a trainee, an inchoate murderer, but now he had developed and was almost fully formed. His bloodlust had risen to the surface and he had acted upon it, crossing a line that had vanished as he’d landed the first blow.

  The first blow of many.

  Thinking back, it had been a clumsy kill. He knew from his reading that most first kills were indeed awkward, graceless affairs. He recalled smashing his fists repeatedly against Sally’s surprisingly brittle skull, smashing it against the floor; hitting her so many times that the bone cracked and he felt his knuckles pressing into the soft areas beneath, almost kneading the brain matter like bread dough.

  Then, tiring of the effort involved, he’d started in with the knife.

  Her face had not come off easily. In fact, it had only come away in chunks. Beforehand, he’d imagined skilfully removing that face like a mask and carrying it off as a ghoulish souvenir – all the best serial killers left the scene with a memento of their deeds; it was de rigour in murderous circles.

  But things had not worked out as he’d planned.

  Instead of peeling away from the bone like some overdone mud-pack beauty treatment, the skin had sliced away in ragged sections. By the time he was finished she looked terrible, and all he was left with was a handful of bloody strips. Still, he’d wrapped them in a rag and put them in his bag, hoping that once he had the chance to examine them the face might look better than he’d first thought.

  Entering the kitchen, he placed his bag on the table. He opened it and took out the bloody rag. Then he carefully unwrapped his keepsake and laid out the separate segments of Sally’s face on the smooth tabletop. It looked like a badly constructed jigsaw: there was part of a cheek, a jagged flap of nasal cartilage, two thin slivers that could possibly be lips. It was pathetic – embarrassing, really. He’d hoped for so much more than a few bits of tattered meat.

  Daryl swept his hand across the table, scattering the remains of Sally’s face. The scraps hit the floor, along with a china cup, a crumb-covered plate, and a few pieces of Mother’s best cutlery.

  “No! Fuck! Fuck!”

  Anger swallowed him, opening its whale-like maw and taking him down whole. His vision speckled with bright little pinpoints, his lungs inflated, and he could barely even summon a scream. It lasted only a few moments, but the intensity of the episode terrified him. Never in his life had Daryl vented his rage in such a manner; he’d always swallowed it down, just like Mother had taught him. Real men, Mother had always said, never showed their emotions.

  He bent down and picked up the separate parts of Sally’s face, arranging them on the draining board. He handled each one with care, fingering them, and washed them all with cold water in a plastic colander. Once the blood was cleared away, the pieces of flesh looked unreal, like joke shop artefacts: bits and pieces of a failed monster mask that had fallen away from the dirty mould.

  Daryl walked away, promising himself that next time he would do better. His second kill would be more professional, better thought out.

  Despite the lengthy planning stage, when he’d finally straddled Sally Nutman, feeling her panic, tasting her terror, he had been carried away by her wonderful reaction and everything had happened much too fast.

  Next time, he swore, he would take more time and savour the moment.

  In the living room, he tried the television. The TV came on, but there was nothing being broadcast. All the channels were dead, apart from scrolling text informing viewers to keep tuned for further news regarding the ‘disaster’. That was what they were calling it, then: a disaster. How prosaic.

  He turned on the stereo and tuned it to a local station. The hiss of static almost obscured what was being broadcast, but he managed to make out a few words from the pre-recorded interviews, tapes of repeated advice to stay indoors and banal advice on making oneself safe in an emergency.

  No one, it seemed, was ready to admit the tough reality of what was actually happening – that the dead were rising to attack the living. They were still too busy rambling on about terrorism, a possible virus, suspected chemical warfare...

  “Christ,” he said, rising from his chair. “Do you think we’re all stupid? Stick your head out of the window and take a look at what’s going on! Hell is walking the streets.” He ran his hands through his hair, trying to rub away the tension. Killing Sally had not provoked the required effect. He was still fraught, still frazzled and edgy.

  The radio static suddenly cleared enough that he could hear the programme against only a slight background hiss. He sat back down, rocking gently back and forth, and tried to focus on the voices that threatened to enter his head if he let down his guard for even a moment.

  “... and some Government sources are reporting a possible terrorist attack. It has even been hinted that the local water supply has been contaminated by a poisonous substance, sending people amok. Other sources have told us that the origin of the violence is chemical. A leading scientist, who refused to be named, told us that a virus has almost definitely infected the populace.”

  Daryl listened, amazed by the steady, calm voice of the presenter, the way she had managed to detach herself from the story. He wondered if she was still alive, or if she had become food for the marauding dead.

  Another voice, this one male, possibly belonging to a politician: part of an interview conducted earlier that evening, when everything had started going crazy.

  “The fact remains that people all over the country are turning inexplicably violent, killing their friends, neighbours and loved ones. There have been tentative reports of victims of these attacks getting up to exhibit their own violent behaviour. We will report any new information as we receive it, but in the meantime the police are recommending that everyone stay indoors and take precautions to secure their premises. Do not go outside. Do not answer your door, even to those you believe you know. Repeat: do not go outside; do not answer your door...”

  Daryl got up and turned off the radio, feeling like he was floating across the room, suspended mere inches off the carpet. He stared at his hands, at the light pink stains that remained stubbornly on his fingers like an obscure artistic representation of his actions; then he curled those fingers into a tight fist and examined the torn knuckles. Part of him was angry that because of the media breakdown there would be no one to report his antics. Another part – the darkest part of his character – knew that there would be survivors, and they would speak of him as a legend, passing along his story around campfires for decades.

  After a short while he climbed the stairs to Mother’s room.

  The upper storey of the house was in darkness, leaving her drowning in the shadows she loathed – a sea of shadows, all whispering her name. This at least gave Daryl something to smile about.

  “Mother?” he entered her room, clutching the door and easing it open.

  She was sprawled across the mattress at an angle, having tried to move off the bed. Perhaps the dark had terrified her so much that she had attempted to get away, or had she simply been looking for Daryl to comfort her when she suddenly awoke?

  “Come on, Mother. We can’t be having you hurting yourself, can we?” he levered her back into position. “That’s my job.”

  Her eyes skittered open, the lids flickering like hummingbird wings, and then she squeezed them shut. Her face was paler than he’d ever seen; its texture was grea
sy, like cold bacon rind. She was obviously on her way out – even Daryl could see that. He doubted that she would even see morning.

  “That’s better now. Nice and comfy.” He nipped her upper arm, just to gauge the response. Nothing. She was beyond pain, her body no more than a shell for her fading consciousness.

  “I finally did it, Mother. After all that planning and dreaming and wondering, I killed her. You would’ve liked her, too. Such a pretty girl. She was so very lovely, like an old-time film star.”

  Mother offered no response.

  “It was glorious, Mother. Glorious. But only for a short time. The rapture soon faded.”

  Rapture. God, what a perfect word. It described the feeling perfectly: almost religious, verging on the sublime.

  “They all say – all the convicted killers and sociopaths – they say that your first time is the best, and then you go on to spend the rest of your life trying to repeat that first-time experience. If only it had lasted longer. I’ve almost forgotten how good it was. How… rapturous.”

  A soft gurgling sound, like a plughole draining away a sink full of water, emitted from Mother’s throat. It lasted a long time. Constant, never faltering, not even fading. Then, abruptly, the sound stopped.

  “Oh, Mother. Can’t you just listen for once? That was always your fucking problem. Fuck-fuck-fucking problem. You would never just listen to me.” His heart rate became intense. It felt like tiny fingers drumming against his ribs. “Too busy with the shouting and the hatred and the hurting. Always the hurting. Never the listening. Never the affection I always craved, especially as a child.”

  Daryl leaned over Mother, sniffing her. She smelled of old shit. He reached down and grabbed the sallow skin of her cheeks, splitting it like paper. Then, his entire body tensing, hardening, he spat in her eyes. Just once; it was enough to vent the poison.