by Ryan Casey
Jonny crouched against the wall. There was a woman with dark hair and glasses beside him listening to heavy rock music so loud that Jonny could make out every last scream. To his other side, a tall man stood in a suit. Every time the train jolted to one side, his thigh nudged Jonny on the cheek.
Every nudge made him a little more agitated.
A little more… willing. Willing to do what he hoped he wouldn’t have to do.
No. You’ve eaten recently. Don’t get greedy. Don’t fuck this up.
The train was so crowded that they hadn’t even bothered to check Jonny’s tickets. Fuck—if only he’d known. He wouldn’t even have had to go to the counter then, and perhaps he wouldn’t be on the system, if there even was a system. Should probably have looked this up before taking the trip, but really, there were other things on his mind.
He closed his eyes and wondered how his mum and dad were getting on. He wondered, just on the off chance, whether they might’ve popped up to his room with some food or a drink. Unlikely, but that’d be the Hollywood way for things to unfold, right? He pictured his mum’s smiling face as she opened the door, then the smile dropping to the floor when she realised her son was missing.
No. No room for looking backwards. Only forward. Sentimentality can’t get the better of you.
He tried to contemplate his next step—tried to work out where exactly he was going to go from London. A train to Dover? The Channel Tunnel through to France? As much as he tried, he found his mind wandering back to that pond. Wandering back to the Cub Scout kid, slipping into the pond to his horrible, bloodbath of a fate. The Cub Scout guardian that followed him, likely the same. He understood now, and yet he didn’t understand. Rebecca—she was awake. She was alive. She should’ve been drowning, but she wasn’t. Something had happened to her.
A tingle spread across his arms.
Was it the same something that had happened to him?
He tried to cast his mind back to when this all started. He remembered feeling a little weird yesterday, when he’d been out for that long run. No—before that. Eating all the food. Before that, even, when he’d attempted to clean his room.
Before that?
The day in London with his dad.
Sarah. The fit woman who used to work with Dad.
Dad’s face when she took off. He could see it in his eyes. Not just disappointment, but something else. Bewilderment. Fear, even.
Rebecca.
What had happened to her?
Was it going to happen to the Cub Scouts, too? If so, what then?
“Sir, can I see your ticket please?”
Jonny opened his eyes and was surprised to see a ticket inspector squished in the middle of the crowd of people. He squinted down at Jonny, beady-eyed and big-nosed.
Jonny breathed in deeply, then reached into his pocket for his ticket. For some reason, his hands were shaking. Then again, that was reasonable enough considering what he’d been through these last couple of days. A bit of a shaky hand was nothing, really.
He passed the ticket to the inspector, who peered at it. He looked at Jonny, then back at the ticket, then back at Jonny. What the fuck was his problem?
“Student card, please.”
“I… I’m sorry, what?”
The ticket inspector flipped the ticket around and tapped at the “YP” (Young Persons) symbol on the left hand side of the ticket. “Student ID, please.”
Jonny froze. People turned heads around him. He could feel their eyes, judging him, burning into him, focused on him. He hadn’t bought a YP ticket. Why the hell would he buy a YP ticket when he wasn’t a student anymore?
“I…” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. I… I didn’t buy student tickets—”
“Well the ticket here says ‘YP,’ which means yes, you did. Which means if you aren’t a student, you owe the ticket office, what… thirty, thirty-five quid.”
Jonny ground his teeth together and stared the ticket inspector in his eyes. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t buy a student ticket. I literally just got them at Preston and rushed down so I didn’t miss—”
“Well you should learn to be a bit less careless in future, eh?” the ticket inspector snapped.
Jonny lowered his head. His cheeks were on fire and his forehead throbbed. He needed something to relax. Something to ease himself.
Blood trickling down his throat.
Warm, sloppy flesh.
No! Fuck, no. Stop it. Stop it.
He searched his wallet with his even shakier hand. “Could I pay the difference now?”
The ticket officer waited a few seconds, squashed right up to the suited man, who tutted and frowned at Jonny as if it was his fault. “Sure. That’ll do.”
Jonny looked in the cash compartment of his wallet. This was going to be okay. He was going to pay the difference, and he’d have nothing to worry about. A minor hiccup in an otherwise smooth journey.
If three unnecessary deaths and one feast counted as smooth.
He counted out the cash. Five, ten, fifteen…
Shit. Fifteen pounds. That’s all he had left in cash.
“Was it thirty—”
“Thirty-five,” the train inspector interrupted. He watched Jonny flick through his cash. Jonny thought he saw a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Do you… do you accept cards?”
“No. We do not.”
Jonny was completely still again. The heat returned to his cheeks. This fucker. This fucker was causing real problems. Real problems. He should sink his teeth right into this cunt and drain the blood out of him right here, right now. He should gut the fucker and use his intestines as a fucking blood straw.
“Sir, if you’ve bought a student ticket and you can’t afford to pay in cash, then I’m going to have to ask you to purchase the correct ticket at the ticket office.”
Jonny nodded. Reasonable enough. “Okay. I’ll do it first thing when I get to Euston.”
The ticket officer grinned and chuckled. “Oh no. You’ll do it at the next stop in Birmingham New Street. We’ll be arriving in… ten, fifteen minutes. I’ll have to ask you to step off the train then.”
Shit. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t afford any delay to his journey, not with the… the change in circumstances. The situation at the pond—the police would be searching already. They’d be on to him. “But… but—”
“No buts, sir. Unless you can, I dunno, convince somebody to donate your train fare in the next ten minutes, then you are getting off this train at Birmingham New Street. And you’ll be paying full price for a new ticket. Them’s the rules, I’m afraid.”
Jonny looked at the people around him. The woman blasting the metal music had turned the volume up even louder and was scratching her head, looking away as if she hadn’t heard what the ticket inspector said. The man in the suit frowned at Jonny—he certainly wasn’t helping out. The others, too—a lad a similar age to him, a well-dressed pensioner, all of them looking down at their phones, pretending they had no idea what kind of help Jonny needed.
The ticket inspector raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Looks like it’ll be the next stop then, right?”
He pressed to open the door to the carriage and moved on with his ticket inspection.
The train jolted to the right, and the leg of the suited man nudged him harder than ever before.
He stared down the carriage. Every now and then, he thought he caught a glimpse of his subject, right in his eyeline. He was so close. Like a lion ready to pounce. He just had to time it right. Place it right.
Precision was important. Very important.
The silly bitch beside him was still yapping on. At first, he’d nodded and smiled to acknowledge her, but now he wasn’t even reacting and still she went on and on and on, refusing to shut the fuck up no matter what. He wanted to finish her, right here. Beat her to a bloody pulp.
But of course, he couldn’t hurt anyone who wasn’t on his
list. He’d done that before, and it never ended well.
According to the loudspeaker, the train would be arriving at Birmingham New Street in five minutes. He figured this would be a good time. Birmingham New Street would see the fizzy drink that was the people spill out of this bottle of a train. They’d flood out, like cattle to the slaughter, and then more people would flood in, stick themselves in this metal tube of sweat and piss and alcohol breath.
When they flocked out, that would be his moment.
He’d make his way off Coach E with the rest of the herd. Then, he’d run down to Coach C, where he could get right back on again. As he squeezed past his subject, he’d very quickly and swiftly inject him with the serum in the syringe, which was currently still in his pocket, but would soon be under his sleeve. It would be quick. Painless. People would just think he’d passed out. Heat exhaustion. Agoraphobia.
Then they’d check his pulse and find something much worse, as the flock of people continued to bustle on to the train.
In the panic and confusion, he’d be on another carriage already, sitting with a Daily Telegraph and blending in, just like them, just another one of the herd.
The train started to slow down. He heard the squeak of the brakes, felt the rustle of movement amongst the people around him.
“You are now arriving at Birmingham New Street. Please remember to take all baggage before leaving the train.”
This was his call. This was his moment. This was where he made his real money.
As the train screeched to a halt, the high-rise industrial jungle of Birmingham coming in to view, he reached into his pocket past the gun and swiftly placed the syringe in his sleeve. He had to be careful not to catch himself. A small swab of the stuff wouldn’t kill him, but it would be enough to leave him bedridden for a few days.
A necessary risk.
The brakes squealed at full voice now, like pigs in an abattoir. People stirred. The doors to the carriage opened. Women with huge rucksacks too big for them pushed past and crowded around the doors, desperate to get off this aluminium tube, desperate to continue their inane, bullshit lives on the outside.
The train slowed down to a final halt—a sudden, final jolt that he always found somewhat satisfying. Outside, in the artificial lights of the platform, he could see a mass of people. Just how he wanted it. He’d have plenty of time to get off the train and make his way down to Coach C. He’d have plenty of time to get off and on again, and not a single person would know.
The doors bleeped, then slid open.
He took a deep breath, and he stepped off the train, into the cold air of the station.
He was here. Now he just had to get to the subject and finish this.
He pushed his way down the platform. There were more people waiting here than he’d expected, but that was a good thing. More anonymity for him. More confusion when he carried out his job. Just what he needed.
He managed to prise himself past Coach D’s entrance. People were still getting off, so he had plenty of time. He could see the door to Coach C in sight, just a few metres away now. He glanced down at his wrist to check the syringe was in place. No harm in double checking.
Then he checked his double-check. Just in case.
He was halfway down the carriage now. People were starting to get on. Hopefully, the subject would just step aside and let them pass. The seats were already all taken in Coach D, by the looks of things.
If not, he’d still find a way. He just had to get back on the train again.
When he reached the door to the train, he looked for the dark, greasy hair of the subject. He couldn’t see him at first, but that made sense. He’d probably just moved down the carriage a little. No big deal.
He stepped on the train past a tall man in a suit. A woman with glasses, playing music way too loud, still sat on the floor as people climbed over her.
But no subject in sight.
He looked down Coach C. It was packed, just like Coach D. There was no chance the subject could’ve got to a seat or made his way down either of the carriages in the little time it had taken him to get here. He pressed the door to the toilet but still, no sign of him.
“Sir, can you move along, please?”
People bustled past him. He felt himself being squeezed into the entrance area of the carriage, like a sardine being forced back into its jar. No eyes on the subject. It didn’t make sense. He’d seen the arrival times for London in his room. He had to be on this train, just down the carriage from him.
As the doors to the train closed, one woman sneaking between them at the last second and further crowding the carriage, he saw him in the distance.
The subject, green rucksack over his shoulder, making his way towards the elevators.
He lurched past the crowd of people and hammered the “open” button, but the doors stayed glued together.
The engine of the train rumbled.
He watched as the subject made his way around to the elevators, unable to intervene—unable to do anything about it. He’d missed his moment. He was too late.
The train jolted to one side.
The subject was gone.
26.
Mr. Belmont hadn’t heard from the Biochemical Emergency department for a good half hour now, and the last time he’d heard from them, the news wasn’t good.
Jonny Ainsthwaite had managed to slip off their radar, the sneaky little fucker. Their men were supposed to be professionals. Trailing people was what they did. But no. Not this time. They were there, on a train together, and then Jonny Ainsthwaite was gone, just like that.
At least one thing was for certain now: Jonny Ainsthwaite was running away from something. Likely something he’d done.
Which terrified Mr. Belmont, especially with the manner in with Mrs. Carter and Adam Chester were growing in agitation.
It started with Mrs. Carter. She had been still. Doctor Ermenstein, who had resigned himself to being locked in there with her for the time being, was by her side. And then she just flipped. She started fitting, rattling her body against the bed. Blood-laced saliva oozed down her chin. The whites of her eyes were invisible behind the deep, blood red.
And then she vomited. Vomited thick red blood, all over Doctor Ermenstein’s lab coat. Like, projectile vomit. Fucking revolting, that’s what it was. She was hungry. Very hungry. Her CD4 cells must’ve been off the charts. According to Miss Appleton, her body must’ve been eating itself to compensate for the imbalance in CD4 and CD8. A sickening, frightening reminder of what would happen to people with this primitive form of Turnstone in their system. The lengths their bodies would go to to satiate their hunger.
The lengths Jonny Ainsthwaite would go to.
Miss Appleton leafed through Doctor Ermenstein’s notes on Turnstone. She read through them with intensity and focus, desensitising herself to the apparent inhumanities behind the reflective glass. She studied them closely, not speaking at all, not responding to any of Mr. Belmont’s questions. Ignorant bitch. He’d brought her in here. He had a right to know what she’d created—what the fuck she’d let loose on the outside. He needed to know.
“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” She closed the papers and handed them to Mr. Belmont.
“Well, that goes without saying,” he said. “But is there anything else outside the obvious that you can tell from these results?”
She turned to the glass window, where Mrs. Carter yanked at the belts around her wrists. She cried out, from the bottom of her throat, with hunger and fear and desperation. Sheer pain. Sheer agony.
“Only that they’re getting stronger and stronger the longer they go without… without human flesh.”
So there it was. Turnstone was completely reliant on human flesh, after all, from the horse’s mouth itself. He’d suspected as much—all the signs were there—but hearing it out loud rammed home the reality, the danger, of the situation. “How long does it, you know… Is it always this fast?”
“It looks like th
e CD4 cells start to multiply from the moment Turnstone enters the system,” she said. “It takes maybe a day before it reaches a tipping point in the 2,000/mm³ region. But probably much less for some people, especially those who are, y’know, killed. But I just don’t know.”
“A tipping point?”
“A need to feed.”
Mr. Belmont nodded. A day. Twenty-four hours. Less, maybe. She spiked Jonny Ainsthwaite around sixty hours ago, she said. More than double the twenty-four hours required for the… the “emptiness” to take a hold. Way more than double.
“Yes. He will have felt the need to feed.” Miss Appleton stared at him closely, regret weighing down the bags under her eyes. “And if he’s missing. If he’s… if he’s thinking rationally, then there’s every chance that he’s, you know… He’s fed already.”
Mr. Belmont’s stomach sank. He wanted the metal floors of TCorps to open up beneath him. He wanted the endless height of the building to just swallow him up. He wanted to fall, to keep on falling, to keep on falling until he crashed into the core and vaporised.
“And if Jonn… Mr. Ainsthwaite has fed, then does that mean…?”
Miss Appleton nodded. “Yes. It’s highly, highly infectious. And it… This is where it is unlike anything else. It seems as if it keeps the body alive even after suffering critical wounds. Like Adam Chester, for example. He should be dead. He was dead. But those fighter cells are keeping him… alive, of sorts. They’ve taken over his entire body and they’re keeping him going.”
“So… Okay. So what stops it? What can we do to stop this Turnstone spreading?”
Miss Appleton tapped her chest. “Simple. A shot to the heart. Eliminate the blood supplier. CD4 and CD8 are white blood cells, so they rely on the heart to pump them around the body. No heart, no vehicle for CD4 and CD8, no Turnstone.”
“And you know this for certain?”
“Well. As certain as I can be in the… in the circumstances. Destruction of the brain should do the trick too, because the brain controls the rest of the body. But it would require real destruction, I’d imagine. A shot to the heart would be less… well. Messy.”