by RR Haywood
Testosterone was interesting. It sent the hosts wild with energy, giving them great strength and speed but too much made them so violent they turned on each other and more than that saw them turn on themselves. Tearing their own flesh apart to devour the meat held on their own limbs.
Adrenalin was used. It produced faster reflexes, heightened senses, made them stronger and faster, not the same as the Testosterone. Subtler and far more controllable. But the effects were fast acting and left the bodies shaky and exhausted. Pumping adrenalin continually simply caused the body to shut down unable to take it.
But all of these mixed in perfect quantities. A strong mix of Testosterone for the strength and speed, a small dose of Serotonin to enable the host to feel good about what it was doing, using it as a reward, and calculated releases of Adrenalin and it had good results.
This was a time to make use of those results. It sent the hosts towards the town. Willing to practise with these hosts and experiment with the mixtures. There were far bigger targets to go after, but the infection knew it had to evolve. And in order to evolve it must practise.
This is the perfect time.
THIRTY-SEVEN
DAY ELEVEN
‘What a fucking dump,’ Paco stares round at the measly collection of shops in the precinct. Adult fashion stores displaying styles that went out in LA like three seasons ago. He shrugs, no longer a part of that community. No longer a part of any community. Just him and the dog, booze, monsters and death.
‘Bring it on,’ he voices his thoughts. Longing for the blackness to swallow him up. Suicide had been in his mind since he buried the girl. The only thing that stopped him was abandoning the dog who had fought so hard to save him and Meredith.
Ah, Meredith. That sweet youthful face flashes through his mind again. The image flitting to the view of her pale thighs and the crimson blood upon them.
‘Come on,’ he instructs the dog after watching her take a crap next to a bench. He strolls past the windows, staring in at the smashed displays and the torn up posters. For the first time in days he becomes aware of his own self. Of the stench radiating from his body and clothes.
The self-loathing hits hard again, the state he’s let himself get into. He heads into the closest clothes shop. The windows and doors smashed in but only half the stock taken. Clothing and accessories litter the floor, shelving pulled down. Dried blood smeared across the white tiled floor.
He heads to the men’s section. Rooting through tops and trousers, finding a pair of blue denim jeans and a black t shirt along with underwear and socks.
Looking round for the changing room he shrugs and starts stripping off on the shop floor. Dumping his filthy clothes on the floor he goes to start dressing, realising most of the smell is coming from him, from his armpits, groin and backside.
‘You coulda told me,’ he tells the dog. Searching round he finds the rear door marked STAFF ONLY and heads through. More looting through here, boxes and hanging rails scattered about. He ignores the lot, heading through the stock room to the staff room and finding a toilet with a wash basin.
Soap from a plastic dispenser and cold water do the job well enough. He washes thoroughly, using paper towels to rub at the filthy parts of his body. Methodical, uncaring and for the first time in his adult life he doesn’t even register the mirror above the sink. Only when he’s finished washing, using the towels to dry and dressing in his new clothes does his own movements catch his eye. Shrugging the black t-shirt on he glances at himself, almost recoiling in horror at the sight. Thick stubbly beard with flecks of grey, his hair shaggy and unkempt. His permanent tan faded, he looks pale and drawn. His eyes red, puffy and swollen. When was the last time he brushed his teeth or used mouthwash? Had a shave or used moisturiser?
Meredith will never brush her teeth again, she’ll never use mouthwash or wash her hair. Why? He asks his reflection. I’ll tell you why Paco, cos you failed. You cowered and hid, you killed Lucy and Meredith. He lashes out, punching the mirror and shattering it into thousands of glittering pieces that fall tinkling to the ground.
Back out in the street he spots a pharmacy up ahead and heads towards it. This has been very well looted, the entire stock of medicines from the back taken. He doesn’t need medicine. He doesn’t deserve it. If he gets ill now, he dies. Simple. Deserved.
Instead he finds a sealed toothbrush in a packet, and a tube of toothpaste from a scattered display now on the floor. Not for the act of hygiene, just to rid himself of the foul taste he is now acutely aware of.
Once more he heads to the rear, finding a sink in a staff room and brushing his teeth thoroughly. Relishing the minty taste and then instantly feeling guilty for feeling something that could be taken as pleasure.
He finds mouthwash, ripping the plastic film from the lid and filling his mouth as he walks round the shelves, sloshing the liquid into his cheeks and sucking it back into his mouth. His eyes fall on a hanging unit full of disposable razors. The cheap kind. He spits the mouthwash onto the floor, coating his own boots and not caring one dot.
‘The beards gotta go,’ he says, picking a razor from the display. Vanity screams at him. His old ways coming back, make yourself look pretty and for what? So you can hide and cower but still look good. He looks down at his arms, realising that he chose a tight fitting top without even thinking about it. His arm muscles bulge in the sleeves.
Even here, in this damned place he still looks good. His frame hardly showing the excesses of the last few days. A lifetime of physical devotion paying off. He throws the razor down and stalks out of the shop furious at himself.
The dog whines nearby. She can sense the coming darkness. Paco, not wearing a watch and having no means by which to tell the time failed to register the lateness of the day when he set out. Now, in the town centre, stomping about and avoiding seeing his own reflection in the bits of glass that remain in the shop frames he misinterprets the dogs whine. Cursing for letting her go thirsty in such high heat.
‘Come on,’ he motions to the dog, heading down the row of shop fronts and staring in, looking for anywhere that holds food or water.
These are too looted, too fucked up. There will be nothing of value left, and by value he means food and water. He doesn’t want to go into the houses again. He doesn’t want to see the remnants of the lives left behind. Humanity isn’t for him anymore.
Sighing he turns back to the van, knowing the dog needs food so he must go into the houses to find it. He stops and stares up, looking at the windows above the shops. Apartments must be up there. He looks down and spots plain front doors situated between the shop fronts. They must lead into the apartments or the flats as the English call them. Why flats? They’re not flat and have nothing to do with being flat. Stupid country. Stupid words.
‘I say, open the bonnet and the boot,’ he says to the dog in a mock posh English accent, ‘we’re jolly well going into the flats old boy.’ He makes his way to the nearest private door, a wooden thing with several bells in a line next to the frame. Each one marked with a number.
Nodding he tries the door. Locked. He steps back and throws a well-aimed kick at the lock. It takes several attempts but the door yields, giving him access to a narrow corridor and set of stairs.
‘Tally ho,’ he growls, not bothering with the accent this time. This time, instead of waiting for the dog to enter first, Paco walks straight through. Climbing the stairs and reaching the first two doors. Another set of stairs leading off to the next floor. So far no blood or stains showing signs of the things.
He tries the doors, twisting the handles down and finding them both locked. The first kick drives his foot through the cheap ply board, almost jamming his ankle and making him fall. He wrenches the foot back and kicks again, aiming towards the lock. The even cheaper lock gives instantly, the door bursting to reveal a faded red carpet leading through a small hallway. The dog pushes forward, running through the rooms with her nose down to the floor. Paco doesn’t wait for her to finish bu
t strolls through, opening doors until he finds the kitchen. Filling a ceramic bowl with water for the dog he finds a matching cup joins in with satisfying his raging thirst. They both drink deeply, the pressing heat is almost unbearable. The apartment smells musty of stale air, no circulation, no movement, no windows open.
He roots through the cupboards, finding a lone box of breakfast cereal. No tinned goods anywhere. Only rotten food in the fridge and freezer which flood the room with a foul stench as soon as he pulls the doors open.
He mixes the cornflakes with water, walking through the rooms while crunching noisily. The taste should be disgusting without milk but days of drinking and hardly touching food have left him ravenous. The bowl is emptied within minutes and dumped on the side as he heads back out and forces his way into the next apartment.
Inside he finds more tinned goods, tomato soup, beans and tuna. He splits the contents between two bowls, mixing the contents together. One is put down for the dog, the other he attacks with a dessert spoon. Shovelling the food into his mouth and again savouring the mix of tastes and textures.
The dog wolfs her serving down, licking the bowl clean and staring up at him with tomato sauce dripping from her muzzle.
‘Still hungry?’ Stupid question. She’s a dog, they’re always hungry. He empties more food into bowls, putting them down and filling his own stomach in the process.
‘No farting in the van,’ he says dully, she ignores him, snuffling the bowl across the smooth linoleum covered floor.
The second apartment serves to ease their hunger but doesn’t provide enough to take with them. Paco, his face expressionless, his movements robotic , his mind dark, walks back out and heads up the stairs. Two more doors on the next floor. Both the same cheap ply board which are forced in easy enough.
Inside the first he finds an old rucksack in the bedroom and uses it to fill with tins and snack food from the cupboards. The sight of the child’s bedroom plummets his mood down even further. The bright yellow walls and brightly coloured plastic toys strewn about the floor. Posters of television and cartoon characters on the walls. A height chart marked with pen with the date it was done written to the side. He turns away quickly. This is exactly why he didn’t want to come into the houses. The reminder of the lives lost, the suffering, the depravation. Everything swirls and comes back to Meredith.
He knows his lack of action also led to the death of Lucy, but it was her idea to enter the houses. She knew the risk and took it knowing the consequences. It doesn’t make it easier to deal with but different. Meredith was tied and bound, tortured then raped. She was also young, where-as Lucy was older and clearly very confident.
The dog, learning the behaviour of the man when he enters the kitchens whines impatiently for another bowl of food. Paco obliges, finding a big mixing bowl and filling it with fish, sweet corn and, knowing he’ll regret it later, more baked beans.
‘The Brits love their beans,’ he comments to the dog, ‘I guess that’s why they find farting so funny.’
In the next apartment, Paco fills the bag with yet more food. Doing a quick tour of the rooms he finds a liquor cabinet full of bottles, shoving these into the bag too which rapidly gets filled up. He pulls the bag onto his bag, adjusting the straps for his big shoulders. Finding a ladies gym back he carries on scavenging food and alcohol before heading out and climbing to the top floor.
One door this time. Stronger and sturdier than the others with far less space on the landing to get a good kick in. He dumps the bags and bracing himself with the handrail he launches kick after kick at the door. The loud bangs reverberating throughout the building, vibrating through the walls and drifting easily out into the still silent air of the town centre.
The door finally gives as Paco switches to his shoulder, ramming his body weight against the door to force the bolts and lock. A closed chain brings him to a sudden stop; realising the door was locked from within. Top floor so there can’t be any other ways out.
‘Hey?’ He calls out. No response. He shoves the door harder, the dog squeezing through and running ahead. He follows in, his nose recognising the aroma instantly. Strong and pungent, especially in the warm stale air.
That explains why the door was so hard to force open. He walks through, carefully checking in the rooms.
‘Oh hey, sorry about your door…’ Paco apologises on the seeing the sleeping form on the bed. He walks in, his eyes adjusting to the gloom caused by the blackout curtains fixed to the frame.
‘Oh…’ Paco sighs at seeing the pale skin and open lifeless eyes. The body of a young male, maybe twenty years old, skinny guy with a wispy beard and wearing hippie clothes. A burnt out rolled cigarette still clasped between his fingers.
He backs out of the room, following the smell down the hallway to a closed door at the end. He pushes it open and smiles sadly at the sight of the bushy cannabis plants sat under inert grow lights. The pungent aroma now much stronger and he’s suddenly transported through time to his college days, smoking weed in the parking lot of the drama school.
A pile of money sits on a wooden table at the side of the room. A big wedge of twenty pound notes.
‘Business was good,’ he mutters, ‘he must have munchies, all pot heads have munchies.’ He turns back to find the kitchen. Coming up trumps with large multi-bags of potato chips. No wait, what do the English call them? Crisps, yeah that’s it.
Cookies, biscuits, chocolate bars, bags of popcorn and plastic tubs of Pot Noodles.
‘Pringles,’ Paco remarks, finally recognising one of the food stuffs. He pops the cap and pulls the silver foil back, sniffing deeply at the smell of the cheesy contents before prising one out. He stares at the thin single potato chip. The chip is gone with one munch. He leans against the counter, fingering the contents out, giving some to the dog sat next to him staring up hopefully.
‘Once you pop, you just can’t stop,’ Paco tells her as she crunches away noisily. They finish the tube off and drink more water.
Now with three bags loaded with food and booze they traipse down the stairs, his heavy boots clumping on the wooden steps. They pass the floors in silence, the dog running ahead and pausing for him at each turn.
‘Holy shit,’ Paco staggers at the wall of heat that hits him as he walks out into the scorching evening. They walk slowly back towards the van. Paco looks about, checking the devastation and frowning at seeing one shop with an undamaged window, the door still intact. He stops walking and peers at the shop front, finally recognising the Interflora sign on the door. Nobody wants to loot a florist. Within two steps his mind has made the connection between florists, flowers, weddings and funerals then Meredith. She deserves something to mark her grave.
This heat would have killed all the flowers but something might remain. He wanders over, looking through the window. Everything inside is wilted and dead. Dried out flowers hanging listlessly from vases. Balloons sagging on counter tops. Nothing here.
The dog growls, her ears pricking up as she stares out of the precinct towards the van. Paco looks over, seeing nothing there but trusting the dog’s instincts. He starts back to the van, his walking quicker now.
As they emerge from the precinct onto the main road he sees what the dog was growling at. A thick horde of the monsters on both sides. The two armies stand there, eyes locked on him and the dog. He stands still holding the bags, looking left and right. The road is blocked on both sides. He glances up, realising how close they are to nightfall.
He examines the front ranks of them. They stand there unmoving apart from a gentle sway back and forth. This is still daytime, they should be shuffling, slow and ungainly. Instead they stand normal, heads up. Not moving, not shuffling, not running, just standing there staring at him.
The dog moves out into the middle of the road, her hair standing on end, head low and a deep throaty growl coming from her as she flits her gaze left and right.
Paco calmly walks to the back of the van and dumps the bags inside before sla
mming the doors closed.
‘Well here it is,’ he says quietly, standing just behind the dog and equally flicking his gaze between the two solid fronts. Amazed at how many there are. All sizes and shapes, all ages, children, young, adults and the elderly all stood there watching him.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the sight of them and the silence that hangs expectantly in the air.
‘Say…I don’t think they want me,’ Paco adds, ‘I think they’re a bit pissed at you dog.’ The realisation makes him laugh. Throwing his head back with a hearty laugh. His ego made him believe they wanted him and only him. It was the dog! She must have killed so many they came after her. He thinks back to the house, the last night they stayed in the town. Horrified at the memory of hiding in the bedroom and leaving to fend off so many of the things alone.
Well this time he’s sticking by her. Right by her side no matter what happens. If that leads to death then so be it. He can pay the debt for Meredith’s soul.
The stand-off continues. Two hordes facing off against one man and one dog. Shadows lengthen as the sun begins its final descent to the horizon. The only sound comes from the dog, her constant growling. Nothing else moves. No other noise. Paco stares at both sides, moving his head to take them in and expecting them to charge any second.
The sun drops out of sight, bringing much relieved light to another part of the world but here, for this day, its work is done. Night follows day. Nothing can be done to change that. And night falls here.
As one, the hordes crane their heads up and howl screaming into the night air. The sound is deafening. Paco’s blood runs cold at the noise. The sheer synchronised volume of it. The feral wild sound fills the street, bouncing off the high building fronts, echoing through the precinct.
The dog ceases growling. A primal instinct kicks in as he lifts her head, stretching her long neck up. She joins the howling. Giving her voice to the cacophony of noise. Paco feels a sudden strong sense of pride at the dog. She shows no fear at them. But instead howls back with her sweet voice howling perfectly into the night.