by Line, Al K.
Scabs had started to form, then got ripped off repeatedly — it was a never-ending nightmare of pain, running, thirst, hunger, downright dread, and worst of all not knowing if Kathy was safe. Alive.
His foot stank. The soaking sock was thick with lumps of dead skin. Uncovered, the sight of his foot and The Ink going up his leg almost made him cry. Almost. He didn't think he had any tears left now — he'd cried them all on the gurney as they ruined his body, branding him as belonging to everything he hated in the world.
What was wrong with these people?
With no better solution, he turned the sock inside out and was about to put it back on when he spotted a few pairs weirdly still on an upright rack. A bizarre slice of normality where all was chaos. He grabbed a pair, stuffing one in his pocket and putting the other on then quickly tying up the sneaker.
Aah. Bliss.
Rails clattered behind him and he heard the voices of The Eventuals talking to each other; they were spreading out to cover the room as best they could. All three of them.
Damn. Time to go.
Edsel got to his feet and crouched low, moving fast to the back. These places always had a rear exit, they had to by law. He just prayed it was unlocked. He got behind the counter without being seen and crawled back into the rear of the building, hands and knees screaming at the pressure. There were people in the canteen, obviously still able to show up for work at one point — The Lethargy gripping them and letting them gradually die from starvation where they sat around a dirty off-white Formica table.
There was a microwave, fridge and coffee machine in the corner, mocking Edsel with their familiarity — a reminder of a once normal life. Well, it wasn't normal anymore; or it was, but it wasn't good. He supposed whatever happened made it the norm, it was simply a reality that was more like a nightmare was all. It said a lot about the people: they obviously had nowhere else to go.
Slowly he got up off all fours, the industrial grade carpet feeling like someone was rubbing sandpaper into his palms. His knees were already bleeding again. He went through a door and found himself in a stockroom, boxes strewn everywhere, the place a total wreck. Nothing much was left in terms of clothing, but there were all manner of other things: loads of exercise equipment, balls for various sports, gym equipment and any number of weights plates, kettlebells, rackets and...
Is that a baseball bat?
The weight felt good, the old fashioned wooden bat surprisingly warm and comfortable in his hand, the pain not as bad as he thought it would be. He took a practice swing. His torso burst into flame at the movement, skin chafing badly in the tight sweatshirt. Best to save the batting for when he had heads to aim at.
A door banged behind him and he knew they would be through into the stockroom after him soon. He had to go. Even with the bat he knew it was a risk to take on three of them — they had knives and maybe even a gun. Plus they weren't screaming inside with pain like he was.
He hunted around for the exit, not seeing a sign. There were doors at the far end on the right so he opened one and jumped back in shock at the sight of a demented looking shaved-headed man with eyes black-rimmed, two day stubble making his face look even more gaunt than it was.
Jeez, it's me! I look like death.
He pointedly ignored the mirror and headed down the short corridor until he finally came to the fire exit. The safety bar was across, but it would give him his freedom if he pushed down and it wasn't locked.
Beep beep beep. The damn door had an alarm! What the hell? Power was out and had been for years, so it must have had some kind of weird backup. At least it was open, but his pursuers knew exactly where he was now.
The door led outside to a concrete ramp with a handrail on the left, then into a small car-park for staff for a few of the stores. There were two cars in spots outside the store he'd just left, no others.
The people inside. Poor buggers.
Shaking his legs into life, Edsel began running once more. It was all he did — run and run and run. The moving without running had actually energized him a little though. His heart rate returned to almost normal, well, as normal as you can expect when you are being chased by crazed religious freaks that want to make sure you die slowly at their hands for blasphemy.
Back in the street once more. A different one, a narrow one-way system with a tiny sidewalk almost too narrow to walk on and not spill into the road. Once the little businesses here made a roaring trade selling all manner of bespoke items from expensive jewelery to antiques — now the doors hung from fractured hinges and the jewels were taken before people realized they were less valuable than a hot meal; the antiques mostly stayed put. What use were they when survival was what mattered most of all?
Water bubbled up from the drains, unable to cope without regular maintenance for so long, and once again his feet, now in mismatched sneakers, were soaked. He heard his pursuers behind him and took a quick look. One was well ahead of the others, a stocky guy that seemed built for the chase.
Around the corner, another street, a chance maybe?
Turning quickly, and before the thick-set man had a chance to react, Edsel swung the bat with all the strength he had left, hearing a satisfying crack as it connected with the red bald head of the man. He staggered, clutched his head, then went down into a pile of tattered garbage sacks as his ear oozed thick blood.
Yes! Go.
Edsel ran on, winding his way slowly but surely back to all that kept him going in the world. Home to Kathy.
HOME
The door slammed behind him and he bolted it, in no mood to chastise Kathy for the mess in the hallway — she never was very tidy. Not that it made any difference — The Eventuals knew where he had been living and would have been here soon enough anyway, just to check if he'd risked coming home or not.
"Kathy, Kathy honey? We have to go. Now."
He ran into the living room and went cold. They'd already been, closing the door politely behind them on their way out, after they caved in her head with a poker from the unused fireplace. As if to mock him they'd then had the good grace to put the poker back in the coal scuttle where it was kept.
They're here.
Edsel didn't have any fight left in him — what was the point now anyway? Everything was gone.
Everything.
Kathy.
DESPAIR
Edsel's world crashed down around him in wave after wave of sick clarity. The bat fell to the floor with a soft thud, thick carpet soaking up the sound just as it had the blood of the most beautiful creature he had ever known.
The image of Kathy would forever be burned into his brain like a brand.
How could they? How could they do this to her? To me?
If only he'd got home sooner, made it across the ruined city a few hours or minutes quicker. But he'd done his best, hadn't slept in days, and assumed that they would make catching him the priority, not searching his home and finding Kathy.
How wrong he'd been.
She was all he lived for; his salvation; his hope and his joy. Without her there was nothing, nothing left at all. No family, no friends, no people he could turn to, nobody to trust or offer a shoulder to cry on.
All was emptiness.
He felt the weight of the crushing loneliness return and envelop him in its cold reality as it had once before; before he met Kathy. Now that twinkle in her eye when she listened to him, made fun of him when his thoughts got dark — all gone.
This was it, he may as well give up, there was nothing left now, nothing to do but to accept The Void and at least have oblivion to take away the pain.
Everything became too surreal. The rest of the room was neat and tidy, still smelling of furniture polish, the cushions still piled up on the sofa where they curled up together for warmth and company. The place where they had tried to make life normal, carry on as if it all mattered, would make things better.
He was cradling her, sat on the floor sobbing like a child, rocking her naked battered body,
trying to soothe the corpse as if it would bring her back.
Kathy, sweet Kathy, always full of life and hope, never giving up, always looking on the bright side. They were going to have a new start, go somewhere quiet, into the country, away from the madness, away from the ruins and the scavengers and the constant reminder of all that was lost since The Lethargy took away everything. He'd wanted to, anything for her. Anything.
Now the dreams were crushed, just like her head. Blond hair thick with still warm blood.
Her beautiful head, caved in and ruined. Just like their future, like everybody's future.
"Kathy, what have they done to you? My beautiful Kathy."
There's nothing left now. Nothing.
Edsel stroked her beautiful blond hair. He'd always loved it, and he knew she found it soothing, taking her away from bad memories of the past.
She wouldn't want this Edsel, Kathy wouldn't let you give up, even now. She'd want you to carry on, to make her death mean something. Get up, get up before it's too late and—
"Hello Ed, or should I say jty."
Edsel jumped, forgetting the fact that they were probably still in the house, forgetting for a moment the searing pain that ravaged his entire body.
It's now or never Edsel, make up your mind.
Thoughts whirled a mile a minute, then the decision was made.
"Don't call me Ed, and don't you dare call me jty, you freak."
The man just smiled at him, calm and confident. Bishop, the one he had trusted and told of his despair so long ago. A different life. Now his original name was stripped from him, replaced with the title Bishop, nothing more. There were countless Bishops, just as there were Cardinals, initiates and acolytes — all had their names taken, replaced with a random three letter moniker, taking away their identity, all part of the religion's way of ensuring those in the church accepted that they were meaningless, not worthy of even a name — there just to help bring about The End, to finish off what The Lethargy had started.
There was loud banging at the door.
It was the others, those that had pursued him, they were here now too. Bishop turned at the noise and Edsel made his move. He grabbed the poker as he let go of Kathy for the last time, bouncing to his feet as his body screamed at him. Scabs tore and nerves lit up like fireworks but he swung anyway, the poker making contact with a satisfying crunch; Bishop reeled back against the door jamb. Edsel shouldered into him as the front door crashed open — wood splintered, and glass sprinkled onto the carpet.
No time to retrieve the bat, the poker would have to do.
His two remaining pursuers were inside, crunching over the fractal shards as they took in the scene before them. Edsel ran down the hall toward the kitchen at the back of the small house.
Damn, damn, damn. Where's the key?
The back door in the kitchen was sure to still be locked — they never left it so somebody could just walk in — but he'd told her time and time again to always leave the key in the lock just in case they needed to get out in a hurry. She had a habit of moving it for some reason he never did get an answer to. At least the net curtain over the glass was still in place — it made the room gloomy but ensured privacy during the day. It didn't matter now, nothing did.
There, on the counter-top, next to the microwave they should have thrown out ages ago — no point having it when there wasn't any power. He grabbed the key and pushed for the keyhole.
Ugh, missed. C'mon! Try again. Quick.
This time it slotted in perfectly; he turned it and the lock clicked.
He grabbed the handle, turning it as a hand reached out from behind him, slamming the door shut again.
"Don't think so. You aren't going anywhere you traitor."
One of his attackers, one of the two that gave him The Ink, branding him forever as one of their foul believers in their sick and twisted religion.
Edsel shot an elbow back, the nerves raw as the red skin covered bone made contact and a satisfying oof swept warm bad breath over his neck. Edsel grabbed the door handle again and was out the door as he felt a hand clutch his sweatshirt.
The poker, you idiot, use the poker.
He swung backward blindly, but there was no aim and not much strength. He felt contact but it was soft and didn't help. He turned and aimed better, but he just didn't have the energy — he wanted to give up but he couldn't.
Kathy would kill me if I gave up. Haha. Get it together Edsel, move. Now.
Summoning up energy from he didn't know where, Edsel swung again, the poker smacking into the shoulder of the tattooist. What was he called? gbt, or something equally ridiculous. The strike reverberated up his arm and he could feel more skin weep across his chest where the swing had caused his arm to chafe. His armpit felt like a million biting ants were slowly eating his flesh; he could feel the sticky excretions begin to stain through his sweatshirt.
But he was free for a second.
He ran again.
All he did was run. He needed to stop, he needed to cry.
Edsel was crying. He ran down the garden, letting the salty tears fall freely until he had to wipe them away and let the salt bring pain flashing once more to his swollen, tattered hand.
He crashed through the overgrowth — the garden a mess of weeds and plants gone wild without any maintenance. The city was too dangerous to spend time outdoors at your home — the last thing you wanted was for anyone to know a property was occupied, especially by women. Edsel had been careful to hide Kathy as much as he possibly could — it was incredible how quickly men had turned back into cavemen and would drag off any female they thought was still Whole. Survival of the line became an obsession even as most of humanity curled up into a ball and slowly died.
Shit. Wall. This is going to hurt.
"Get him! Don't you dare let him get away again. What's wrong with you?"
Bishop was shouting at the two men. He could hear them crashing through the waist-high grass — they would be just as soaked as he was, but at least the rain had stopped. He didn't think he could have got any wetter but now his jeans were sodden and sticky seed heads were jabbing through the thick denim. It felt like he was getting The Ink all over again.
No time to think, just do it.
His heart hammered in his chest like it was going to explode; his legs were chafing horribly from the soaked denim, and now he had to get over a seven foot red-brick wall.
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to brick up the door Edsel.
The new sneaker gave a little extra bounce as he leapt up, arms above his head.
The poker! Damn.
He was up though. He dropped the poker over the wall as a new pain joined with the old.
The glass!
Already brutalized forearms ripped, blood soaking through the sweatshirt, staining it dark. He'd bedded glass into the top just as an extra deterrent, but he'd forgotten. Feet scrabbled for purchase, and he scrambled higher onto the wall, but one of The Eventuals had his leg. He kicked out.
There goes the new sneaker.
He was up, belly scratching over the dislodged glass, sweatshirt riding high, deep gouges covering his stomach like the doodles of a child.
Over.
Yes!
The cold poker gave a welcome numbness to his hand as he picked it up and ran down the lane that divided the gardens of the rows of houses that backed onto each other.
Where to now? Why even bother?
REST
There was time, a little at least. But what was the point? What was he going to do now anyway? Edsel wasn't wallowing in pity, he genuinely had no idea. Without Kathy he just didn't know what he was supposed to do. If he was going to survive then he knew he had to get away from the city, but where to, and what for? What would Kathy want him to do? She would want him to keep his promise, that's what. Get away, to open fields and live a life they should have been living already.
It was increasingly difficult to think straight: he was too tired, too upset, and he
hurt so much. It was impossible to think clearly; his head felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool, like nothing was making any sense.
Haha. Well, it hasn't for years now has it? Nothing makes sense, not one damn thing.
Edsel looked at himself in the mirror. He was going to have to do something about his skin — he wouldn't be able to keep moving like he had been. Already it had been what, almost two days since he'd escaped? It was only going to get worse as The Ink soaked deeper into the epidermis and The Fire — what they had called whatever it was they added to make the pain build and build for days — began to hurt more and more. More scabs would form from the tattoos and they needed time to heal, but he wasn't going to have the luxury of rest — they would find him again, soon. They always did.
Maybe I've got a few hours if I'm lucky.
Those that took The Ink voluntarily were kept from moving for days after the ordeal was over. He'd heard all about it, most people had, and they had gone in their droves to get the permanent marks, just so they could 'belong' before everything came to an end. Everyone was so lost that The Eventuals were all that were left for a lot of people; a sense of belonging to see out the final days of the human race as those that thought they had escaped The Lethargy began to succumb. It never relented, nobody was safe — populations were decimated, survivors worldwide became fewer by the day.
There was no way to know how many people were left, but while media, radio and the Web still worked, it seemed like it was only a few million across the globe. That had been years ago, now it would be much lower. The United Kingdom was like a ghost town. Streets were empty of everything apart from bodies, trash and rubble. Looting in the early days had emptied the stores and no services worked any longer.
Ugh. Look at me.
He'd run as fast and as far as he could, but he had to stop. He just had to. His body was screaming, his energy levels were exhausted, he was starving hungry, thirsty like he'd never been in his life. He felt like he was going to erupt — made of molten lava. He looked like it too. Worst of all, and what threatened to break him entirely, was that he was finding it hard to care.