“Yeah, maybe. It could work,” I say, optimistically. “She might believe it—it almost sounds true even to me.”
“I know. And when she unties you, Rob—”
“I’ll smash her fucking skull in.”
“Well, I was gonna suggest you try and grab the gun from her—but your way sounds better.”
I smile. Can’t believe I have one in me, especially down here—especially today. But I do. And the very notion of an escape plan feels nerve-racking, but at the same time slightly exciting. To create an opportunity to have one up on that psycho bitch sounds pretty fucking good to me.
Don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much. Every time I think of that thick red hair, that grubby white dressing gown, I feel my blood pressure rising; almost bursting at the seams.
“We doing this or what?” Sandra says, excitement in her tone.
Or absolute terror.
“Okay. Let’s call her then,” I say, reluctantly, even though I try to mask it.
“JANET!” Sandra screams at the top of her voice. The noise startles the three Necs. Waiting for the sound of footsteps to come down the stairs, I recoil, unsure of which disturbs me more: the barking corpses opposite—or Janet fucking Webber.
Pointing my ear up towards the ceiling, I hear a faint thumping sound, and the creaking of floorboards. My stomach feels sick with apprehension as I wait for the door to open and the light to come on. What kind of mood will she be in? For all we know, the very sound of her name is enough for her to start hacking at us with the meat cleaver.
Perhaps a minute passes. Maybe less. Hard to tell. Then another, before Sandra shouts: “JANET! WE NEED TO TALK!”
This time the vibrations through the floorboards fill the room, as if Janet is pissed off, stomping down heavily on the floor. The Necs seem even more agitated. The sound reaches the basement door. Turning towards it, I see Janet as she comes stamping hard down each step until she reaches the bottom. By the time she flicks on the main light switch, my body is almost in spasm at the sight of her; grasping the meat cleaver in her hand as predicted.
My enthusiasm to feed her this bullshit story has suddenly vanished.
“Yes. What do you want?” Janet says; gently shushing her diseased family like a crying baby.
“Rob’s got something to tell you,” Sandra says. “Don’t you, Rob?” Turning to me.
Thanks for that.
“Yeah. I need to tell you about a medical theory about a possible cure.”
“What are you talking about?” Janet asks, scowling at me, her eyes piercing as if the very mention of another cure is ludicrous.
“It’s just a theory. Nothing more. And I don’t really believe it myself. But there’s always a chance. Always hope.”
“Thought you didn’t think there was a cure? You told me that my family was dead. Why the sudden change of heart? Trying to bullshit me, is it?”
“Look, I’ve already told you that I don’t believe it—it’s just a theory. One of hundreds. But I also told you that I don’t believe that feeding your family is gonna cure them either. And that hasn’t exactly deterred you. So what have you got to lose?”
“All right then, Rob—tell me. What’s this new cure of yours?”
“Okay. There’s a theory: if the infected body is showing any signs of humanity—memories, moments of calm—there’s a chance that if you inject them with an extremely high dosage of antiviral, then it could reverse the effects. Maybe not fully, but enough to bring back some basic human functions, like speech and control of aggression.”
Janet looks at me; an expression of distrust yet showing signs of intrigue.
Have I convinced her?
Maybe.
She glances down at her family again, as they groan and dribble like three dosed up lunatics. What’s she thinking? Seems like she’s contemplating it; too hard to call it though.
But then I feel that excitement bubble up again when she says: “Even if I did believe you, I don’t have any antiviral shots. No one has. So your so-called cure is useless to me anyway.”
“I can get you some,” I reply, my enthusiasm restored.
Janet smiles sarcastically. “Oh yeah, and how are you meant to do that? Make a little trip through the barricades, down to the Doctor’s office, is it? Get a prescription? You think I’m a bloody moron?”
“No. I don’t think you’re a moron. There’s a Cleaner van just a little up the street. It’s crashed. I tried to save the driver yesterday, but we got ambushed. They killed him. Inside the van, I saw hundreds of antiviral shots. Boxes of them. Enough for your son, daughter, and your husband.”
Very subtly, Janet nods. “I’ve seen it. I saw it crash. It almost ran me down.”
“See. I’m not bullshitting you, I promise. Let me run up the hill and grab a few boxes. And I’ll be back in less than five minutes. Easily.”
Janet says nothing, as if mulling it over. Can’t lose her now. Have to keep pushing it. “You know I can’t run out on you. I’d never leave Sammy on his own. Not down here. Please, Janet. We have to at least try. For the sake of your family. If this works—even if it’s just one of your family—this will change everything. This could be the breakthrough the world’s been waiting for. And this would have been all worth it. All the death. All the suffering. All the sacrifice. All for this: The real cure.”
Staring deep into Janet’s eyes, I search for a glimmer of humanity. A part of her that existed long before all this madness started. A part of her that would rather believe my screwed up story than her psychotic idea.
While I’m lost in her gaze, praying that she doesn’t start to pick out the gaping holes in my story, I see something—something that I never thought I’d see down here.
A tear.
Need to exploit this now. Have to keep plugging. For all our sakes. “Just let me do this for you and your family. I need this to work just as much as you do. Please.”
Janet wipes the tear away with the sleeve from her meat-cleaver hand. The image is disturbing—but hopeful. “All right,” she says, nodding. “But she has to go. Not you.” She points the meat cleaver over to Sandra.
I turn to Sandra in shock. On the one hand, I can’t believe that she actually bought my bullshit story—and on the other, that she’s picked Sandra to go. Why? And how the hell is she meant to overpower Janet when she’s untied? She’s starving, and clearly weak. Plus, she’s half the size of Janet. She wouldn’t stand a chance out there.
But that’s exactly why.
Janet ain’t taking any risks. I could take her down if she unties me. The last time, she surprised me with a dart in the shoulder—this time I’d be fucking ready for the lanky cunt!
And she knows it!
“That’s fine,” Sandra says, grudgingly. “I’m happy to go instead of Rob.”
“No. That’s not a good idea,” I say to Janet. “She won’t last five minutes outside with all those Necs. The van could be crawling with them. It’s better if it’s me.”
“No,” Janet replies, conviction in her tone, “she’s going, and that’s that. And I know she’ll be back. She’d never leave without your little boy. Not in a million years.”
“She’s right,” Sandra says. “I wouldn’t. I’d rather die than see you harm a hair on his head.”
“See,” Janet says, half-smiling.
“How’s she meant to defend herself out there?” I ask.
Janet walks over to Sandra, goes down on one knee, and then starts to cut through her ropes with the meat cleaver. “Don’t underestimate her, Robert; I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s resourceful.”
Sandra looks at me with terror in her eyes. She knows as well as I do that we have to be careful not to protest her decision. It’s too risky. She could take it back at any second. Have to let it play out and pray to God that Sandra can think of something—maybe push Janet down the stairs on the way up. Hopefully, she’ll split her fucking head open on the way down, smash her face on the washing ma
chine. And then maybe she could drop that generator on her.
See how she likes that!
Sandra’s ropes finally split open and drop to the floor. I watch as Sandra glares down at her burned and swollen skin. She’s been down here even longer than I have, and already mine are torn up pretty bad. Hers must be agony.
Janet backs away, pointing the meat cleaver at Sandra’s chest. Sandra tries to stand, but her knees give way. I reach up with my hands to catch her but can’t. Using the wall for support, she tries again, this time managing to get laboriously to her feet. Janet has moved back to the opposite wall, next to her daughter.
“You all right?” I ask Sandra.
She nods, and then forces a smile through cracked lips. “Don’t worry about me, Rob. I’ll be fine. I’m as tough as old boots.”
Not sure what she’s thinking. I wish I could read her thoughts right now; find out her plan of action. That’s if she even has one. For all I know, she’s going straight to the van to look for the antiviral shots—even though there’s a possibility that she might not even find one, let alone bloody boxfuls.
“Where are you going, Sandra?” I hear Sammy ask; his voice croaky, half-asleep.
Turning to him, I see that he’s started to push himself back into a seated position against the wall. “Don’t worry, Sammy,” I tell him. “She’s just going outside to help Janet with something. She won’t be long.”
“I’ll be right back, Sammy,” Sandra turns to say. “Keep your Dad company for me, will you? I’ll be back before you know it.” She then carries on forward towards the stairs, limping painfully with every step.
As she passes the three Necs, I watch in horror as Janet swings the meat cleaver; slicing into Sandra’s left knee. Sandra screams out in agony as her legs buckle. She then hits the hard floor, her face grimacing with pain.
“THERE’S ONLY ONE FUCKING CURE!” Janet yells hard into her ear. “AND THAT’S YOU!”
Sandra tries to stand up, but Janet pushes her onto her side with her foot. Suddenly, Janet’s husband reaches forward and takes hold of Sandra’s hair. Her screams of panic are drowned out by the growls of the Necs as she’s dragged into the middle of them. I shuffle frantically over to Sammy, hoping to block out the sight. But it’s too late. Sandra’s body is devastated with bite marks by the time I reach him. Burying Sammy’s face into my chest, I just about manage to hinder any further revulsion. But only for him. The Necs pass her helpless body around like hyenas with their prey. I fight off an urge to vomit as I watch Sandra’s eyes close when her stomach is clawed open, and her intestines are hauled out like thick, brown cable, and eaten.
All I can do now is pray that she’s already dead; that her suffering is over.
At least she won’t become one of those things. Thank God for that.
But only that.
I lightly shush Sammy’s grief, trying to sooth his anguish like I would after a bump on the head, or a nasty fall. But I can still hear his screams even with his mouth covered. His cries for Sandra. His friend. No one should ever have to see such a thing. Something so earth shattering. So heart-breaking.
So loathsome.
“I don’t wanna play this game anymore,” Sammy weeps, his words barely audible. “I just wanna go home, Daddy.”
“It’ll be over soon,” I say, as a censored rage builds in the pit of my stomach. A rage that will only vanish when Sammy and I are free of this basement. And when I’ve smashed that bitch’s head against the wall!
Only then.
“I’m sorry he had to see that, Rob,” Janet says, her voice cold, her eyes glazed over with quiet madness. “I know he was fond of her. She was a good woman, and I’m sorry it had to be her down here. I wish it could’ve been someone else.” She kneels down next to her daughter, reaches up, and then tenderly strokes Sophie’s long, red hair. But the fact that the Nec isn’t taking a bite out of her hand has nothing to do with love. Nothing to do with a cure. It’s the simple fact that the Nec’s mouth is already full. Full to the brim with Sandra’s flesh. But from the smile on Janet’s face as her hand runs up and down her daughter’s head, her sick and twisted delusion has undoubtedly taken over. And there’s nothing me or anyone could ever say to bring her back.
“You okay, Sammy?” I whisper down to him.
He doesn’t reply. And his silence only heightens my bitterness and hatred for Janet. “You’re sick!” I say to her, spitting my words out like poison. “You’re just some psychotic screw-up that always gets what she wants. Happy to step on anyone to get somewhere. That’s who you are, Janet. And now it’s made you into a sick murderer.”
“If I were a sick murderer,” Janet replies, still stroking her daughter’s knotted hair, “I would have let my family tear you limb from limb instead. And not her.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I wouldn’t do that to your son. Not yet anyway. Not if I can help it. He needs his father.”
“So just let us go then—and this can all be over.”
“I can’t let you go. I have to think about my family.”
“Is this how you’d like your family to remember you? Killing a helpless little boy? Is it? For God’s sake, Janet, he’s just a baby. He shouldn’t be here. Christ, he’s already lost so much. Are you really gonna do this to him? After everything else?”
Janet moves her hand away from her daughter’s head, and then stands. “Not if I don’t have to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s only here as a precaution. The last thing I want to do is kill him. But my family is sick. They need to be fed—or they’ll die. One by one. And I can’t have that. I just can’t. So, as long as I can find someone new to feed them—someone else from outside maybe—the better chance he has of staying alive. And that’s a promise.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous. How are you supposed to find anyone else? Crandale’s been abandoned.”
“I found you, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t find me. I came looking for you. Remember?”
Janet takes a loving glance at her decaying family as they continue to devour Sandra. “I’d do anything for my family. Absolutely anything.” She then flips the main light switch, and the basement turns to darkness again. “You of all people should know that.”
“Janet! Wait! Please!”
But my desperate pleas are lost in the sound of heavy footsteps going up the stairs.
I can still feel the judders of turmoil as Sammy continues to sob into my chest. But at least he’s close to me. At least I can touch him; smell him.
And at least the darkness has masked the hideous sight of Sandra’s ravaged body. I start to hum a tune to him, hoping to soothe his suffering, like I used to when he was a baby; when he couldn’t sleep. Anna always had the gift of getting him off to sleep. But not me. I always had to resort to making up silly songs about his day, or walking up and down the stairs.
A hum turns into a song as the sound of gnawing increases.
Anything to block out the noise.
24
A sudden shockwave of panic hits me.
Can’t believe I fell asleep. The room is still in darkness; impossible to know what time it is. None of us has a watch, and there certainly isn’t a clock down here. Could be a bright, sunny afternoon, or the middle of the night. I feel as if I’ve spent a day on a plane and I’m jetlagged. So disorientated. So exhausted. And my neck and lower back is in agony. I shuffle a little and move my head side to side, but it does nothing to ease the pain.
I can still feel and hear Sammy as he sleeps next to me; his face pressed against my chest. I pray that he didn’t truly understand what happened to Sandra. That he thought—
My God, I don’t know what he thought.
He must be starving. When was the last time he ate something? Yesterday? The day before?
Fuck!
Can’t let us end up like Sandra. No bloody way. Can’t risk anymore s
tupid plans. Janet’s not an idiot. She’ll see through any more lies.
Have to be smarter.
The image of Sandra’s demise will be etched on my soul for the rest of my life—that’s if I ever get out of this stinking basement. The chances of Janet finding someone else for her family to feed on are slim. And even if it did buy him another day or two, what kind of life is that? Just waiting to die. How long could he hold out before someone rescued him? And what if they didn’t? What if she just keeps him down here for years? Just keeps him tied up for all that time? Her family is just gonna get more rotten every day—and hungrier with every hour that passes. Surely she’ll have to realise that there is no bloody cure—her family is dead.
I need to kill that bitch today.
The pipe rattles as I tug on my ropes. I’m sure I can break this rusty piece of shit. I tug on it again, this time with double the force. I hear the sound of rust fragments falling to the ground. Must be pretty worn. I can do this. Fuck the ropes. I can still kill her even with my wrists tied. And when she’s dead, I can just hop out of here.
Have to be quiet though. Who knows how much she can hear from up there? For all I know she’s got a bloody baby monitor strapped to her, listening to every sound we make.
I carefully move Sammy’s sleeping head away from my chest, trying not to wake him, and then rest it on the floor. Twisting around, I can feel the ropes burn and dig into my wrists, cutting deep into my already suppurated and scorched flesh. I close my eyes tight to block out the searing pain as I place my feet onto the wall, trying to gain leverage.
Come on, Rob. You can do this. You can fucking do this!
I brace for a moment to ready myself, and then take hold of the rope tightly with both hands, before pulling on it as hard as I can. The pain in my wrists is unbearable. I can feel my strength start to fade already, my grip on the rope loosening.
No. Come one, Rob. You’ve got to do this. For Sammy. For Anna. A sudden burst of energy fills my aching body. Pulling with everything I have, I listen out for the pipe, hoping to hear a cracking sound. But nothing. I keep tugging; teeth grinding hard, trying to swallow the pain.
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