Ferine Apocalypse (Book 1): Collapse

by Leonard, John F.

  That all short-skirt and no-knickers bitch. That unwholesome whore of a cunt. The poor mascaraed tramp was welcome to him.

  When her husband had left, Margaret was dry eyed and relieved, albeit in a vaguely ashamed way. In her day, a broken marriage was nothing in which to feel any pride. Conversely, when she’d instructed the veterinarian to put kittie Peter out of his misery, nearly blind and barely able to walk his proud feline walk, she’d wept inconsolably and been depressed for weeks.

  Margaret’s Alzheimer’s meant that she had very little concept of the world collapsing. Her world had imploded several years earlier with the onset of the disease. She was blissfully unconcerned about the catastrophic change that had overtaken most of the planet’s population. But she was very concerned that Peter was out at night. As darkness fell, his place was in her lap, purring and kneading. In the same way that she needed his warm and reassuring presence.

  As Sam Scott looked across the expanse of the warehouse, Margaret just another unknown and somewhat minor character, she could see the door by which she’d originally entered.

  It was open.

  There was shadowy movement around her, accompanied by perplexed sounding unintelligible questions, as the others woke up in response to the noise.

  Before anyone had time to actually do anything, the shouting tailed off.

  The scream that followed after a few tense moments seemed incredibly loud.

  So loud and so scared.

  The old woman appeared in the doorway, a shambling figure in the gloom. Attempting a shuffling useless run. She got ten feet into the building, the door open and forgotten behind her, before the first pursuer came into view.

  It was difficult to be sure in the scant skylight dimness, but the lead creature seemed very big. Bigger and more monstrous than anything that Sam had seen so far. Disastrously distorted. Arms and body too long, head too large.

  It closed on the old woman in a heartbeat, crashing her to the floor, flailing limbs and a hateful thud that could only be old flesh and bone hitting an unyielding surface. And a scream unlike the previous ones. Quieter and unspeakably worse. A dry dying squeal in the darkness.

  One of the younger girls shrieked. She was nearer to what had happened. As more of them poured through the doorway, she bolted, running away towards the right, into the depths of the warehouse. Three blurs of movement arrowed after her and the screaming that followed was swift and shrill and terrible.

  Sam felt an iron grip on her arm and before she had chance to wield the baseball bat, she was pulled back into the shadows, stumbling and off balance, back jarred against the hard steel of the racking.

  The Banjo man’s face was close, so close that she felt his beard on her face and his breath in her ear, his spit wet on her cheek as he hoarsely whispered instructions and pulled her with him.

  “Time to scram, sweet Sam.”

  She watched the doorway as she let herself be led along the shelved wall, feeling each nut on the metal across her shoulder blades as she instinctively shied away from the growling motion in front of her. There were more of them, too many to count in the murky light. A swirling knot eddying around the first creature, snarling flickers as it defended it’s prize, lashing and biting. Others approaching the group of survivors that remained, as they backed up the stair of the mezzanine.

  And those things kept coming, hazy shapes smearing through that fatally open door in search of food.

  “Try for your car.”

  Banjo man’s voice was gravelly and tight. She could see the sword in his hand now as he moved from her. Thin and evil with a gentle curve. And she also saw the small scampering thing running at him, the sound of claws a skittering crescendo in the turmoil.

  Small and, oh God, it was a child. Another child monster. She felt a patter of drops across her clothing as the sword sliced and it tumbled off into the dark. The thump and crash of it coming to rest drew more attention.

  “Go now. Get out and don’t look back.”

  A shouted instruction, the whisper gone, as he briefly glanced back and then advanced to meet the oncoming beasts.

  So many of them, an erratic mass in the blackness.

  More screaming.

  The younger man on the stairs as one of them climbed and attacked from the side.

  The swish and thud of the Banjo player’s blade as he waded into the fray.

  Sam grabbed the handle of the door behind her and left. Turned her back on one more nightmare scene. Ran blind through the maze of the building and found herself in a room with grilled windows that faced the car park. The larger, open plan, ground floor office.

  Saw her car out there.

  Her poor, gorgeous little car.

  Now battered and ripped and filthy but beautiful again. Beautiful because it offered the promise of escape from this latest hell. She fumbled with the grills, eventually finding the key to unlock and slide them aside. Opened a window and fell out into the cool night air, the baseball bat clattering on the concrete.

  No time to worry about noise or anything that might be lurking out here. The car was the only concern. Getting inside the car and going.

  <><><>

  As she drove away, she realised that she’d never asked his name.

  The man with the sword and the banjo and the warm worn eyes.

  Too late now.

  Chapter 2.

  Joe the Taxi.

  Headache.

  Sickening pulses of pain between his temples.

  Heat on his face and sunlight lancing him as he prised open blood gummed eyes.

  Disorientated.

  Closed his eyes again until he could adjust his position and block at least some of the brightness.

  Aches throughout his body.

  Where the fecking jumped-up Jesus are you this time Joey-boy. China? Honolulu? Alpha Centauri?

  Back seat of a car.

  The boy was in the front passenger seat.

  The boy looked ill.

  Joe Byrne felt like shit but hoped to God that he looked better than the boy did.

  Sebastian.

  The boy’s name was Sebastian. And all of it flooded back to him. Not another drunk this time.

  So much worse than that.

  <><><>

  Getting out of London had been hard.

  More than hard.

  His mind clinched like a spasming muscle to shut out the images and sounds. Shut out the smells and stomach churning recollections.

  Madness. Not for now. Not the details.

  Not if he could help it.

  <><><>

  He traced his face with grimy hands and then felt his head. Gashes and lumps.

  A fair-sized chunk of his ear missing.

  Blood on the seat where he’d slumped in sleep.

  They were in the car park of some sort of restaurant or bar.

  The Happy Trooper.

  No other cars and no sign of life from the building.

  Early morning.

  Parched lips and bone dry throat combined with a seemingly contradictory need to piss.

  Laboriously got out the car.

  Like climbing a mountain with a plastic sackful of bottles on your back.

  Shaky legs that made him lean back against the car as he relieved himself.

  Needed to move his bowels as well, but that would have to wait until he got his bearings.

  The air still and crisp, promising another glorious day.

  Fresh.

  In stark contrast to the rancid unwashed stink rising from his own body.

  He decided to disguise his own body odour and sully the bracingly clean air with a cigarette. At that point, the world looked better when viewed through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  He smothered a cough and took another drag.

  Hated smoking without liquid refreshment.

  Needs must when the devil dollies himself into the driving seat hey fella-me-lad. Dear Lord above Joey-Joe, you haven’t had a drink in what? It must be
...days.

  Silent car park.

  You’re on the wagon, you sly old dog you. Well done, dirty-bastard-boyo. Well fucking done.

  Nothing new. He could go for spells without booze. Long spells when he could silence the sound of the tide in his head and still the yearning in his blood.

  Especially after a bender like the grand tour. That was a special. The fact that it got exponentially more special was neither here nor there. He had no idea how some sort of mutation apocalypse would affect his drinking habits but he guessed he was going to find out.

  He surveyed the building.

  New. Fairly modern design, glass and brick, without being overt contemporary brash.

  A lovely setting. Green and lush. Country roads, tree lined and verdant. The car park and restaurant a tree and bush bordered idyll off another country lane.

  Yeah-yeah. It’s a fucking upmarket roadside diner.

  Vaguely recalled passing a petrol station a little way back as they drove here but he wasn’t a hundred percent on that. Yesterday was a trifle cloudy on the memory front. Funny how shock, trauma and a good old fashioned thump or two upside the head could have that affect.

  And don’t forget that whopper-hopper of a hangover, ya feckless bastard.

  There was nothing for it. He needed to clean himself up, find a first aid kit. Get some fluid into his dehydrated system and eat some food. Sort the boy out somehow. Figure out where the fucking hell they were and just where the fuckety-fuck-fucking hell they were going.

  He glanced back at the recumbent form of the boy and ducked back into the car. Thought about waking him and decided to leave it. Considered the baton and opted for the machete, wedged down by the gear stick where it had fallen from the boy’s hand.

  Plucked the keys from the ignition as an afterthought and quietly eased the door shut.

  Trudged towards the building, trying to work some energy into his body and alertness into his fogged brain.

  The Trooper was all levels and tiers. Raised terraces with plush seating and steps winding up to two dark glass doors. One door was slightly open.

  Maybe a defective hinge. That could make a modern door not quite close properly unless it was locked.

  Foot on the first step and rooted there, looking around himself.

  He was scared. Scared witless if he was absolutely honest.

  He didn’t want to go in there. No, not all. He didn’t want to enter an unknown building in an unknown place after what he’d been through. Even if it was a bar. The booze was scary and attractive in equal measure, but the hairless human wolves were more than scary. They were fucking watery bowel terrifying, with a zero attraction factor by the way.

  Me no likey. Me no likey this shit in the least. Never going to enter another building Joey boy? Are interiors forever out of bounds in this brave new world? Are you destined to forever roam the fucking fields hoping those things don’t appear, growing up between the carrots and spuds or prowling down the ploughed rows?

  He hefted the machete and rolled his neck like a prize fighter before the first bell. It really was a pretty lethal weapon. Still wished that he was holding a pistol or a rifle instead though. He’d done some shooting. Knew enough about guns to load and fire one without shooting himself.

  Ah fuck Adi, why didn’t you have a loaded 38 and a nice, maybe true, maybe not true, story about that instead of some bollocks about Banksy and a New York cop’s baton?

  Thinking of Adi made him think about the fact that he’d abandoned the man. Just dumped his friend like he was so much excess baggage.

  Let’s just drown that cat in the canal right now, shall we Joey-boy. You don’t need to be thinking those thoughts, generating those negative old vibes when you’re about to encounter God knows what.

  Admonished himself for being so weak and timid and so basically impractical. If he didn’t get food and fluid inside him soon, he’d keel over.

  Don’t forget that dump boyo. The snake is out of the cave fella. If you do encounter a monster, the first thing you’re liable to is besmirch those not so pristine Calvin Kleins. Come on, you’ve already dealt face to mutated face with these things.

  Okay, let’s not tell fibs Joseph. Let’s be honest here, tell the truth and shame the devil. Or tell the truth and shame Joey-boy hey.

  You kicked off, but the kid dealt with them. The kid saved your life. You were busy playing head tennis with the asphalt. Mind you, there is a reasonable chance that you offed the kid’s dad on the stairs.

  Good job Joe.

  He had to look after of the boy and that thought was what broke his paralysis and got him to the top of the steps.

  He’d been mistaken. Jumped to conclusions and made an ass out of himself by assumption based on experience and desire. The entrance wasn’t wedged open by defective hinges coupled to frequency of traffic. There was a hand clamped at the palm, caught forever between the two glass edges of the doors.

  Blood smeared down the glass. Blood on the bricks. Not fresh but sticky enough to be recent. Ants around the blood.

  Female hand.

  Easy to tell by the glittery pink lemonade nail polish. A delicate, dead hand.

  Beautifully manicured despite the dried blood cuticles. A salon extra that wouldn’t catch on if Joe’s business instincts had any juice at all left in them.

  Looking more closely, he noticed that the blood trailed down the steps.

  What does your more considered scrutiny tell you Chief inspector Byrne? They were inside. She ran, tried to escape. Something caught her at the door. She nearly got out. It killed her. It spilled her blood at the door and then left. Hence the blood that peters out and disappears at the foot of the steps.

  Joe hoped to Jesus-Jerusalem that was the case.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d missed the trail as he walked up the steps but he knew he had to go inside, and he knew that he dearly didn’t want to bump into whatever was responsible for the corpse at the door.

  Deep breath and a glance back at the car and the surroundings.

  Quiet. Deserted.

  He opened the glass door further and, despite wanting to scan the room for danger, his eyes were drawn to the horror on the floor. There was more blood here. Much more. Way, way more. Pooled and splashed.

  Her body, what was left of it dear fucking Jesus, our dog who art in Heaven, was desecrated.

  A lot was missing. Great chunks gone, bone broken, splinters visible and protruding at obscene angles. Gobbets of flesh strewn on the floor around her.

  She might have been pretty. He’d never know because there was very little left of her features. Bite marks up and into her scalp. Into what would have been lustrous chocolate brown hair. Matted and clumped for the most part now, but still beautiful where it was free of blood.

  The shoeless toes on one foot matched her fingernails. The other foot wasn’t there. Just a jaggedly truncated shin bone. Gouges on the bone.

  Waves of nausea and revulsion washed over him. He wanted to not be there, to flee to the car. He closed his eyes and breathed until the urge to vomit receded a little. The revulsion never would. Unmindful of his vulnerability, he simply stood in the threshold.

  Tried to ignore the smell of spoil and shit.

  He’d have to tread through the blood. Tread through her to enter. He tried the other door and moaned when it refused to move.

  She’d never got to unlock both sides, only this one. She’d got one door open and this was where she’d ended, torn to pieces.

  He stepped through, mincing and tentative and felt a small crunch beneath his foot. Slight resistance as he raised his shoe and trod down again. Felt something gently pop as his foot descended.

  Nearly lost it then. The sickness roiling in his stomach and the impulse to run screaming from the building became almost overwhelming.

  Heard the door gently thump on her hand and looked back to see she was insisting on keeping that door ajar. She didn’t want to let that baby close properly.

 
No, no, this should be open, that’s why I’m lying here. Going to lie here forever so the Happy Trooper never closes.

  Wincing distaste as he toed her hand away.

  Looked askance as the door slid shut and pushed against her attractively maintained nails. Couldn’t help seeing that her other hand was missing all four fingers. Just a thumb remained.

  Glittery pink.

  A glittery pink lemonade thumb.

  He reached up and flicked the latch to secure the entrance. That latch wouldn’t stand up to much but it was better than nothing. At least he’d hear if someone, or something, tried to get in while he was checking the interior.

  He was in a dining room, bar at the far end, tables and chairs in between. Airy and thankfully not as dark as he’d anticipated. It looked like there was still electricity flowing. A little lamp at the reception island was lit, shining down on a reservation book.

  He didn’t think there’d be anymore reservations any time soon. Anytime ever, unless he’d imagined yesterday’s events.

  Unreality washed over him again. The not so sweet perfume of spilled blood and mutilated body and sight of the nearby corpse provided a grim enough reality check to cast aside thoughts of delusion.

  It was real. He was tracking the sticky maroon evidence across the hardwood floor.

  He forced himself deeper into the room and began as methodical a search as he could manage. Went through the place with his heart hammering alarmingly in his chest.

  Joey, Joey, you better calm down fella or you’ll have a coronary. That ticker isn’t dicky but the old bastard might finally get fed up with the way you treat it and give up the ghost. Not a great scenario right now boy, because I don’t think there are any ambulances. Or any fucker to call one for that matter, if you can’t do it yourself.